Maso - The Renaissance Man

I am Maso. Nott merely called, but am. I have had a serwys of names and more titles, some silly, some less than complimentary, some dying with me and some battling time. And I am old, very old. I have been in more than one profession, but I was, am, and all ways will be father, husbond, teacher, Ihesuit and friend.

In writing this, I wish, perhaps, merely to introduce myself as a presence here. I could, of courys, fill your head with much meaningless drivel on the subjects of Shakespeare and Christina Perri, but for now, I think, I will refrain from such inanities.

It is, I thinke, only fair that I here give a bit more of myself forth, as this is my introduction. To that, I will say that I am what you might call a Renaissance Man. I saw Englond; I saw Italia. I spoke a language you mighte be somewhat acquainted with if you have ever read the workes of Sir Geoffrey Chaucer. I created manye beautiful thinyes in my work, but my greatest creation was allways my daughter. I had a wiefe fairer than Spring itself and darker than nighte, who I loved, and was loved by, with a force that was greater than the pull of the moon she was clept for. I feared Godd in reference and was blyssed by Him, in Death as in Lyfe.

You will finde me quite ludicrous. I am no little amused and no the lees by this century than the previous ones. I rant yea the mych as I smile and I love without reserfe.

But if you will come sit with me, it may be that we will take a little tea and a muffin and speak of women, for there are no more glorious creations ypon this earth. If you are ill, it may pass that there are herbes in my garden that woud heal you, and if your heart is heavy, it may be that mye ears can take the soundes of griewing and leave you the lighter. There will be laughter and thought and an old-fashioned gentility that you are, perhaps, not used to in these times.

I am Maso. And maye Godd bie thee.

Alan - The Menin Gate

I didn't know. I don't know how, I didn't know, but I didn't know.

There's a place, called Ypres. It's a little town, in Belgium, and, if you know anything, about the Great War, you'll know, that it got shelled, again, and again, and again.

Theres a road, of several, that leads into Ypres, called Menin. 

This, is the Menin Road, I knew.



I fought, along the Menin Road. They called it, the Battle of Passchendaele, but, it wasn't one fight, it was five months, of mud, shells, and dead horses.


Just, outside the city, was a place, called Hellfire Corner. I don't know, how the photographer, took the picture, because, they never, stopped shelling it. It rained fire, just about, every hour, of the day.

Equally dangerous, was the Menenpoort.

'Poort' means 'gate' in Dutch, and it's where, the Menin Road, entered, the city. I'm told, it once, looked like this.


 But by the time, I got there, it looked, more like this.


Everything, in that first picture, was blown up. No houses, no trees. And definitely, no gate. I don't know, if there once, was a gate, there, but when I, passed through, the Menenpoort, it was through, rubble-choked streets, from the houses, over a little bridge, that you had to mind, you didn't fall through, the holes, and past, a pitted hill, into the open, hell, of the Menin Road.

They say, there were lions, made of limestone, at the Menenpoort, but I, don't remember them. I remember, the destruction, mostly. I remember, trying to pass, through the gate, alive, with the shells, thick. I remember, the dead.



 

I remember, the destruction. But, I didn't know, what they had made of it.

I learned, today, that there, is a new Menenpoort. They built it, in 1927.

 But it is not, just a gate.
 
The plaque, atop the gate, reads: TO THE ARMIES OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE WHO STOOD HERE FROM 1914 TO 1918 AND TO THOSE OF THEIR DEAD WHO HAVE NO KNOWN GRAVE

And, inside, the walls are carved, with the names, of 56,000 soldiers, who died, in the fighting, near Ypres, but whose bodies, have never been recovered, or identified. There, were so many missing dead, that their names, would not all fit, inside the gate, and so, a second memorial, at Passchendaele, contains a further, 35,000 names.
 
 I did not want, to pass, through, the Menin Gate. None of us, did so, willingly. It was, by far, the most dangerous gate, out of the city, and to pass through it, was to pass, into Hellfire. So many, passed through, that gate, and never, came back. It was a gate, to Hell. But, we all of us, who fought there, passed through, that gate, at one point, or another, going out, to die, or coming back, to try, and heal. We crossed the bridge, in fear, and, in hope.

Menin Gate, is a peaceful place, now. A beautiful place. It does honor, to the thousands of men, who crossed, that muddy moat, in the course, of their greatest sacrifice. It may, even, do honor, to me.

I do not know, where they lay, my body. I do not know, if I have a grave. There are graves, with my name, but I do not know, if they, are mine. I do not know, if, perhaps, my name, is, in Menin Gate. Perhaps, one day, I will know.



At last, there is a gate, at the Menin Gate, a place, for all the lost, and dead, to sleep.
And, every evening, as part, of the Last Post Ceremony, at the gate, they read Binyon's 'For The Fallen'.

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free. 

 

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears. 

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe. 

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them. 

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night; 

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

-- Alan.

Alan - The Moment

Where, does one, begin a healing? Is it, with love? With hope? Do you heal, with bandages, or quiet words?

Or, do you heal, with a single touch?

It's Alan. It's been, exact;y a year, since my last post, by some, coincidence. And, I'm awake.

And thinking, how, do I complete a task, I never had, the faith, to start?

She, was always beautiful, always kind of me, more than kind. She heard, all the things, I could never, bring myself to voice, more than that once. She trusted. She listened.

And, as Noel Gallagher says, "My eyes have always followed you around the room 'cause you're the only god that I will ever need; I'm holding on and waiting for the moment to find me."

The moment, found me. I'd always, wanted, to heal her, at nearly any price. And, somehow, God decided, that I deserved, that chance.

But I'm afriad. I know, that I can heal her, if I have the chance. But the time, given to me, is so short. I'm afraid, that once, won't be enough, to heal her. I'm afraid, that whether, I suceed, or fail, the healing, will bury me, too deep, in her soul.

I want to save her. Hermione, would say, I have a 'bit of a saving-people-thing'. I would say, that it's part, of being a man, but I have met, some very cowardly men.

Do I want to save her too much? I can't decide, if I'm inot this, too much. Yes, I want, to heal her. But is it also, that I want, to be saved? Is it, the healing, itself, that provokes me?

I am only, a man. I can offer her, nothing more, than myself. I can only attempt, to heal her, and, then break, away. I can only give her, myself.

And, in the end, am I, enough? Can I heal, what hands, more than mine, have done? And, can I then, let her go? Am I in, too deep?

I can, make her smile, smile ine ways, I never thought, I could. She was there, in the darkness, and now, that I am, more or less, in the light, I want, to bring that light, back, to her.

But, it slips, from my hands. I am clumsy, and confused. She, is beauty, and I cannot help, but offer, to restore it, but when, I do so, I fear, that, I will give her, only strength.

Strength, will endure. Strength, will hold her, through the night. Strength, will stand, for her, in the cold, and close, her hands, into fists. But strength, knows not, distance, and light. Strength, will not, restore her. Strength, will hold her, through, and keep her bones, from breaking, but strength, will not give her, the creativity, the bliss, the joy, the grace, that she exhibits. Strength, has only roots. Strength, grows no leaves.

Strength, is weary, even as I, am weary. I can give her, strength, but when, she leaves, my arms, will she still glow, the way, she did, when she looked, in my eyes?

I have, a duty. And, so, I will, follow it. I can give her, only, what I have, and that, is my strength. I offer that, and, pray only, that when, I have given her, all my strength, poured, into her, all, I have, to give, she will, be whole.

My only, true fear, now, is that, when, she is healed, I will find, that I still, want to touch, her face.

I love you.

-- Alan.

Alan - Run Kaiser Run!

So....
Just, a bit, of art, I did.
A fantasy that I, and probably every other Allied soldier, entertained frequently, was that of getting the Kaiser out on the field, and in the range of fire, and taking it to him. Unfortunately, and to my great disappointment, this never happened, but I did doodle it a number of times, back then, and while bored in a doctor's office waiting room, I scribbled it out again, and I now share it with you.

Just for fun, and obviously, not meant to be anti-German, or anything like that. I'd like to know what you think. "Ach! Mein Gott!" of course means 'Oh my God!' in German.

Oh, if only...

I know, I'm not, the best artist, ever, but, like I said, it's just, for fun. Image, is copyright, me; please, do not use, without, my permission. You can find it, and other works, on my deviantART page, here: http://aef1918.deviantart.com/art/Run-Kaiser-Run-203762219

-- Alan.

Alan - Introduction

My name, is Lieutenant Alan J. Cameron. I was born, in Cheshire, Connecticut, on March 27th., 1891. I come, from an age, of flying machines, amberols, dime-a-dance girls, motorcars, and bathing machines. I remember, the new science, of blood-typing, and the introduction, to the market, of such things, as chiclets, and Dr. Pepper.


As a young man, from a fairly, well-off, family, I could have gained, a simple, respectable, position, of business, but all of my life, I have been driven, to work hard, to push myself, beyond the limits, of endurance, so I began, taking work, in some, of the most toiling, professions, of the age. I have worked, pressing steel, for knife-blades, rolling ink, for the news-papers, driving steel, for railroads, shovelling coal, for locomotives, pouring iron, for tools, hauling cargo, for shipyards, and, mechanicing, the new, Ford machines, among, other things.


When war, broke out, in Europe, in 1914, I knew, a soldier, was what, I was meant, to be. Knowing, conflict, wouldn't be long, in reaching, The United States, I enlisted, in time, to be one, of the first, American soldiers, or 'doughboys', sent over to France, to fight, in The Great War.


Later, 'Black Jack' Pershing, would require, that all American troops, be assigned, to American units, but somehow, this ultimatum, never quite, made it to us, so we stayed, where we had, initally been assigned; namely, with a group, of very pleasant 'Tommies', or British fellows.


We would, fight alongside them, for most, of the war, which meant that I, and my men, were some of the few Americans, to participate, in such conflicts, as Passchendaele, which, is no honor, I assure you.


I served some time, in the medical field, as I had a knack, for that, and for staying cool, in the face of bad injury, but they needed, fighting men, more than they needed, medical staff, so the vast majority, of my service, was spent, huddled, in the absolute misery, of a muddy front-line trench.


Life there, was about as close, to mud-hell, as you, can get, but we stuck it through, despite, the insanity, of death, destruction, and illness. I was, in due time, promoted to Lieutenant, and I like, to think, that I proved, a good officer, to my men. I certainly tried my hardest, to do the best possible, by 'my boys'. I made my share, of mistakes, but I also, kept them going, through a lot, so I try, my best, to forgive myself, when I lie awake, in the middle of the night, thinking of those, who died.


The War, dragged on, into 1917, and I followed, my unit, around Belgium, France and the Netherlands, through beautiful country, torn to waste, by war. I wrote, often, to my mother, and I did my best, to keep my men safe, and healthy.


The story, is a dark one, and while, I may, eventually, tell more of it, here, I will simply say, that in late 1917, myself, and some of my closest friends, fell captive, to the Bosches, as we called the German foe. We were taken, to a war camp, which was part, forced labor, and part, torment. Even still, I spent, all the energy, I had, attempting to protect, my men, an endeavor, I was not, always successful in. It was in this camp, I was, at last, to die in, from a mixture, of Influenza, and the wounds, I had suffered, at my captor's hands. Some, would say, that was the end, of the story. For me, it was only the beginning.


I turned 120, this March. I am married, to my wonderful Cockney Ellen, a beautiful woman, I adore, with all of my heart, and we have, a small son, James Gene, who was born, this April 30th, and is, an absolute delight. I have two, adopted daughters, Sarah, aged 8, and Gwen, aged 9, and a wonderful friend, Alyssa, who I consider, to be every inch, my little sister.


I am, a serious, and sober, man, responsible, to a fault. I am 100% soldier, and I can, and will, incapacitate, and kill, anyone, who threatens, my family. Meeting me, at first ,can be, a bit awkward, as I can seem, very intimidating, at first discussion, but I do, know how to smile, and I can, be a very warm, and devoted person.


If appearances, mean anything, I stand six foot four, have short blonde hair, blue eyes, what you might call a strong jaw, and enough ripped muscle, to make most people, stare at me. I appear twenty-seven, just as I did, the year I died. My men, used to joke, that I looked, more like Fritz, than the soldiers, we were shooting at.


I own, a Harley Davidson, motorcycle, which I ocassionally, go tearing about on, and more weapons, than most people would know, what to do with. I enjoy, working, with metal, and anything, that involves fire.


I still, have much difficulty, dealing, with some of the things, I did, and had done to me, during the War, as do most veterans, of any war, but with help, from my lovely wife, Nel, I am slowly, beginning to heal. Alyssa, too, has been invaluable, in helping me, overcome, some of my deep, lingering, horrors, and regrets, sometimes at three, or four, in the morning. I still have nightmares, I still flinch at the sound, of fireworks, and I think, I always will, but it is part of who I am, who I have become.


There are many stories, I have, to tell, some funny, some sad, some strange. I am, still, I admit, becoming used, to using computers, so it may be, some time, before I begin, sharing, openly, all that I would like, but I will do, my best.


I guess, that's all, I really have, to say, at present, so, for now, I'll say, over and out.

-- Alan.

LivingWithGhosts - Knowing Who's Posting

LivingWithGhosts here.
Since there are going to be a lot of different people posting here in the near future, I just wanted to give a heads-up as to how the system is going to function. Here are the basic rules:

• Every post title will start with the name of the writer, so you'll always know whose writing you're reading -- i.e. "LivingWithGhosts" or "Alan".


• This will be followed by the title of the particular post -- i.e. "Introduction".


• The name of the particular author will always be in the tags/labels, as well as the general subjects, as much as possible, so you should be able to read only posts by a particular person or about a particular historical event by clicking the relevant tag. Let me know if this isn't working out and I'll try to fix it.


• Each room-mate will have their own particular style as far as font, etc. That choice is entirely up to them. Their spelling and dialect also vary from person to person. Please be kind in regards to any grammatical errors they may make and keep in mind that you are reading entries from people from all different backgrounds and times and many of them never had access to education. You may come to recognise certain styles by certain room-mates - kudos to you, if so!


• Not all room-mates are as comfortable addressing the internet as some others are. Some will be quite vocal, some you may hear from once or never. Please feel free to ask any questions you have and don't be shy about engaging particular persons in discussion - do kindly keep in mind, however, that some are more shy than others and be respectful of that.


• Questions and comments are not only encouraged -- they completely make our day! Please feel free to let us know what you think or feel about our blog. Just please be respectful.

That said, I hope you enjoy reading Memories of Ghosts!
~LivingWithGhosts