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In Memorium
Nov. 9th, 2008 07:16 pmIn Memory of Fred Kottman, 1899 - 1918, Killed on the Somme, 1st September 1918
Fred was my great-great-uncle, my great grandmother's brother. He was a rifleman of the London Regiment, in the 21st Surrey Rifles, and was killed in the First World War in France. His grave is now in Sailly Saillisell British Cemetary in France.
For the 1st September 1918, his batallion's war diary reads:
5.30am - The batallion was in position on the right of the Brigade sector with the 15th Batallion on the left and the 17th Batallion on the right to mop up Rancourt. The attack began at this hour and reached the enemy system west of St Pierre Yasst Wood. Casualties were fairly heavy, and the line was only weakly held"
In the picture below Fred Kottman is the one on the left.
The picture below is of Fred (he is the one with the cross drawn above him) and his fellow soldiers. They all look so young, and so happy. It is horrible to think of the likely fate of most of these boys. They look younger than most of you who will read this.
They Will Not Grow Old, As We That Are Left Shall Grow Old,
Age Shall Not Weary Them, Nor The Years Condemn,
At The Going Down Of The Sun And In The Morning,
We Shall Remember Them
- from "For The Fallen", Lawrence Binyon
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 tired, outstripped5 Five-Nines that dropped 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 lime9 . . .
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*.
- Dulce et Decorum Est, Wilfred Owen
*Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria mori - It is sweet and right to die for your country
Fred was my great-great-uncle, my great grandmother's brother. He was a rifleman of the London Regiment, in the 21st Surrey Rifles, and was killed in the First World War in France. His grave is now in Sailly Saillisell British Cemetary in France.
For the 1st September 1918, his batallion's war diary reads:
5.30am - The batallion was in position on the right of the Brigade sector with the 15th Batallion on the left and the 17th Batallion on the right to mop up Rancourt. The attack began at this hour and reached the enemy system west of St Pierre Yasst Wood. Casualties were fairly heavy, and the line was only weakly held"
In the picture below Fred Kottman is the one on the left.
The picture below is of Fred (he is the one with the cross drawn above him) and his fellow soldiers. They all look so young, and so happy. It is horrible to think of the likely fate of most of these boys. They look younger than most of you who will read this.
They Will Not Grow Old, As We That Are Left Shall Grow Old,
Age Shall Not Weary Them, Nor The Years Condemn,
At The Going Down Of The Sun And In The Morning,
We Shall Remember Them
- from "For The Fallen", Lawrence Binyon
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 tired, outstripped5 Five-Nines that dropped 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 lime9 . . .
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*.
- Dulce et Decorum Est, Wilfred Owen
*Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria mori - It is sweet and right to die for your country
