The Somme
We watched a really moving documentary yesterday about and archaeological expedition to try to uncover a German dug-out that had been occupied by the poet Wilfred Owen during the Battle of the Somme. Owen lead a platoon into No Manâs Land to try to occupy an abandoned German dug-out near the village of Serre. Life in the trenches was hazardous enough, but crossing No Manâs Land under bombardment was tantamount to suicide. Owen later recalled in his harrowing poem The Sentry how the Germans knew they were there, and kept them under constant attack:
Weâd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew, And gave us hell, for shell on frantic shell Hammered on top, but never quite burst through.
Owen survived the hell of the dug-out and a bout of severe shell shock, only to die in action a week before Armistice Day.
Inevitably, the archaeologists discovered human remains during their excavations; two British soldiers and one German, distinguishable only by their metal buttons. It isnât much to show for a life, is it? All that remains of your short but precious life are some buttons, a comb, a broken mirror, and the lid of a polish tin that reminds you of home.
