Showing posts with label The Somme. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Somme. Show all posts

Wednesday, 5 September 2018

John Jeffry Nicholls

Robert Vickery has just completed his research on the farmer's son, John Jeffry Nicholls, from Eastdon Farm, who was killed on 12th October, 1918.

Here's the link to his research on the Dawlish WW1 website 

It explains how our local farmer's boy came to be an ambulance driver on The Somme; in a Canadian regiment.

Here's the Dawlish WW1 project's photograph of the Cofton War Memorial which lists
 John J Nicholls of the Canadian Army Medical Corps
http://dawlishww1.org.uk/cofton-war-memorial/

Thursday, 7 July 2016

19240 Shrouds of the Somme


















Starcross Walkers visited Northerhay Gardens today to see the final day of the tribute to those who died on the first day of the Battle of the Somme. Names of the fallen were read out, and war poetry recited.

Dulce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen























Read  about the exhibition on this link:
http://www.exeterexpressandecho.co.uk/…/story-29…/story.html