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words what they had been through. One of the poets was Siegfried
Sassoon, a bisexual writer who was older than Owen and by far the
more notable at the time. Owen was in awe of Sassoon who took
the younger man under his wing. Although a few historians have
speculated over a possible sexual relationship, it seems as though
their relationship was purely one of teacher and pupil. Sassoon
helped Owen with his work, streamlining his style and perfecting
what was already a well honed talent. The doctors encouraged him
in his work and Owen steadily became more prolific.
After being discharged from Craiglockhart, Owen took up a post
in Scarborough working with raw recruits. It was a comfortable
position and it afforded him the time to write poetry. But Owen felt
compelled to return to the front. The call of duty became too much
and Owen left his comfortable life in the UK to head back to the
front.
His short time back in France was to be fruitful. With the war
now firmly in Britain’s grasp, Owen led many daring charges,
claiming back his dignity and removing his reputation of cowardice
forever. For one solo effort, he was awarded the Military Cross; his
colleagues in the officer’s corps assumed this would be the first of
many medals. On October 31st 1918, Owen wrote a letter home,
describing his time in the cellar of a grand house where his section
had been billeted. Although still describing the harsh realities of
war, his letter was upbeat. The war was almost over, the Germans
were retreating and Christmas was on its way.
This letter, one of hundreds sent home during his months at the
front, would prove to be his last. Exactly a week later, Owen was
shot dead while trying to bridge a river. It was 5:50am on 4th
November and there was a pitifully short seven days left of the war.
Back in England, as the church bells rang out across the country to
celebrate the end of the war, Susan Owen opened the door to the
telegram boy, expecting the joyful news of her son’s return from the
front. Instead, as the celebrations rang out around the street, she
read that her beloved son had missed his chance to live out the war
by only a week.
Wilfred Owen was one of the few men who were able to understand
their role in war. Whilst others struggled with the discomfort, the
futility of the killing and their part in it, Owen knew that there was
a reason why he had to be on the battlefield, no matter what. With
amazing foresight, he predicted that what he wrote on those long,
dark and cold evenings between 1914 and 1918 would affect future
generations. Despite never experiencing the popularity of his work,
Owen knew that when he wrote, he wrote not just for himself, his
mother or his friends; he wrote for future generations.
GAY GREAT ... Wilfred Owen
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