Our Brothers, Part 3 Philip Beven (Pete) Tree, RIP (1895-1918)

By jeand

Mon, 05 May 2014
  • 944 reads
2 comments
 

When Pete was a lad and was feeling mad

This is how he's show his temper

He'd curl like a dog outside the door

Waiting for you to come a cropper.
 

But he really was an affectionate boy

Gentle and solemn and meek

When he was naughty he knew for a fact

Because Philip he'd be called, not Pete.

 

His teacher said he was thoughtful and shy

Steady and very fond of his faith

But he hated Sundays, made to stay clean

A practice not easy to accommodate.

 

His greatest interest lay in games

But ungifted was how he was seen.

Pathetically Badly is how he played

But always he was very keen.

 

In 1913, he made it to Keeble

He wanted to be a vicar

But when war broke out he longed to be there

And the Public Schools' Battalion was quicker.

 

He too believed in the right of our case

And he wanted to strike in great style

He saw it as a lofty crusade

Making hardship gloriously worthwhile.

 

But tedium was his major complaint

with guarding a trench days untold.

“Anyone can smile in the face of death

But it's hard when your feet are cold.”

 

“Three share a dug-out four feet square

And eating is not what it's been.

We have runny porridge sitting in the dark

with a fork out of one small mess tin."

 

“They've finally said that I can go

To Blighty and the OTC

I'd 've preferred Oxford but Cambridge will do

I wish six years it could be.”

 

When he finished his training it was just the time,

we heard of Frank and the rest

“Charlie was taken, Frank is gone,

Why not me, not the best?”

 

The army allowed him an extra month

And he was our tower of strength.

But he became sad and silent as though

He knew his was coming at length.

 

In September he got his commsion at last

With the mighty machine-gun corps.

He had his last leave before the new year

Then went to Ypres for his tour.
 

He had a good time, not much fighting at first

He tried very hard to learn French.

But not much luck as he'd little skill

Before long he was back in a trench.
 

In the disastrous retreat to Amiens,

help was sent from the line

Pete's machiners job was to cover the retreat

But his head took a shell, and he died.

 

Certificate U
Poem
War stuff
Biography

Comments

Submitted by Bee on

The rhyme in this works strangely against the subject making the ending, though expected because of the dates, still shocking. Well done, Jean. There's a couple of typos to check. I thought this was good.

Bee

Submitted by jeand on

Thanks Bee,

I think I've made the corrections.

This is from Jessie - based on what Pete thought of the war, etc.

Pete has, perhaps, given us a deeper insight into his mind than the other two. For so young a man he had, it seems to me, unusual sympathy with the sufferings of others. He realised with extraordinary insight the anguish which the mothers have had to endure in this war. I have by
me a letter which he wrote soon after Frank's death, which shows how deeply he had thought things out. Let me quote it here:

"Thank you very much for your letter. It's nice to know something, however little, about Frank. I'm afraid he had a very rough time of it those last weeks, and we can't help feeling that it was better for him to die like that than to go on suffering hell indefinitely. It's not very easy for us to take that view of it anyway. In the first place, no one in England realises at all what men can suffer mentally abroad, and in the second, it's very hard to be philosophical and to take the purely unselfish view, however hard we try. And really the only thing to do is to carry on in the same old way as before, only knowing that when things seem particularly hard and not worth while, then if we stick to it and don't give way we are nearer to them. That's why this war is so much harder on women than men. When men are doing something definite in the war it helps a lot. But the bravest of all are the women, and not the women doing war work necessarily, but the women who have to stay at home and keep things together and see their loved ones suffer and die, and can do nothing to help them save hope and pray. They are the real heroes of the war. You are the people whom my heart goes out to, and I wish I could do something to help and comfort all of you at home. But that I'm afraid is beyond my power. I think the two people I have admired most of late are mother and Lucy (Frank's finace). You say that mother drew a simile between Christ and those who suffer, but still stick to their duty. I wonder if she has ever considered how God-like the parents are who gladly give their sons to save the world if it can be saved. Surely behaviour like that is better than all these National Missions and special service and so on. The real religion of the world is not to be found in churches but in homes. I think that if these bishops and people spent their time in going round the homes of fallen soldiers and did something for the parents and sisters and wives, they would be doing a far finer thing than in getting people into a state of mental depression in the churches. People have got quite enough to be miserable about without thinking of their sins. Or do these parsons really think that God is so narrow minded as to be angry with people for comparatively trifling sins when they have given their utmost all for the sake of honour? If they do, then either they are wrong or there's something radically wrong with their religion somewhere. It's very easy for a man with a good social position to get up and tell people that their attitude towards life is all wrong and damn the soldiers for a set of drunken hooligans, but it is really surprising how pained they feel if they are called upon to show a little practical religion and give up their chauffeurs.

Well, I didn't intend this letter to be a sermon, but I did want to show and tell you, and it's not very easy to express one's feelings, how much I do feel and think about and admire you at home."
 
 
 
 

 

Jean Day