Kipling's Choice Read Online Free
Author: Geert Spillebeen
they ride in the Rolls to Hastings, then to Maidstone. When the recruiting sergeants and officers recognize Daddo, they bow like pocket knives and greet him with stiff salutes. But for the second time it's to no avail. Always those weak eyes...
"Maybe they don't want me as an officer, but do you think they'll take me as an ordinary soldier?" John muses with a sigh.
"Maybe, boy. Maybe."
"Maybe, Daddo? Is that all you can say? Maybe?" John asks reproachfully.
Rudyard Kipling feels wounded. After all, everyone wants to do his part in the war. Why should his only son be barred from serving king and country? How can they pass over the son of Rudyard Kipling, the most celebrated writer of his time, a Nobel Prize winner? They can't do that, can they?
In the following weeks, the lines in front of the recruiting offices grow visibly. Every able-bodied man reports for duty, not only in England but in Wales, Scotland, Ireland, Canada, South Africa, India, Australia, and New Zealand. Young men are rising up to fight in every corner of King George's empire. Many of these boys are still in their teens. This is the chance of a lifetime! It is the Great Picnic, an opportunity to see another part of the world. Therefore it's best to sign up quickly, for it will all be over by Christmas. Everywhere you go you see the Secretary of War, Lord Kitchener, on posters with his finger pointing: "I want YOU! Be there! Join your country's army!"
Daddo knows that his pen is a mighty weapon, and he knows that the most powerful people in the land know it, too. He believes that the world must be saved from "the Hun," the name that everyone calls Germany these days. The British world-empire can't just throw in the towel to the enemy!
"Have you read this, John? Fantastic!" Oscar Hornung says as he flies into Bateman's and takes his brooding friend into the garden.
"What is it?" asks John as he listlessly takes Oscar's newspaper clipping and unfolds it. It is from the
Times.
It is dated September 2, 1914.
"A poem by your pa! And
what
a poem, John!" Oscar grabs the piece of paper and begins to read with gusto:
Â
There is but one task for all,
One life for each to give.
What stands if freedom fall?
Who dies if England live?
Â
The poem, "For All We Have and Are," strikes a chord throughout England. Daddo expresses exactly what the population is feeling. His verses pour oil on the fire and, quick as lightning, they take on a life of their own. The people quickly learn to recite the poem by heart.
A few days later, the great Kipling totally commits himself to the fight. Even though he hates public appearances in which he is the center of attention, it is now or never, he thinks. He rattles off that poem twice in a fiery speech in the southern seaside resort city of Brighton, where he addresses an enthusiastic crowd of young people and urges them to report for duty.
***
"Roberts! Here, look, one of the Irish Guards."
John awakens suddenly with a cry of pain, which sounds more like a hearty burp to the soldier next to him. He is lying on his side, with his torn neck to the sun. His shattered face is glued to a dark-red, sticky pulp on the ground, a mixture of blood, vomit, lime, and clay.
"Please finish me off," John murmurs, but the soldier doesn't understand a word.
The splinters of John's lower jaw pierce his palate and throat. He wants to fight off the pain but he can't. He feels as if his head were being crushed in a vise.
Ma! Mummy ... Can't anyone help me? Why not? Why me? Oh, God,
he complains to himself in disbelief. He slips in and out of consciousness; the battle noises keep waking him.
"Hey, Roberts! Here, I say!" the voice calls impatiently.
Roberts? Which Roberts? Is that old Bobs here? Wait.
Someone is sitting on my shoulders. Now there are two people here.
"Irish Guards. A second lieutenant."
"That's what I said, Roberts."
Oh no, bunglers, amateurs! Just let me lie on my side. Why aren't they helping me?
"Good Lord,
"Maybe they don't want me as an officer, but do you think they'll take me as an ordinary soldier?" John muses with a sigh.
"Maybe, boy. Maybe."
"Maybe, Daddo? Is that all you can say? Maybe?" John asks reproachfully.
Rudyard Kipling feels wounded. After all, everyone wants to do his part in the war. Why should his only son be barred from serving king and country? How can they pass over the son of Rudyard Kipling, the most celebrated writer of his time, a Nobel Prize winner? They can't do that, can they?
In the following weeks, the lines in front of the recruiting offices grow visibly. Every able-bodied man reports for duty, not only in England but in Wales, Scotland, Ireland, Canada, South Africa, India, Australia, and New Zealand. Young men are rising up to fight in every corner of King George's empire. Many of these boys are still in their teens. This is the chance of a lifetime! It is the Great Picnic, an opportunity to see another part of the world. Therefore it's best to sign up quickly, for it will all be over by Christmas. Everywhere you go you see the Secretary of War, Lord Kitchener, on posters with his finger pointing: "I want YOU! Be there! Join your country's army!"
Daddo knows that his pen is a mighty weapon, and he knows that the most powerful people in the land know it, too. He believes that the world must be saved from "the Hun," the name that everyone calls Germany these days. The British world-empire can't just throw in the towel to the enemy!
"Have you read this, John? Fantastic!" Oscar Hornung says as he flies into Bateman's and takes his brooding friend into the garden.
"What is it?" asks John as he listlessly takes Oscar's newspaper clipping and unfolds it. It is from the
Times.
It is dated September 2, 1914.
"A poem by your pa! And
what
a poem, John!" Oscar grabs the piece of paper and begins to read with gusto:
Â
There is but one task for all,
One life for each to give.
What stands if freedom fall?
Who dies if England live?
Â
The poem, "For All We Have and Are," strikes a chord throughout England. Daddo expresses exactly what the population is feeling. His verses pour oil on the fire and, quick as lightning, they take on a life of their own. The people quickly learn to recite the poem by heart.
A few days later, the great Kipling totally commits himself to the fight. Even though he hates public appearances in which he is the center of attention, it is now or never, he thinks. He rattles off that poem twice in a fiery speech in the southern seaside resort city of Brighton, where he addresses an enthusiastic crowd of young people and urges them to report for duty.
***
"Roberts! Here, look, one of the Irish Guards."
John awakens suddenly with a cry of pain, which sounds more like a hearty burp to the soldier next to him. He is lying on his side, with his torn neck to the sun. His shattered face is glued to a dark-red, sticky pulp on the ground, a mixture of blood, vomit, lime, and clay.
"Please finish me off," John murmurs, but the soldier doesn't understand a word.
The splinters of John's lower jaw pierce his palate and throat. He wants to fight off the pain but he can't. He feels as if his head were being crushed in a vise.
Ma! Mummy ... Can't anyone help me? Why not? Why me? Oh, God,
he complains to himself in disbelief. He slips in and out of consciousness; the battle noises keep waking him.
"Hey, Roberts! Here, I say!" the voice calls impatiently.
Roberts? Which Roberts? Is that old Bobs here? Wait.
Someone is sitting on my shoulders. Now there are two people here.
"Irish Guards. A second lieutenant."
"That's what I said, Roberts."
Oh no, bunglers, amateurs! Just let me lie on my side. Why aren't they helping me?
"Good Lord,
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