If I should die, think only this of me:

      That there’s some corner of a foreign field

That is for ever England. There shall be

      In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,

      Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam;

A body of England’s, breathing English air,

      Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,

      A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
 Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;

Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;

      And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,

            In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

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

Notes:Latin phrase is from the Roman poet Horace: “It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.”

The Great War (Italian: La grande guerra) is a 1959 Italian comedy-drama war film directed by Mario Monicelli. It tells the story of an odd couple of army buddies in World War I; the movie, while played on a comedic register, does not hide from the viewer the horrors and grimness of trench warfare. Starring Alberto Sordi and Vittorio Gassman and produced by Dino De Laurentiis, the film won the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival.

Prologo. Fronte francese. Il capitano Boëldieu e il tenente Maréchal sono abbattuti con il loro aereo dall'ufficiale tedesco von Rauffenstein, asso dell'aviazione tedesca, e fatti prigionieri.

Campo di detenzione di Hallbach. Boëldieu e Maréchal sono trasportati in questo campo di prigionia dove incontrano altri connazionali: un attore abile nei giochi di parole, un professore, un ingegnere del catasto, un sarto figlio di ricchi banchieri, Rosenthal, che divide con i compagni i pacchi di viveri che la famiglia gli invia. Durante il giorno il gruppo di francesi conduce la normale vita dei prigionieri di guerra; di notte, però, lavorano segretamente alla costruzione di un tunnel per poter evadere in gruppo. Hanno anche il tempo di organizzare una festa teatrale in cui alcuni si travestono da donne, quando improvvisamente arriva l'ordine di trasferimento degli ufficiali dal campo dove arriveranno dei prigionieri inglesi. Ciò impedisce l'evasione attraverso il tunnel ormai terminato