Impression sketch
of Grace Ellison - by Jamie. See
original at:
A feminist Journalist, Grace Ellison,
A seeker of independence
for women -
And ardent
suffragette - took a journey
Out into the war
zone.
Having seen the nurse at work
On frontline,
drove deeper into a city
Laid into ruins -
parking close by some
Cathedral Grace
walked to where stood
French warrior,
Jeanne De Arc.
The medieval
figure, atop her horse,
Stood unharmed
before the bombed
Religious house -
about her shoulders
Being wrapped
flag of France.
Wishing she might have brought
The British flag
for shared purpose,
Grace placed lilies by the statue's feet,
To walk across
deserted streets.
At the wheel, Grace drove about
The cathedral that appeared
As some bandaged
soldier; propped
With hopeless
sandbags - all carved
Ancient
ornamentation gone.
Asking that no restoration attempts
Be made - to be a
call to the children’s
Children and
beyond - a barbaric symbol
Of lessons,
cruelly learned.
Amid the unnamed city streets,
Grace walked - knowing what is left
Of population
resided in cellars - while
Treating shells
as thunderstorms.
From the peoples shelters to reappear
In the place,
that had been a trade stand
For wool - where
enemy once lived, to know
Where guns aim on
ancient quarter.
Pondering amid the ruins, Grace
Considered the idea of souvenirs,
When a uniformed
figure from ruins,
Was surprised to
find her there.
In explanation of her mission
The officer offered his services,
Handed her a
piece of the cathedral,
Proceeding to
state its history.
Amid a story of ruins they looked
To where a French
craft hovered above;
About which enemy
smoke prompts rapid
Departure so they walked on.
Stopping by a shop with no door
They observed a
youth carrying out
A barber's
profession - as his sister sits,
To sell postcards
of the ruins.
Then a German craft hovers
Overhead, and the
office advises
Shelter in a
cellar, but Grace refuses
To risk life
outside, not inside.
Under ruins had no attraction -
As a bomb falls, Grace debated
To go on the high
road - the sun sank
And the guns boom in
distance.
Grace and officer lingered too
Long, when a line
of soldiers comes
On - weary they
sang and pick wayside
Flowers for their khaki coats.
Black as coal miners, they act
As going to a music
hall than facing
A line of gunnery
- one stated consolation
In their being
able to sing.
To see a lady, not a nurse, in midst
Encourages them
to tell this journalist
Everything, before Grace moved on to meet
French Nursing
Corps.
Nurses based in a small village
Without any accommodation,
Grace
Learned how a commanding officer offered
Shelter for the
travelling journalist.
Soon expected for
dinner, into dusk
They drove - a road takes them is uneasy,
With twists and
stones, to halt before another
Car, which is
just a shadow.
On a mystery road to presbytery,
Where the commander lives, they take
Four imaginary turnings, to then pass by,
When fortune's guide appears.
As some good shepherd, with
White beard and staff, he showed way,
Leading the car like some biblical guide -
Finally to arrive at presbytery.
The place being cold and damp -
Deserted by the priest gone to war,
Whose mother still remained to look after
The visitors with food and fires.
Shown to her son's room where
Obligatory cross of the saviour's meek
Figure hung above the bed - to open wide
The window, un-tuned to sanctity.
Beyond presbytery is pitch black.
Downstairs loud officers assembled
Numbering ten gather in dining room - neat
With linen, silverware and flowers.
Levels of class were perpetuated,
While kitchen housed two chauffeurs,
Some domesticated refugees, an officer's
Servant, the shepherd and mother.
Who ate separately - before meal
The commanding
officer initially sang
In company of an
able officer organist, along
With Lieutenant
on asthmatic harmonica,
With Journalist eyes, Grace saw
How room vibrated
to his strong voice.
They eat in happy
company, as they confess
Tedium of waiting,
waiting.
Talking distractions of riding,
Then followed more singing after eating-
The harmonica silenced - the large voice
Being left to perform alone.
the
clock struck
After a cup
of tea they all retired
For sleep, Grace
learning why the man,
Who served them,
had cried.
He told how his
wife had been
Taken by the
Germans - he knew
Not if she might
then still be alive or dead;
Confiding to
those in kitchen.
With breakfast to be prompt
At five a.m. the refugees and cure's
Mother made their beds on the landing -
With chauffeurs
downstairs.
In goodnights
Grace Ellison
Tired, then retired to
her little, white
Washed room, to
lay upon the narrow bed
With Christ
overhead.
by Jamie Mann.
Anon.,1915. An
Englishwoman in the War Zone ii Motor Trip. The Daily
Telegraph, [online]
23
August. P.7 Col 1-2. Available
at: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/ww1-archive/11801605/Daily-Telegraph-August-24-1915.html
[Accessed: 24 August 2015].
Mann, J., 2015. 100 years Ago -
Poems by Jamie Mann. [letter] (Personal communication, 24 August 2015).
#WW1 #WW1centenary #GreatWar #WW1poem #GreatWar #WW1centenary
#worldwarone #worldwaroneremembered #WW1France
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