By Lyn Macdonald
By means of the tip of 1914, the battered British forces have been slowed down, but hopeful that promised reinforcements and spring climate may quickly result in a positive step forward. A 12 months later, after appalling losses at Aubers Ridge, bathrooms, Neuve Chapelle, Ypres and far off Gallipoli, scuffling with appeared set to move on for ever. Drawing on broad interviews, letters and diaries, this publication brilliantly inspires the soldiers' dogged heroism, sardonic humour and poor lack of innocence via 'a yr of cobbling jointly, of frustration, of indecision'. Over decades' examine places Lyn Macdonald one of the maximum well known chroniclers of the 1st global battle. the following, from the poignant thoughts of contributors, she has once more created an unforgettable slice of army background.
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Additional resources for 1915: The Death of Innocence
All day she sat near his body, next to his eighty-year-old Rus sian mother, who also sat there all day. As if by mutual agreement they sat one on each side of the polished mahogany casket where the effigy of my father lay, humiliatingly exposed to prying eyes in all his stony almost anger. Every once in a while my grandmother, round and small in swaths of black, would get up and go to the head of the coffin and stroke my father's forehead and kiss it, as if she were trying to comfort him, as if she were the one who had been smoothing away his scowls.
13 Death's kingdom: as I meditate on this odd sense of the plausibility of death that I think Lawrence dramatizes in "The Bride" and that my hus band's death so astonishingly bestowed on me too, I see that such a feeling must account for traditional images of dead people "living," as it were, on the "other side" of a sometimes permeable, at least semitransparent barrier. So-and-so is "gone:' we say. But gone where? When one "goes:' one goes somewhere. Somewhere plausible, which is to say feasible, practicable, indeed (paradoxically) livable.
Shock of stone, taste of cold stone even through closed lips. Ice on the tongue, steel in the throat. I was astonished. How could grandma be kissing, stroking, sipping at that? What was that? " Oh, in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, this was not that father. " Why "I wasn't ready"? Why not "you weren't ready"? Stonyhearted and shocked by the stone of my father's body, I was utterly alienated from my mother's grief and, worse, the sense of doom implicit in her "I wasn't ready;' with its assertion that death had somehow happened to her as well as, or even rather than, my father.