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    Hi, I am a bit worried as I have to have my 'plan' of 150 words for Eng Lit ready for tomorrow.

    We have studied Bayonet Charge and I am trying to do a poem about a soldier.
    Does anyone have any ideas for me. I would be really grateful x
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    There once was a man called Farage
    Fearing attack when he opened his garage.
    "To help save my life
    "I'll buy your military knife
    "So what is your bayonet charge?"


    Ahem. I'll get my coat...



    Seriously,

    The stretcher bearers waited in the trenches as the infantry went over the top. They were often either ignored or treated with contempt as they stayed behind as the rest advanced. How must that have felt to them? Were they real men?

    When the enemy shooting died down, the stretcher bearers then went out to retrieve the wounded. They had to slog about in the mud too, but now with the blood and bits of those who went before also mingled in the mud. How did that look and sound?

    The unarmed bearers were shot at just the same as the waves of armed infantry that went before them, by snipers and machine guns and rifles and trench mortars. But they retrieved and rescued the same men who had ignored or cursed them just moments before. How did they harden themselves to all this?

    When they got the wounded man back to the forward field aid station they left him to be patched up and, if he was lucky or blessed by the Almighty, he'd go home with a Blighty wound, hopefully to remain in the home land. But the stretcher bearers then went back to No Man's Land to fetch the next wounded man. How did they find the strength to do this, over and over?

    Many of these stretcher bearers were Quakers or others who refused to bear arms against their fellow man; when on leave they were called cowards and given white feathers and so some never took their leave. But most of them never lived long enough to get the opportunity.

    Were these men, slipping and sliding about in the mud and filth, carrying heavy canvas and wooden poles, with splinters in the cracked and bleeding hands, pockets jammed with dressings and bandages, a constant target of enemy fire, actually calling out for the wounded, yet who refused to bear arms, soldiers too?


    So how about a poem about those who watched the bayonet charge, who saw the outcome, but did not take part?
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    Oops. That was 317 words - far too much!
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    The Bearer

    I could not bear to carry a gun, but they sent me anyway.
    They trained me to bear another man: to save real men they say.

    We stand at the back behind the men who bear their loaded guns.
    They couldn't bear to look at me, as bayonets they fixed
    The Lieutenant whistles and then calls out "C'mon boys, let's stick them Huns!"
    They go over the top, bearing down on them: heavy machine guns.

    I cannot bear the waiting for our turn to follow too
    An eternity of noise of screams of sobbing, oh yes, crying too.

    My team of four gathered some muddy, broken mass of God's creation
    And bear what's left - and the bits we found - to the shelled-out first aid station.

    The crying - I couldn't bear leaving them and so we return for more
    On stretchers, dragged, carried on my back, once on a farmhouse door!

    But I couldn't bear being called a cad, so I never took my leave.
    Instead I stayed to bear more men, until

    until I would bear no more.
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    How about focusing on the paradox of modern warfare. We have laser guided bombs, drones, etc... all sorts of expensive and amazing technological wonders and yet, in spite of all that the infantry still find themselves needing to fix bayonets and charge an enemy position. It's a manoeuvre that has remained almost unchanged for centuries, frankly it's almost the same as just charging the enemy with spears.

    For inspiration you might look up the Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders bayonet charge in Iraq (2005, I think), or later actions by the infantry in Afghanistan. Alternatively you have the earlier Falklands War with the battles of Mount Tumbledown and Goose Green.

    For the most evocative individual stories you might look to Victoria Cross citations, such as:

    Colonel H Jones of the Parachute Regiment - He charged Argentinian machine guns, in a suicidally brave effort to inspire his men to take the enemy position. His actions and his death galvanised the entire regiment to charge up the hill and win the battle.

    http://www.victoriacross.org.uk/bbjonesh.htm


    Piper Findlater of the Gordon Highlanders - During the battle of the Dargai Heights, he and his regiment were attacking an enemy position at the top of a hill when the weight of fire stopped them in their tracks. The men began to waiver and retreat while Findlater was downed, shot in both legs. He propped himself up on a rock and played the regimental charge on his bagpipes, inspiring the Gordons to charge up the hill and take the position.


    http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Findlater


    Captain Charles Upham of the ANZACs - The only combat soldier to win the Victoria Cross twice, although of course, as Simes points out, the medical staff are also universally admired for bravery and the only other two individuals to have two VCs are both army doctors: Surgeon Captain Arthur Martin-Leake & Captain Noel Chavasse.


    http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Upham


    Finally, for a completely insane and incredible story you could look up Mad Jack Churchill, a soldier in WWII who went into battle wielding a sword, bow & arrows, & often playing his bagpipes... I won't put a link, just type the name into google and you'll find plenty.
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    Afghanistan:


    http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worl...-honoured.html
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    Thank you so much for all your ideas. I really appreciate it.












    (Original post by Simes)
    There once was a man called Farage
    Fearing attack when he opened his garage.
    "To help save my life
    "I'll buy your military knife
    "So what is your bayonet charge?"


    Ahem. I'll get my coat...



    Seriously,

    The stretcher bearers waited in the trenches as the infantry went over the top. They were often either ignored or treated with contempt as they stayed behind as the rest advanced. How must that have felt to them? Were they real men?

    When the enemy shooting died down, the stretcher bearers then went out to retrieve the wounded. They had to slog about in the mud too, but now with the blood and bits of those who went before also mingled in the mud. How did that look and sound?

    The unarmed bearers were shot at just the same as the waves of armed infantry that went before them, by snipers and machine guns and rifles and trench mortars. But they retrieved and rescued the same men who had ignored or cursed them just moments before. How did they harden themselves to all this?

    When they got the wounded man back to the forward field aid station they left him to be patched up and, if he was lucky or blessed by the Almighty, he'd go home with a Blighty wound, hopefully to remain in the home land. But the stretcher bearers then went back to No Man's Land to fetch the next wounded man. How did they find the strength to do this, over and over?

    Many of these stretcher bearers were Quakers or others who refused to bear arms against their fellow man; when on leave they were called cowards and given white feathers and so some never took their leave. But most of them never lived long enough to get the opportunity.

    Were these men, slipping and sliding about in the mud and filth, carrying heavy canvas and wooden poles, with splinters in the cracked and bleeding hands, pockets jammed with dressings and bandages, a constant target of enemy fire, actually calling out for the wounded, yet who refused to bear arms, soldiers too?


    So how about a poem about those who watched the bayonet charge, who saw the outcome, but did not take part?
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    [QUOTE=catgirl99;52887825]Thank you so much for all your ideas. I really appreciate it.
 
 
 

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