This poem, by Wilfred Owen is, in my opinion one of the most powerful pieces of anti-war writing I have ever seen. It’s cold, uncompromising, brutal.
The boy, (and Owen clearly states that he is a boy, underage) has thrown his future away for vanity, excitement, glory, all the lies, with no thought for the consequences – and he has been allowed, even encouraged, to do so by a government which counts the human cost of war as carelessly as the boy did.
There is no glorious death here, no award for gallantry, no sad remembrance – but the boy who went to war was is no less dead than his fallen comrades, all that is left is a cripple who has to continue to exist reduced to an object of pity.
For a more modern treatment of this theme, see Eric Bogle's song The Band Played Waltzing Matilda.
He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his
ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a
hymn,
Voices of play and
pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
About this time
Town used to
swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew
dim,
-- In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how
slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their
subtle hands,
All of them touch him like some
queer disease.
There was an
artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his
youth, last year.
Now he is old; his back will never
brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his
lifetime lapsed in the hot race,
And leap of
purple spurted from his thigh.
One time he liked a bloodsmear down his leg,
After the matches carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a
peg,
He thought he'd better join. He wonders why . . .
Someone had said
he'd look a god in kilts.
That's why; and maybe, too, to please his
Meg,
Aye, that was it, to please the
giddy jilts,
He asked to join. He didn't have to
beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie; aged nineteen years.
Germans he scarcely thought of; and no fears
Of
Fear came yet. He thought of
jewelled hilts
For daggers in
plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with
drums and cheers.
Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer
Goal.
Only a
solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked him; and then inquired about his
soul.
Now, he will spend a few sick years in Institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may
dole.
To-night he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the
strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And put him into bed? Why don't they come?