Book Club: Dulce et Decorum Est

In English we have been studying the Micheal Morpurgo novel "Private Peaceful", focusing on the destruction and horror of war. We've also looked at the Wilfred Owen poem "Dulce et decorum est", and wrote a description about the events of the poem. Here it is:

As we trudged on, back through Ypres, it seemed as though the world had been completely drained of colour. Ypres, a once thriving, bustling little French town, was in ruins. A woman maybe only a few years older than me ran past us, screaming, a baby in her arms; a bloodstained handkerchief clutched against it. Further on down the street, the lifeless corpses of two dead horses were strewn across the rubble. By the look of things now, Ypres stood no chance of surviving the war in its entirety. The Lads and I perfectly matched our surroundings: filthy, with our once grey uniforms caked in stagnant mud, so dull, practically lifeless. The others all had that same look in their eyes-haunted, hunted even- and I was pretty certain that I looked exactly the same as they did. Behind us, the screeching of shells over no-man’s land almost drowned out the screaming of men - almost. As the raucous harmony of war raged on behind us, I almost wished that it was me going back to Blighty and not Jenkins, whether it be for medical care or not. “Gas! Gas! Quick boys!” A gas bomb had gone off, not far away from us, and the effects were already starting to take place. I instantly took a breath and my lungs were filled with the taste of death. I coughed and spluttered, struggling to find my gas mask in the cloud of gas. My eyes were streaming and, to make matters worse, was crying, sobbing - searching desperately for a way out. I fiddled with my mask, desperate, helpless. Johnny came running over to help. He had already sorted his own mask, and quickly tugged mine on. “Pull yourself together Bobby!” They were the most comforting words I had ever heard. I was alive; coughing and writhing, yet still alive. But young James wasn’t so lucky. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, I shall still see him praying, crying, screaming; coughing blood and spattering his uniform with it. I see him every night in my dreams and still can’t help but blame myself. If you could have seen the destruction, the murderous tinge of the gas as it seeped into his lungs; the pure, sheer terror in his eyes as he died. My friend, if only you could have heard his cries, his prayers, his last words…”I want my ma…” he sobbed. If you were there, then you would not boast of great tales of war. He was a person, a friend with a family and a life. Now all he is is a name inscribed on a memorial; beside the words: “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.”