Dead British Soldiers in World War I After Gas Attack
by Robert A. Waters
On
May 8, 1919, the Lumberton Robesonian
reported that “private George E. Galloway, son of Mrs. D. W. Galloway of
Fairmont, is said to have been the first North Carolinian killed in the war
with Germany. He died in France on the 27th
February, 1918, as the result of being ‘gassed’ by Germans in the French
trenches the day before. Private
Galloway was 22 years old and volunteered 10 days after the United States
entered the war with Germany. He sailed
from New York August 4, 1917, and was among the first American soldiers to see
service at the front. Young Galloway was
a fine specimen of manhood and was something of an athlete.”
Galloway
served in General John J. Pershing’s 1st army division. According to the Robesonian, “[Galloway] entered the firing line in France in
February, 1918. He was injured in a
surprise attack by the Germans a few days later on February 26, and died the
following day.”
During
the same attack, Helmer E. Royett of Harlan, Iowa, and Sid Coleman, of Cord,
Arkansas, also died from exposure to mustard gas. Several other American soldiers were severely
wounded by the toxic fumes.
In
1919, the Fairmont, North Carolina Chamber of Commerce dedicated a tablet that
read: “In Memoriam Private George E. Galloway, Fairmont, N. C. the first North
Carolina soldier killed on the battlefields of France.” At the top of the tablet was a gold star.
On
July 30, 1934, Camp Galloway was dedicated at Fort Bragg, North Carolina.
The
story reminded me of a Wilfred Owen poem.
Owen, a British writer, fought in the trenches, engaging in hand-to-hand
combat on several occasions. Owen was killed in action on November 4, 1918, just
a week before the end of the war. He was 24.
This
poem is a response to those who see war as “glorious.”
DULCE ET DECORUM
EST
“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.”
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