THE EYE OF ARGON

#EyeOfArgon

Described as "the worst fantasy novella ever", The Eye of Argon is a story by Jim Theis, who was 16 when he wrote it. It's the tale of Grignr, a foul-mouthed barbarian warrior who is trying to escape the dungeons of Evil Overlord Agaphim and rescue a young woman named Carthena from a pagan cult who want to sacrifice her to their idol — a statue with one eye called "The Eye of Argon". (A "scarlet emerald", complete with some interesting plumbing.)

Published in the fanzine OSFAN 7, in 1970, the story is well known for its abundant cliches, shoddy spelling, flat characters, wooden dialogue and overly colourful writing. Every woman is a "wench", eyes are "emerald orbs". Almost nothing is ever "said" — instead it is "queried" or "ejaculated" or "husked" or "stated whimsicoracally". There's an extended scene involving elderly priests groping Carthena, and a scene where Grignr has sex with (or possibly just hugs) a "half-naked harlot... with a lithe, opaque nose". One cult member randomly faints by an epileptic fit in battle, and another suffers a savage, multi-paragraph groin attack.

The most widely-known and circulated copy of the story comes to an abrupt and unsatisfactory halt, and for many years it was believed that the ending was lost forever (or even, in some quarters, that the story was never completed). Recent years have seen the separate discoveries of two intact copies of the fanzine in which The Eye of Argon debuted, so it is now known how the tale ends. (With multiple exclamation marks, it turns out.)

At science fiction conventions, The Eye of Argon is now a sort of parlour game. All participants sit in a circle with a hard copy of the story, and the first one starts reading aloud — pronouncing every word as it's misspelled, and including every adjective. When they finally burst into laughter, the copy is passed to the next person. If a person manages to make it through more than a page, the copy is sometimes passed anyway, on the grounds that the reader must have special training as a news anchor.

I heard of this story and had to read a little TEoA to get the gist of it. And the story begins like this (none of the misspellings are mine, but the author's):

The weather beaten trail wound ahead into the dust racked climes of the baren land which dominates large portions of the Norgolian empire. Age worn hoof prints smothered by the sifting sands of time shone dully against the dust splattered crust of earth. The tireless sun cast its parching rays of incandescense from overhead, half way through its daily revolution. Small rodents scampered about, occupying themselves in the daily accomplishments of their dismal lives. Dust sprayed over three heaving mounts in blinding clouds, while they bore the burdonsome cargoes of their struggling overseers.

"Prepare to embrace your creators in the stygian haunts of hell, barbarian", gasped the first soldier.

"Only after you have kissed the fleeting stead of death, wretch!" returned Grignr.

A sweeping blade of flashing steel riveted from the massive barbarians hide enameled shield as his rippling right arm thrust forth, sending a steel shod blade to the hilt into the soldiers vital organs. The disemboweled mercenary crumpled from his saddle and sank to the clouded sward, sprinkling the parched dust with crimson droplets of escaping life fluid.

The enthused barbarian swilveled about, his shock of fiery red hair tossing robustly in the humid air currents as he faced the attack of the defeated soldier's fellow in arms.

"Damn you, barbarian" Shrieked the soldier as he observed his comrade in death.

A gleaming scimitar smote a heavy blow against the renegade's spiked helmet, bringing a heavy cloud over the Ecordian's misting brain. Shaking off the effects of the pounding blow to his head, Grignr brought down his scarlet streaked edge against the soldier's crudely forged hauberk, clanging harmlessly to the left side of his opponent. The soldier's stead whinnied as he directed the horse back from the driving blade of the barbarian. Grignr leashed his mount forward as the hoarsely piercing battle cry of his wilderness bred race resounded from his grinding lungs. A twirling blade bounced harmlessly from the mighty thief's buckler as his rolling right arm cleft upward, sending a foot of blinding steel ripping through the Simarian's exposed gullet. A gasping gurgle from the soldier's writhing mouth as he tumbled to the golden sand at his feet, and wormed agonizingly in his death bed.

Trust me, it gets eeeeeven better:

Grignr slipped his right hand to his thigh, concealing a small opague object beneath the folds of the g-string wrapped about his waist. Brine wells swelled in Grignr's cold , jade squinting eyes, which grown accustomed to the gloom of the stygian pools of ebony engulfing him, were bedazzled and blinded by flickerering radiance cast forth by the second soldiers's resin torch.

Eeeeeeeeveeen beheading a rat to eat it, for Grignr not to starve behind bars, is described in all its gorious glory:

Grignr gradually groped his way to the other end of the vault carefully feeling his way along with his hands ahead of him. When a few inches from the wall, a loud, penetrating squeal, and the scampering of small padded feet reverberated from the walls of the roughly hewn chamber.

Grignr threw his hands up to shield his face, and flung himself backwards upon his buttocks. A fuzzy form bounded to his hairy chest, burying its talons in his flesh while gnashing toward his throat with its grinding white teeth;its sour, fetid breath scortching the sqirming barbarians dilating nostrils. Grignr grappled with the lashing flexor muscles of the repugnant body of a garganuan brownhided rat, striving to hold its razor teeth from his juicy jugular, as its beady grey organs of sight glazed into the flaring emeralds of its prey.

Taking hold of the rodent around its lean, growling stomach with both hands Grignr pried it from his crimson rent breast, removing small patches of flayed flesh from his chest in the motion between the squalid black claws of the starving beast. Holding the rodent at arms length, he cupped his righthand over its frothing face, contrcting his fingers into a vice-like fist over the quivering head. Retaining his grips on the rat, grignr flexed his outstretched arms while slowly twisting his right hand clockwise and his left hand counter clockwise motion. The rodent let out a tortured squall, drawing scarlet as it violently dug its foam flecked fangs into the barbarians sweating palm, causing his face to contort to an ugly grimace as he cursed beneath his braeth.

With a loud crack the rodents head parted from its squirming torso, sending out a sprinking shower of crimson gore, and trailing a slimy string of disjointed vertebrae, snapped trachea, esophagus, and jugular, disjointed hyoid bone, morose purpled stretched hide, and blood seared muscles.

Flinging the broken body to the floor, Grignr shook his blood streaked hands and wiped them against his thigh until dry, then wiped the blood that had showered his face and from his eyes. Again sitting himself upon the jagged floor, he prepared to once more revamp his glum meditations. He told himself that as long as he still breathed the gust of life through his lungs, hope was not lost; he told himself this, but found it hard to comprehend in his gloomy surroundings. Yet he was still alive, his bulging sinews at their peak of marvel, his struggling mind floating in a miral of impressed excellence of thought. Plot after plot sifted through his mind in energetic contemplations.

21-10: TRAFALGAR, AS TOLD BY DUMAS

21-OCTOBER - REMEMBER HORATIO NELSON, 1ST VISCOUNT NELSON

As a hopeful young lieutenant,
 decades before his demise

* Burnam Thorpe, UK, 29th of September 1758

+ Cape Trafalgar, Spain, 21th of October 1805

The last word was missing in his epic song:

the word that crowns every achievement.

The mourners have done their duty, right or wrong:

they wrote it in blood and bereavement.

There's a hole next to the left epaulet...

The shot heard around the British Empire.

‘They have done for me at last, Hardy. My backbone is shot through.’ Admiral Horatio Nelson

Hardy greets the suffering commander, as a concerned crew looks on.

There was no pulse.
It was 16:30.

Here is an excerpt of the Battle of Trafalgar and Lord Horatio Nelson's last hours, as retold by Alexandre Dumas in chapter CXVI of Memoirs of a Favourite. Pairings: Horatio Nelson/Thomas Hardy:


Cependant les deux flottes se rapprochaient l’une de l’autre. En ce moment solennel qui précéda une des plus terribles rencontres qui aient jamais épouvanté la mer, chaque commandant en chef donna son mot d’ordre. L’amiral français dit à ses capitaines : — On ne doit point attendre les signaux de l’amiral, qui, dans la confusion du combat, peuvent ne pas être vus ; mais chacun doit écouter la voix de l’honneur et se porter où le péril est le plus grand. Tout capitaine est à son poste s’il est au feu. Du côté des Anglais, tous les yeux étaient fixés sur le vaisseau amiral pour y lire le mot d’ordre, déjà distribué à bord de l’escadre unie. On vit alors monter au sommet du grand mât du Victory un écriteau portant cette laconique harangue : 

ENGLAND EXPECTS EVERY MAN WILL DO HIS DUTY ! 

Le bon génie de Nelson n’avait point paru.
Il était une heure après-midi, et l’on se trouvait à la hauteur du cap Trafalgar quand le feu commença. Nelson était vêtu d’un habit bleu ; il portait sur sa poitrine les décorations de l’ordre du Bain, de Ferdinand et du Mérite ; celle de Joachim, celle de l’ordre de Malte, et, enfin, le Croissant ottoman. Ce chamarrage de sa poitrine devait le rendre naturellement le point de mire de tous les coups ; le capitaine Hardy voulut lui faire mettre un autre habit. 
— Il est trop tard, dit Nelson ; on m’a vu avec celui-là. 
Le combat était horrible : quatre bâtiments s’éventraient à bout portant, le Victory, le Redoutable, le Bucentaure et le Téméraire. 
Le premier qui tomba à bord du Victory fut le secrétaire de Nelson ; il fut coupé en deux par un boulet tandis qu’il causait avec le capitaine Hardy. Comme Nelson aimait beaucoup ce jeune homme, Hardy fit aussitôt enlever son corps afin que la vue du cadavre n’attristât point l’amiral. 
Presque au même instant, deux boulets ramés jetèrent sur le pont huit hommes coupés par le milieu du corps. 
— Oh ! oh ! dit Nelson, voilà un feu trop vif pour qu’il puisse durer longtemps. 
Il achevait à peine ces mots que le vent d’un boulet de canon qui passait devant sa bouche lui coupa la respiration et manqua de l’asphyxier. Il s’accrocha au bras d’un de ses lieutenants, demeura pendant une minute chancelant et suffoqué ; puis, revenant à lui : 
— Ce n’est rien, dit-il, ce n’est rien ! 
Ce feu durait depuis vingt minutes à peu près, lorsque Nelson tomba sur le pont, comme foudroyé. 
Il était une heure un quart précise. 
Une balle, partie de la hune de misaine du Redoutable, l’avait frappé de haut en bas, et, plongeant à travers l’épaule gauche sans être amortie par l’épaulette, était allée briser la colonne vertébrale. Il se trouvait à l’endroit même où avait été frappé son secrétaire et était tombé la face dans son sang. 
Il essaya de se relever sur un genou en s’aidant de la main gauche. 
Hardy, qui était à deux pas de lui, se précipita, et, aidé de deux matelots et du sergent Seeker, le remit sur les pieds. 
— J’espère, milord, lui dit-il, que vous n’êtes point gravement blessé. 
Mais Nelson répondit : 
— Cette fois, Hardy, ils en ont fini avec moi.
 — Oh ! j’espère que non ! s’écria le capitaine.
— Si fait, dit Nelson ; j’ai senti, à l’ébranlement de tout mon corps, que j’avais la colonne vertébrale atteinte. 
Hardy ordonna aussitôt d’emporter l’amiral au poste des blessés. 
Pendant que les marins le transportaient, Nelson s’aperçut que les cordages au moyen desquels on faisait manœuvrer le timon avaient été rompus par la mitraille ; il le fit observer au capitaine Hardy et ordonna à un midshipman de substituer des cordes neuves aux cordes rompues. 
Ces ordres donnés, il tira son mouchoir de sa poche et en couvrit son visage et ses décorations pour que ses marins ne le reconnussent point et ignorassent qu’il était blessé. 
Quand on l’eut descendu dans l’entre-pont, M. Beatty, le chirurgien du bord, accourut pour lui porter secours. 
— Oh ! mon cher Beatty, dit Nelson, quelle que soit votre science, vous ne pouvez rien pour moi : j’ai la colonne vertébrale brisée. 
— J’espère que la blessure n’est point aussi grave que le pense Votre Seigneurie, dit le chirurgien. 
En ce moment, le révérend M. Scott, chapelain du Victory, s’approcha aussi de milord, qui le reconnut et lui cria d’une voix entrecoupée par la douleur et pourtant pleine de force :
— Mon révérend, rappelez-moi à lady Hamilton, rappelez-moi à Horatia, rappelez-moi à tous mes amis ; dites-leur que j’ai fait mon testament, et que je lègue à mon pays lady Hamilton et ma fille Horatia... Retenez bien ce que je vous dis à cette heure, et ne l’oubliez jamais !... 
Nelson fut porté sur un lit ; on lui tira à grand’peine son habit, et on le couvrit d’un drap. Pendant qu’on accomplissait cette opération, il dit au chapelain : 
— Docteur, je suis perdu ! docteur, je suis mort ! M. Beatty examina la blessure ; il assura à Nelson qu’il pourrait la sonder sans lui causer une grande douleur ; il la sonda, en effet, et reconnut que la balle avait pénétré dans la poitrine et ne s’était arrêtée qu’à l’épine dorsale. 
— Je suis sûr, dit Nelson, tandis qu’on le sondait, que j’ai le corps percé de part en part. 
Le docteur examina le dos, il était intact. 
— Vous vous trompez, milord, dit-il. Mais essayez de m’expliquer ce que vous éprouvez. 
— Je sens, reprit le blessé, comme un flot de sang qui monte à chaque respiration... La partie inférieure de mon corps est comme morte... Je respire difficilement, et, quoique vous disiez le contraire, je maintiens que j’ai l’épine dorsale brisée. 
Ces symptômes indiquèrent au chirurgien qu’il ne fallait conserver aucune espérance ; seulement, la gravité de la blessure ne fut connue de personne à bord, excepté du chirurgien, du capitaine Hardy, du chapelain et de deux aides chirurgiens.
Essayons d’aller jusqu’au bout. 
L’équipage du Victory poussait un hourra de joie à chaque fois qu’un bâtiment français amenait son pavillon, et, à chacun de ses hourras, Nelson, oubliant sa blessure, demandait avec anxiété : 
— Qu’y a-t-il ? 
Alors on lui disait la cause de ces cris ; le blessé en éprouvait une grande satisfaction. 
Il souffrait d’une soif ardente, et souvent demandait à boire, et priait qu’on l’éventât avec un éventail de papier. 
Comme il aimait tendrement le capitaine Hardy, il ne cessait de manifester des craintes pour la vie de cet officier.
Le chapelain et M. Beatty le rassuraient ou plutôt essayaient de le rassurer sur ce point ; ils expédiaient au capitaine Hardy message sur message pour lui dire que l’amiral désirait le voir, et le blessé, ne le voyant pas venir, s’écriait dans son impatience : 
— Vous ne voulez pas me faire venir Hardy... Je suis sûr qu’il est mort ! 
Enfin, une heure dix minutes après que Nelson avait été blessé, le capitaine Hardy descendit dans l’entre-pont ; l’amiral, en l’apercevant, poussa une exclamation de joie, lui serra affectueusement la main et lui dit : 
— Eh bien, Hardy, comment va la bataille ? comment va la journée pour nous ? 
— Bien ! très-bien, milord ! répondit le capitaine. Nous avons déjà pris douze bâtiments. 
— J’espère qu’aucun des nôtres n’a amené son pavillon ?
 — Non, milord, aucun ! 
Alors, rassuré de ce côté, Nelson revint sur lui-même, et, poussant un soupir : 
— Je suis un homme mort, Hardy, et je m’en vais à grands pas. Tout sera bientôt fini pour moi. Approchez-vous, mon ami. 
Puis, à voix basse : 
— Je vous prie d’une chose, Hardy, reprit-il. Après ma mort, coupez mes cheveux pour ma chère lady Hamilton, et donnez-lui tout ce qui m’aura appartenu... 
— Je viens de causer avec le chirurgien, interrompit Hardy : il a bon espoir de vous conserver à la vie. 
— Non, Hardy, non, répliqua Nelson, n’essayez point de me tromper ; j’ai le dos brisé. Le devoir rappelait Hardy sur le pont ; il y monta, après avoir serré la main du blessé. 
Nelson demanda de nouveau le chirurgien. Celui-ci était occupé près du lieutenant William Rivers, qui avait eu une jambe emportée ; il accourut néanmoins, disant que ses aides suffiraient à achever le pansement.
— Je voulais seulement avoir des nouvelles de mes malheureux compagnons, dit Nelson ; quant à moi, docteur, je n’ai plus besoin de vous. Allez ! allez ! Je vous ai dit que j’avais perdu toute sensibilité dans la partie inférieure de mon corps, et vous savez bien que, dans ma position, on ne peut vivre longtemps. 
Ces trois mots que je souligne ne laissèrent aucun doute au chirurgien sur l’intention de lord Nelson : il faisait allusion à un pauvre diable qui, quelques mois auparavant, avait reçu, à bord du Victory, une blessure dans des conditions pareilles à la sienne ; et il avait suivi sur ce malheureux les progrès de la mort avec la même curiosité que s’il eût pu deviner que cette mort était celle qui l’attendait. 
Le chirurgien dit alors à Nelson : 
— Milord, laissez-moi vous palper. 
Et, en effet, il toucha les extrémités inférieures, qui étaient déjà privées de sentiment et comme mortes. 
— Oh ! reprit Nelson, je sais bien ce que je dis, allez ! Scott et Burke m’ont déjà touché comme vous le faites, et je ne les ai pas plus sentis que je ne vous sens... Je meurs, Beatty, je meurs ! 
— Milord, répliqua le chirurgien, malheureusement, je ne puis plus rien pour vous ! 
Et, en faisant cette suprême déclaration, il se retourna afin de cacher ses larmes. 
— Je le savais, dit Nelson. Je sens quelque chose qui se soulève dans ma poitrine. Et il mit la main sur le point qu’il indiquait. 
— Grâce à Dieu, murmura-t-il, j’ai fait mon devoir ! 
Le docteur, ne pouvant plus donner aucun soulagement à l’amiral, alla porter ses soins à d’autres blessés ; mais presque aussitôt revint le capitaine Hardy, qui, avant de quitter pour la seconde fois le pont, avait envoyé le lieutenant Hills porter la terrible nouvelle à l’amiral Collingwood. 
Hardy félicita Nelson d’avoir, quoique déjà dans les bras de la mort, remporté une victoire complète et décisive, et lui annonça qu’autant qu’il pouvait en juger, quinze vaisseaux français étaient en ce moment au pouvoir de la flotte anglaise. 
— J’eusse parié pour vingt ! dit Nelson. 
Puis, tout à coup, se rappelant la position du vent et les symptômes de tempête qu’il avait observés sur la mer : 
— Jetez l’ancre, Hardy ! jetez l’ancre ! dit-il. 
— Je suppose, répondit le capitaine de pavillon, que l’amiral Collingwood prendra le commandement de la flotte. 
— Non pas, tant que je vivrai du moins ! dit le malade en se soulevant sur son bras. Hardy, je vous dis de jeter l’ancre. Je le veux ! 
— Je vais en donner l’ordre, milord. 
— Sur votre vie, faites-le, et avant cinq minutes. 
Puis, à voix basse et comme s’il eût rougi de cette faiblesse : 
— Hardy, reprit-il, vous ne jetterez point mon corps à la mer, je vous en prie !
— Oh ! non certainement ! vous pouvez être tranquille sur ce point, milord, lui répondit Hardy en sanglotant. 
— Ayez soin de la pauvre lady Hamilton, dit Nelson d’une voix affaiblie, de ma chère lady Hamilton... Embrassez-moi, Hardy ! 
Le capitaine, en pleurant, l’embrassa sur la joue. 
— Je meurs content, dit Nelson ; l’Angleterre est sauvée ! 
Le capitaine Hardy demeura un instant près de l’illustre blessé dans une muette contemplation ; puis, s’agenouillant, il le baisa au front. 
— Qui m’embrasse ? demanda Nelson, dont l’œil était déjà noyé dans les ténèbres de la mort. 
Le capitaine répondit : 
— C’est moi, Hardy. 
— Dieu vous bénisse, mon ami ! dit le mourant. 
Hardy remonta sur le pont. 
Nelson, reconnaissant le chapelain à ses côtés, lui dit alors : 
— Ah ! docteur, je n’ai jamais été un pécheur bien obstiné !
Puis, après une pause : 
— Docteur, rappelez-vous, je vous prie, que j’ai laissé en héritage à ma patrie et à mon roi lady Hamilton et ma fille Horatia Nelson... N’oubliez jamais Horatia. 
Sa soif allait croissant. Il cria : 
— Boire !... boire !... L’éventail !... faites-moi de l’air !... Frottez-moi !... 
Il faisait cette dernière recommandation au chapelain, M. Scott, qui lui avait procuré quelque soulagement en lui frottant la poitrine avec la main ; seulement, il prononça ces paroles d’une voix interrompue et qui indiquait un redoublement de souffrance ; de sorte qu’il lui fallut rappeler toutes ses forces pour dire une dernière fois : 
— Grâce à Dieu, j’ai fait mon devoir ! 
Ce fut alors seulement que Nelson cessa de parler. 
Était-ce faiblesse ? était-ce l’évanouissement suprême ? Quoi qu’il en soit, le chapelain et M. Burke le soulevèrent à l’aide de coussins et le maintinrent dans une position moins douloureuse, respectant ce funèbre silence et cessant eux-mêmes de parler pour ne point troubler le moribond dans ses derniers moments. 
Le chirurgien revint ; le maître d’hôtel de Nelson était allé lui dire que son maître était sur le point d’expirer. M. Beatty prit la main du mourant, elle était froide ; il lui tâta le pouls, il était insensible ; puis il lui toucha le front, Nelson rouvrit son œil unique et le referma aussitôt. 
Le chirurgien le quitta pour aller vers d’autres blessés auxquels ses soins pouvaient être utiles ; mais à peine venait-il de s’éloigner que le maître d’hôtel, le rappelant, lui dit : 
— Sa Seigneurie est morte ! 
M. Beatty accourut. Nelson, en effet, venait de rendre le dernier soupir. Il était quatre heures vingt minutes. Il avait survécu trois heures et trente-deux minutes à sa blessure ! 
Inutile de dire le deuil qui se répandit sur toute la flotte anglaise à la nouvelle de la mort de Nelson. Elle fit presque oublier la victoire. 
Le premier soin de Hardy fut d’exprimer au chirurgien le désir manifesté par Nelson de ne point être jeté à la mer, mais d’être ramené dans sa patrie. 
Le lendemain de la bataille, lorsque les circonstances permirent que l’on s’occupât des soins à donner aux restes mortels de Nelson, on chercha par quels moyens on pouvait prévenir la décomposition ; il fallait naturellement se servir des ressources que l’on avait à bord du Victory. Il n’y avait pas assez de plomb pour faire un cercueil ; on prit le plus grand tonneau que l’on put trouver, on y mit le corps, puis on le remplit d’eau-de-vie. 
Le soir même du jour où ce triste soin fut accompli, il s’éleva, comme l’avait prévu Nelson, une terrible tempête venant du sud-ouest ; elle dura toute la nuit sans apaisement aucun ; le jour vint, et, jusqu’au soir, la tempête continua avec la même violence. Pendant ces vingt-quatre heures, le corps de Nelson resta dans l’entre-pont sous la garde d’une sentinelle ; mais, tout à coup, le couvercle du tonneau sauta en éclats avec un bruit pareil à la détonation d’un coup de fusil : c’était la pression des gaz qui s’étaient dégagés du corps qui avait causé cette rupture. On referma le tonneau, mais en ménageant une ouverture dans le couvercle pour empêcher que l’accident ne se renouvelât. En arrivant à Gibraltar, on remplaça l’eau-de-vie par de l’esprit-de-vin. 
Dans l’après-midi du 3 novembre, le Victory leva l’ancre, sortit de la baie de Gibraltar, traversa le détroit et retrouva, devant Cadix, l’escadre sous le commandement de l’amiral Collingwood. Le même soir, le bâtiment funèbre poursuivit son chemin vers l’Angleterre et arriva à Spithead après une traversée de cinq semaines ; mais la nouvelle du gain de la bataille et de la mort de Nelson était connue à Londres depuis le 7 novembre.
Le 4 décembre, veille du jour fixé pour les actions de grâces, le Victory arriva à Saint-Helens et déploya, en signe de deuil, le drapeau de Nelson à mi-mât ; tous les bâtiments de Spithead abaissèrent aussitôt leurs enseignes dans la même position.
Le samedi 15, le corps de Nelson fut mis dans le cercueil qui lui avait été donné par le capitaine Ben Hallowell et qui, on se le rappelle, était taillé dans un mât du vaisseau français l’Orient, puis exposé sous un dais formé de pavillons. M. Tyson, ancien secrétaire de l’amiral, M. Nayler, M. York-Herald et M. Whilby avaient été délégués par l’Amirauté pour recevoir le corps, qui devait être transporté du Victory sur un yacht et conduit à l’hôpital de Greenwich. 
Les funérailles étaient fixées au 6 janvier. Il avait été décidé que le cercueil serait déposé dans la cathédrale de Saint-Paul, qui, destinée à être la sépulture des héros et des hommes d’État, était inaugurée par Nelson comme le Panthéon de l’Angleterre. 

Inspired by thirst
For glory, on the field of battle quaffed
 Instead Death's bitter draught.

Live forever in our hearts

Inspire us to carry on...

Only the one who dies young and violently,
after a series of exceptional achievements,
can become a legend.

Though you drowned in blood, 

you will live eternally

thanks to sacrifice...

ANOTHER RALPH CREWE WW1 FIC

He stayed up long into night, simply watching them sleep. Nursing a tall glass of brandy as the hours counted down. Fatigue pulled at him, but he would not be swayed. He'd slept long enough. Lost enough. Ram Dass and his host seemed to understand as much because after the girls had been bathed and whisked into warm robes by the housekeeper, they left them to his charge. And like a sentry on watch at the front lines, he remained vigilant and unrelenting.

The storm had passed, giving way to that fleeting freshness that so often follows a brisk American rain. Smelling of clay and living things – rich with possibility – teeming and quietly busy. He couldn't deny that he breathed it in with relish. Savoring it. Thankful. Blessed. All too aware of the second chance he'd been given while so many young lives had been cut short.

Magic has to be believed, that is the only way it is real.

The candlelight flickered, making his sensitive eyes water. But he kept them firm on the form of his daughter regardless – like a bayonet to a rifle – stuck fast and unapologetically sharp. She and Becky slept soundly now, peacefully, small fingers entwined over the coverlet. As if at loathe to be parted for even an instant. Like the brothers in arms he made on the battlefield, they too had bonded through adversity.

It was a feeling he understood well. Admittedly, he had little wish to look away, even for an instant. After everything that had happened, he was convinced that a singular second would be too long. Rational mind refusing to give up the notion that the moment he closed his eyes, the moment he even blinked, he would somehow forget. That he would wake up in his bedroom upstairs, Ram Dass singing softly by the window, only to find it all a dream. Or worse, find himself back on the coarse grit of the battlefield, ankle deep in gore and fetid mud. Struggling to remember the sound of her laugh or the softness of her hair as enemy planes roared overhead, misting the trenches with thick yellow poison.

He believed that even when age and infirmity took the remembrance of the unearthly screams and sirens from him, he would always remember the gas. The way it had choked him. Coating his tongue, his lungs, his heart. Drowning him from the inside out. Suffocating and-

He closed his eyes. Hating himself for it immediately as his reached out blindly, hand curling gently around the shape of his daughter's foot under the blanket. Crushing it gently, like an anchor. The relief was not immediate, but it came quicker than it had in the hospital and later with Ram Dass in the lighted depths of the Randall home. He breathed deeply, hesitant, like one gasp too far might bring back the acidic burn of the gas. The smell of petrol, vomit and rot.

She was his living heart.

His soul walking.

The closest thing to heaven on earth.

And he'd almost lost her.

Anger - trapped in its rawest, most primordial form - rippled through him still. For what his daughter had not told him, Becky filled in without embellishment. Giving a solid, if not admittedly biased, account of the months that had passed since he'd mistakenly been declared dead and the government had seized his assets. For unlike his own flesh and blood, who didn't understand why one person would willingly harm another merely out of spite and jealousy, Becky had suffered the same first hand - likely since she'd been able to walk. He listened to her silently, coaxing her favor gradually through the night until she trusted him enough to curl up at his side. Touch-starved and quivering. He didn't know how many times he would have to say it for her to believe it, but he had already summoned his lawyer. Her trials were over now. He would see the girl warded into his care. Promising to do his best to make up for the childhood she was denied. A second daughter, in every way that mattered.

Was there no mercy in this world? And if there was, why was it that the innocents were the ones that always suffered? Surely God did not intend for such madness? He had seen enough of mankind's cruelty. Enough of its efferent desire to fight one another. More than he cared to remember. And growingly less of any sign of an all knowing, all loving deity. After all, how could a God that called itself their father let their children go so far astray?

His lips firmed over the hard line of his teeth when Miss. Minchin's face flashed in his mind's eye. She had recognized him. He was sure of that. After all, how could she not? In that moment in the office, before she'd proclaimed Sara parentless and alone. She had willingly condemned her to prison, the streets, or – god forbid – worse. And for what? Ignorance and petty hate? Whose origins he knew not.

She had almost cost him everything!

He did not think himself a cruel man. But for the injustice his daughter had suffered, for what she had tried to do to them both, he would not be swayed. He would pursue every recourse to ensure such a villainous soul could not harm another.

Certainly she had no business being around children!

But then, who else would run the school? Becky and Sara had relished the story when they'd giggled over a plate of sugared pears. Telling him how the Headmistress's own sister had escaped through one of the windows in the dead of night. Dashing way to embark on a passionate affair with the milkman of all people.

He swirled the amber liquid in his glass thoughtfully before a remarkably boyish grin lit up the corners of his tired eyes - a precocious idea taking shape. His smile only grew wider as the emotion settled into stay. Recalling all the times he had seen the man observing the antics of the children from his parlor window. Taking comfort in their happy laughter and constant chatter. Even on his worst days, when he missed his son the sharpest, their antics never failed to draw his interest.

Perhaps he would talk to Randall in the morning, see what the old coot had to say about it.

Reference:

*"Wind up" was World War I slang for a comrade that was frightened or on the verge of a breakdown

DULCE ET DECORUM EST

DULCE ET DECORUM EST

To all the victims of chemical warfare in World War I

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, outstripped 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 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
Pro patria mori.

(The last words are Latin for: "It's sweet and crowning to die for the motherland.")

WW1 A LITTLE PRINCESS: RALPH CREWE INJURED

Watch at 0:15

Captain Ralph Crewe poisoned with chlorine in the trenches of the Western Front. Lovely battlefield setting and much of a tearjerker. This is to commemorate 2015 as the centennial of the second year of WWI and the first use of chlorine warfare.

By the way, Ralph Crewe is played by Davos Seaworth --- Liam Cunningham.

This is by no means the only way to commemorate 2015 as the centennial of modern chemical warfare, and to remember all the casualties of such a tragic event.


Now let’s jump ahead to the trenches where we see Captain Crewe bravely yet futiley try to save a fellow soldier and succumb to mustard gas.  There are so many problems with this scene it is astounding.  Had I written this in 2009 I could tell you exact dates that various technologies were introduced but now the specifics are no longer in my brain so bare with me as I might need to generalize.  Now, based on the amount of time that has elapsed in the movie, paying attention to the seasons etc., it can only have gotten as far as the fall of 1914 by the time of Captain Crewe’s war scene.  Entrenchment only starts around this time, yet the trenches shown are very sophisticated.  They are very deep and wide with bridges and ladders all throughout.  To give you an idea of this, here is a shot of a horse running through the trenches.  Note the body hanging off a bridge well above the horse’s head.

Captain Crewe is walking dejectedly through this trench that is filled with dead bodies when he discovers one soldier is kind of gasping.  He runs over and hoists him onto his shoulders, just in time for a biplane to fly by and strafe the trench.  Yes, airplanes evolve rapidly during WWI, but it is far too early.  It isn’t until pretty late in the war that you have planes used for offensive purposes.  When the war began they were believed to be of little to no use in war.  They were mainly used for reconnaissance purposes.  Do you know how many advances had to be made to make planes acceptable for fighting?  At first a dude just had to have a machine gun with him and stand up to shoot people with it.  It was eventually discovered the best thing was to mount the gun on the front, but then propeller technology had to be improved so that one could shoot through the propellers without crippling their own plane.  One of my all-time favorite books is Storm of Steel by Earnst Junger who was a German soldier (seriously this is a fabulous book and Junger is a fascinating guy.  He is to this day the youngest guy to ever earn the highest military honor in the German army.  He lived through and fought in WWI and WWII and died when he was over 100 years old) and it is not till a good way through his book that he records anything about planes.  He was in one of the earliest groups to arrive on the Western Front so he witnesses a great deal of the war.  It is pretty jarring when he suddenly starts talking about planes.  It is waaaaay too early for the plane in A Little Princess.

Next we see Captain Crewe climbing out of the trench to escape a cloud of mustard gas.  Now here I can give you some exact dates.  Poison gas was first used at the Second Battle of Ypres which was fought between April 21-May 25 1915.  It was deployed by the Germans and it was the Canadians who suffered the most from it at this battle.  So how on earth could it be in this ridiculous trench in the fall of 1914?

We zoom out as we watch Captain Crewe drowning in gas

Just after the ten-headed demon shoots ten arrows around Rama in Sara's story, releasing thick clouds of poisonous yellow smoke, Cuaron cuts to Captain Crewe in the trenches, clouds of tear gas threatening to engulf him.
we see Sara's father bombed in the trenches.


Mexican director Alfonso Cuaron gets some details wrong. His map of World War I Europe included a Yugoslavia that would not come into existence until after the war. His depiction of gas warfare might be strong stuff for children if they really understood what they were seeing.

There's a war scene with explosions, fallen bodies, and a man is shown succumbing to poison gas.

 (e.g., the thick clouds of yellow smoke are a stand in for the mustard gas that blinds her father in the WWI bunker)

The film is set during the first world war, so there are scenes in the trenches showing dead bodies and the sounds of bombs falling. 

to bring Mr. Crowe's actual war experiences home to the young children. Everyone gasps when Sarah's hero succumbs to poison gas in the playground of Sarah's fantasyscape; what they don't realize is that Sarah's real-life heroic father is just then collapsing under a cloud of chlorine. This ongoing dramatic parallel is one of the movie's best features.

Violence & Gore

Two short war scenes, one showing a man struggling to carry another wounded soldier who has trouble breathing. He ultimately collapses in exhaustion.

In another scene, he brings us to the trenches of World War 1 that was horrifying without even showing a drop of blood, just bodies laying there.

There's excitement - scenes from the World War I trenches, 

Captain Crewe has been killed in battle and his estate has been seized by the British government
John, also fighting in WWI, is MIA, 
an unidentified soldier suffering from blindess and amnesia due to exposure to poison gas 

images of poison gas on the battlefield.


her father, who is eventually lost in the European trenches. 

her father ... since he had no memory

... agonising footage of her father being injured and left for dead in the trenches. I know all this isn’t in the book, but I think it does build on passages of Burnett’s where Sara thinks about what her father is going through and imagines what it would be like to be a soldier suffering on the battlefield. Also, as it is probably impossible really to show children in a film suffering as much cruelty as Sara does in the book,  bringing in the war is a different way to include the darkness which is such an essential part of this story.
Rama's quest for Sita (both Rama and Sara's father are played by the same actor) becomes a trek through the Allied trenches, while Ravana's arrows emit poisonously yellow mustard gas...

As a side note, I'm a little surprised the movie is rated G when it shows some rather gruesome scenes of the WWI trenches strewn with bodies--it's certainly not gory, and it obviously didn't scar me for life since I don't even remember those parts, but still...

Her father did so to provide protection for his daughter whilst being absent ,fighting in the war. During the war, a poison gas was released and caused amnesia to her father.


But at the end of the film, he regained his memory.

 her father's experiences in the trenches

that her father has been killed in action 

injured by the poisonous gases in the war.

after he was ill after war. 

 an injured World War 1 soldier

They didn't need to show the WWI footage in a children's film.

Parents need to know that this movie includes images of war with dead men strewn about trenches and explosions in the background. 

There are two fairly graphic scened depicting battles in the trenches of World War I, complete with clearly depicted dying and dead soldiers. Even worse, the second battle scene shows the father dying. Maybe not all children are as unused to this kind of violence as mine is, but parents should know ahead of time.

her father’s participation in World War I trench warfare (he is British).

Because he wants me to belong.
My little girl. She spoke French!
She really spoke French.
Your mother and l
are very proud of you.
l caught you, Nellie!
Papa!
Randolph. . .John!
Rama approached the thorny palace...
...unaware that Ravana
was waiting for him.
But Ravana was not through yet.
He took a bow that could
hold, not one, but 1 0 arrows. . .
. . .each filled with poison.
The arrows sped through the air. . .
...heading straight for Rama.
The arrows hit the ground...
...and released their poison,
giant clouds of thick, yello w smoke.

lt's been discovered that
your father has died.
He was killed in battle
several weeks ago.

He's suffering from amnesia...
. . .one of the rare side effects
of poison gas.
His eyes will heal in time.
His memory. . .who can say?

"Sara!"

The name was like clear water breaking. Wholesome, terrifying and clean. It was baptism. Redemption. A bloody scab healing fast as the thunder rolled like shell-blasts, echoing in the distance. It was too much all at once. He stumbled backwards, cheeks flaming – shuddering with the force of every breath - as the phantom scents of Cardamom and singed flesh threatened to turn his stomach.

"I'm so sorry!"

He had spent months trying to piece his life back together. Trying to understand what the gas had taken. Desperate for a scrap, for the smallest clue that could tell him something – anything! And now he was tempted to run from it. Gripping the chair at his back with a vicious bite as the child was ripped from him, screaming. Frightened by the ferocity of the memories that came streaming back. Faster than he could handle. Faster than he could process. Faster than any man – hale and hearty - could rightly shoulder as the room exploded into a whirling frenzy of water-logged activity.

"No! No! Papa! Papa!"

His heart shattered. Cutting deep inside his chest in a thousand fracturing pieces as her broken cries rang out. Filling the spaces between heartbeats with a torment that far surpassed the darkest moments of his recovery. Ushering in the doorman of suffering as an expression he didn't recognize – agonized and wrecked – pulled at unfamiliar muscles and sinew.

But why?

He had no idea what was happening.

No idea why he felt so- so-

Oh.

What had once been a blur, a singular impression of the man he'd thought himself to be, soared back to him in pieces. Rewriting itself in less time than it took for his expression to change. Giving meaning to what existed beyond that of mere words as the pitching despair of the girl's screams seemed to rise above even that of the worsening storm.

The epiphany was already in full swing, frisson-fast and heady when Ram Dass appeared at his side. Silent and unjudging but electric with the same realization that was firming through him as he looked up at the world with new eyes.

Every word she'd issued – now experienced in seconds old hindsight – was akin to a fresh blow that had the power to send him reeling. Quickly overtopping that of uncertainty and self-doubt as the haze thinned, clearing like the freshness of a northern-born wind cutting through a cloud of poisonous gas. Stiffening his back with a confident, careful strength as every instinct he possessed – everything he was – reached out. Unfurling like an exotic midnight bloom desperate for the warmth of the sun.

Sara. Papa. Papa. Papa! Papa it's me! It's Sara! Oh god Papa, don't you remember me? Papa please, you've got to know me! Its Sara remember?! Remember India? And Maya! Remember the Riviana! And Emily! And the locket with Mama's picture in it? Oh god, papa please! Papa please! Papa, tell them!

Sara.

Sara.

Oh god!

His little girl.

His little princess.

There was a roaring in his ears. So different from that of diving planes and whistling shells. So different from the screams of the dying, distant fires and the murky wet of sick-lined trenches. He didn't have words. In that one glorious moment there was nothing but a name. A face. A flickering reel of memory that followed down through the years only to stall in favor of real time. Fading like radio static as a calloused hand reached out, eyes falling on the swinging glass doors as he took one step, then another.

And before he could internalize the switch, he was already running.