Stupid, Stubborn Donkey, by Eliza Crutchfield

‘These men are worth your tears: You are not worth their merriment.’

Wilfred Owens Apologia Pro Poemate Meo

The hot copper shells lodged in desiccated clay latch onto the grooves of my hooves. Although the sun at this hour is stalking along the horizon, the Turks up the hill are wasting no time sending whizzbangs whistling by. The firm hand of John Simpson, my partner, rests on my back as I continue to tread along the stained earth leading towards the Allies’ trenches. After 22 days of constant fire, the cracks and screams are rotting John’s brain inside out, leaving but a quivering lip and a compulsive tick on his cheek. A mere manifestation of the chaos that surrounds. When beside the lifeless souls condemned to occupy Gallipoli’s soil, John would often ask me if we should pity or envy the deceased. He didn’t want an answer on this particular day, but I dwelled on the thought. It is always at this point on a rescue that my ears will stand up and face forward, I can feel the weight of the air on my back, and the stench hangs about us like a bad dream. I couldn’t tell if the deafening blasts or the silence that followed scared me more.

The articles began two weeks prior, when I was trotting by the stretcher-bearers’ tent looking for the prospect of a bright red apple, the type of apple that crunches like autumn leaves and dribbles down my wispy chin. As I clumsily squeezed between the sandbags and makeshift beds, sniffing out the trail of food, I overheard the stretchers bearers grumbling on about the article published in Sydney Morning Herald, lying on the plywood in the middle of the tent.

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“Charles W. Bean the wanker,” said one of the Australians in their raspy accent. I gathered that ‘Charles Bean’ was the name of the correspondent in Gallipoli, I didn’t know what that last word meant but I assumed it was his title.

“It’s pretty damn easy to go on about how ‘admirable’ the landing was when you aren’t the soldier face down in the dirt,” chirped a Kiwi soldier. I glanced up at John whose eyes stayed locked to the floor, having a donkey as a partner drew enough attention already. The truth is that I owe it to John to stay by his side, after all it was John who saved me when he saw how they treated the carrier mules and donkeys. He witnessed the way in which officers kicked my belly with their hard leather shoes while we lugged supplies from the shore to the trenches. John was the one that stopped all that.

He was the one that pitied me.

I couldn’t help but feel indebted to John, to abandon him after the kindness he extended to me would be cruel. I agreed to stay by his side, an agreement to help with the stretcher bearer duties. I thought this would settle the debt, to please the lonely Englishman who took me under his wing in a foreign land of warfare.

Of course, this was all before the greys of my coat began to shed, exposing the rubbed raw skin patches spread across my neck, agitated by the sun above. This was all before John and I splintered at the seams. Us, two frayed ropes tied down by the weight of demise, witnessing the abandonment of humanity. The vile odour of scorched earth and sweat infecting my conscious, burrowing deep.

Like deep scars along the surface of the earth, the trenches contain a poison of emotion. A wounded soldier up ahead writhes about as flies swarm to the soaked khaki shirt, a festering gash splitting his stomach, dribbling onto the soil. A deep cherry wine against the

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beige earth. John rushes to stop the bleeding, but the milk pale hands of the soldier suggest we are much too late. I see the life spill from his mouth, as the corrupted eyes attempt to say his final words.

A symphony to summarise his soul.

I couldn’t hear his silent prayer over the masses of bullets passing by, but I imagine his words are made of silk that can ease the crying eyes of an infant child. But as I lean in closer, I can hear his ragged breath spew curses to the world around, obscene as cancer.

I began to violently bray at John, a desperate plea urging for him to take action, to step in and save the man who now lay ever so still. I continue to bray until my throat burned raw and my knees buckled to the floor. John gripped my leather reins and hoisted me to my hooves with urgency, the enemy above wouldn’t spare a moment. Under the sheer slopes John and I took cover, resting only for a moment before dashing to the next shelter. Yard by yard I trot over the uneven hill face as the sun above drains the moisture from my skin. The flies feast on the fluid in the corners of my eyes, while I huff and kick the shrubs in my path.

By the time the stretcher bearers’ tent is within sight, silent tears fall down my cheek into the corners of my mouth. The salty taste lingers on my tongue as I watched John hobble across the sand to fetch a bladder of water. My sobs continue until the sun hides behind the horizon. The bellows of chatter turns into hushes of soldiers gathering on the beach. John sits with a group of his friends while I count the peddles on the shore.

There’s a big push for ground in the morning I overhear, up against 4 machine guns and a row of Turks as far as you can see. The unsaid truth lingers in the air, polluting their thoughts. Its suicide and they know it.

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A chuckle escapes from the mouth of a soldier bumming a cigarette.

“Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, the ardent lie told to children desperate for glory.”

His infectious laughter spreads across the group until they begin to howl like wolves. It begun to echo in my mind. These are the giggles of soldiers who are too scared to cry, and too numb to act. Their glazed eyes are deeply bloodshot, as if the virus of conflict has spread its roots into the milky whites of their eyes, tainting their conscious and leaving but a shell of the person it once contained. In my dreams that night, the echo continued.

I awoke to the trill of the whistle blown, marking the first wave of soldiers to climb above the parapet. Immediately a choir of wails resonate across the beach as shrapnel tears flesh from flesh. John and I hurry to our stations before building to a gallop up the sheer hill. We edge closer and closer to the battlefield as the storm of bullets thicken.

I grunt and I kick the rocks in my path. I clench my jaw and lean into my stride. Sweat soaks my belly as I scramble up the steep face of a hill. Only a few metres left until John and I ascend to the clearing that overlooks no-man’s land.

Oh god the carnage.

A sea of tangled limbs squirming and jolting, the bones and flesh of young men spread like a pat of butter struck by a hammer. I look down upon the massacre as the wounded moan in unison. Gargling cries from innocent tongues. Is this the debt you must pay for your country?

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John grabs a hold of my reins and pulls me towards the bloodbath. I try to resist, grounding my hooves but the dry clay provides little traction. Do his anguished eyes not see that we will be shot senselessly? John continues to stride, unflinchingly, across the battlefield towards the cesspit of blood, truly believing the ‘ardent lie’.

It’s not the truth.

The men of Gallipoli do not die ‘fighting like tigers’, they drown in thick hot blood that fills their lungs, guttering and choking for air. John drags me forward into the heavy fire, to be martyred in battle. A blind desperation to sacrifice his soul for country and honour, and I, not a companion but the tool of madness.

A bullet pierces John’s neck. His sliced jugular paints the battlefield. A worthy performance.

As his body convulses on the floor, I hear no final words, just a gargled wheeze that leaks from his mouth.

There I stand alone on the battlefield, surrounded by souls. I clench my eyes shut to block out the world around. Madness it truly is. Ever so still I stand, waiting like a target. I wonder what the papers will say.

Did I die for ‘honour and glory’? Or am I just another war time story.

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STUPID, STUBBORN, DONEKY

Soul of Donkey

Died 1915, Gallipoli By Eliza Crutchfield

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“My subject is War, and the pity of War.”

Dear Mr Owen, I’m writing to you today about an urgent matter of the utmost importance. I brag about not being as stereotypically stubborn as everyone suspects but with this, my hooves ain’t moving. Maybe you’ll even decide to write a poem about ME. A sonnet about a donkey, oh, I’m sure your British readers would love that. I don’t know if you are aware but humans and donkeys do have quite the historical connection, your religious upbringing should help you appreciate the donkeys' relationship with Jesus and the New Testament. I’ve even heard donkeys can be seen as an allegory for human suffering and hopes for salvation. Not sure how I remembered that, actually, yeah, I do remember- we donkeys are famous for our memory. Well famous amongst zoologists maybe not so much in society in general... Sorry I’ve gotten off track. Serious talk now-

I’ve read the poetry that you have published, and I guess if a donkey’s eyes prick with tears while reading “Dulce Et Decorum Est”, you’ve done something quite spectacular. So back on track, I, Duffy, formally choose you to be the one to write a poem about my owner! His name was John Simpson Kirkpatrick. When I was asked to tell my story, well I was hesitant at first, I was flooded with images of a singular page about Simpson and me in the back of some history book that no one ever read in a dusty library. I figured it would be best to hand over the reins of my story to you. I did consider reaching out to Michael Morpurgo, but your poems and the depiction you created of the suffering of soldiers is unmatched. I’ve become familiar with the quote, “Death is never the end, your existence truly ends the moment everyone forgets about you.” Your poetry would ensure that my story isn’t forgotten. From soldier to soldier I implore

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