First Light at the Minerva

First Light at the Minerva Theatre in Chichester 

This will be the last play I attend about World War I

I couldn’t go to a play like this again, no matter how well it is directed and performed.

The Great War is what they called it.

Trench warfare at close range.

Originating in Europe and spreading alarmingly. 

I’d like to say that I enjoyed my evening out last night but that would sadly be far from the truth. It was such a clear reminder of what a dreadful, dreadful war that was. Totally harrowing, I was exhausted with tension by the end which means of course that it was brilliantly performed. 

I loved and Steve hated the slow motion scene changes coming or going ‘Over the top’ with actors carrying chairs tables standard lamps etc. I loved that. I loved the quick march soldiers carrying tables and desks and sometimes dramatically at slow march or dead march.

The executions of the young lad deserters nearly stopped my heart (at the same time switching on my tear ducts.)

My mother was eight years old when she lost her dad in the global spread following this time. He, my granddad died in Palestine whilst serving with the British army. Steve and I have seen many of the huge cemeteries scattered over France and Belgium and a couple of years ago visited Poperinge in West Flanders and stayed in a hotel just yards from the execution post used for dispatching deserters. I am more than a bit flimsy about this. 

Here is the little poem I wrote when I could not sleep early this morning, and after that two from Poperinge in Belgium. 

Mourning Morning 

I don’t know why I woke up so early

Four in the morning just about dawn 

After such a late night for me

I make a coffee and tidy the garden 

Unrelated music running in my head

No sign of sleep not even a yawn 

After a play about World War I

Politicians should beg our pardon 

All those young men led to the slaughter

So many families learned to mourn

 

The Post 

A post, plain iron,

Juts heavenward

From the stone cobbles

In supplication to a deity

Once more offering a son. 

The courtyard is elaborate in style;

Compared to the post. 

Behind the post

A monument;

An image depicting sandbags

Their purpose

To absorb deaths bullets. 

Rising six floors, a narrow round tower

Crowned, church like with an iron finial.

Shamed by the military operation

Performed at the base. 

Bright morning light heralds a new day

Seemingly oblivious

To the figure;

A young soldier

Takes his last breath

Then slumps

At the execution post. 

Shot at dawn.

 

Albert Bottfield 

Twenty eight years old

And found himself at war

Expected to be brave and bold

Midst all the mud and gore. 

Just a private in the army

Huddled fearful in a trench

Explosions driving good men barmy

Trembling held with jaws that clench. 

Terror mounts with each grenade

See good friends ripped apart

Each command must be obeyed

Horror, in his head and heart. 

Another blast, so near this time

Weakening as all valour fades

Endless conflict crouched in grime

Remembered jokes from lost comrades. 

On that early autumn day

As battle raged no end in sight

From his post he ran away

Confused and damaged out of fright. 

Remembering his oath of duty call

Returned from where he fled

A coward held by a prison wall

Shot at dawn, he fell and bled. 

Executed for cowardice. 18^th Oct. 1916 5.50 am