Personal effects: British prisoners of war assisting German soldiers in searching the dead
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Looking back
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hanging on the barbed wire
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French trench: living and dead together
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Unbearable
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Left behind
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victim of a gas attack
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Serious lesions of burns of the genitals
musterd gas burned right through his clothes
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Go for a ride
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Body count
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Young Belgian electrocuted
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Defeat
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Rest
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Friend less
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Burial
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No time for burial
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German soldier boy
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Female Russian soldier raped and killed
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Austrian soldiers hanging villagers in Serbia
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Country Road
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German soldiers executing Russian villagers accused of spying
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Unfinished cemetery
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Field of glory?
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After the Battle
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Eternal Rest
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Digging Job
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Path of Glory
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What Dreams May Come
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Lined Up
clipped from www.greatwar.nlBLOODY PICNIC
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On the Battlefield
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9 comments:
I am truly shocked. Thank you for these images, they really capture the heart of the war and it's brutal reality.
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Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
- Wilfred Owen, 1893-1918
"Think each day of some one whom you know to be in sorrow, or suffering, or in need of help, and pour out loving thought upon him."
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