No Man's Land: Writings from a World at War
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The Great War gave birth to some of the twentieth century's most celebrated writing; from Brooke to Sassoon, the poetry generated by the war is etched into collective memory. But it is in prose fiction that we find some of the most profound insights into the war's individual and communal tragedies, the horror of life in the trenches and the grand farce of the first industrial war.
Featuring forty-seven writers from twenty different nations, representing all the main participants in the conflict, No Man's Land is a truly international anthology of First World War fiction.
Work by Siegfried Sassoon, Erich Maria Remarque, Willa Cather and Rose Macaulay sits alongside forgotten masterpieces such as Stratis Myrivilis's Life in the Tomb, Raymond Escholier's Mahmadou Fofana and Mary Borden's The Forbidden Zone. No Man's Land is a brilliant memorial to the twentieth century's most cataclysmic event.
you, My dear little sheep. Mme Antoinette de Lafon de Boisguérin Deshoulières (c. 1634–1694) I Dinner had just finished. Warrant officer Bourriol stretched out his hand to the flask draped in a blue cloth that still stood on the table: ‘Be generous with it!’ he advised. And yet the draught he poured himself scarcely filled two-thirds of his quarter-litre tin mug, which long use had coated with a thick, dark patina. It is true, though, that this was just the post-digestif which, as everyone
on for L’Echo de Paris. In 1917, he joined the Tirailleurs Sénégalais and fought on the Macedonian front in the battles of Kravitza and Vetremick against the Bulgarians. His novel Mahmadou Fofana is based on real soldiers Escholier fought alongside. In his war diaries, he wrote: ‘By which right, in the name of the so-called benefits of civilisation that we bring them, do we ask Africans to give up their lives for values that have nothing to do with them?’ Not surprisingly, the African soldiers
god I find an American girl who don’t talk heathen languages. Jig-jig hell that’s not what I want. I want something loud because there is a voice I want to drown out. It’s a voice that doesn’t make any sound but I can’t get away from it. Somewhere it is being prepared. Somewhere deep in the heart of Germany the shell is being made. Some German girl is polishing it right now polishing it and cleaning it and fitting the charge into it. It glistens in the factory light and it has a number and the
gives it a powerful, literary distance. ‘The Apocalypse of Pat McCullough’ is a surreal prediction of the sanitizing power of war tourism. ROBIN HYDE DAWN’S ANGEL from Passport to Hell WHEN THE TROOPS FROM THE REDWING were taken off on barges to Y Beach there was no more sound to disturb the morning than an occasional whiplash crack, a rifle spitting far away, or a dull thud which sounded as though a gigantic muffled hammer had been brought down on the earth. They were told in whispers
to their hair being cropped close. They had been inclined to compromise by having it machined at the back and sides, and leaving on the crown of the head a growth like Absalom’s, concealing it under the cap. In the case of a head wound, this thick hair, matted with dried blood, which always became gluey, made the dressing of the wound much more difficult for the doctor and his orderlies, delaying other equally urgent cases. In consequence, all men were ordered to remove their caps before