Today at the Villers Brettoneux cemetery, many students laid poppies or gave eulogies at the memorial site of their researched soldier. My solider’s name was Lambert Victor Gadd, given to me by Mrs Mary Dodge.
At his memorial site, I read a poem by Wilfred Owen, called Arms and the Boy.
Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade
How cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood;
Blue with all malice, like a madman’s flash;
And thinly drawn with famishing for flesh.
Lend him to stroke these blind, blunt bullet-heads
Which long to muzzle in hearts of lads.
Or give him cartridges of fine zinc teeth,
Sharp with the sharpness of grief and death.
For his teeth seem for laughing round an apple.
There lurk no claws behind his fingers supple;
And God will grow no talons at his heels,
Not antlers through the thickness of his curls.