It is very relevant for students being lectured on the poet Wilfred Owen to possess a sound knowledge, if only mere, of the circumstances that induced the soldier to cross the channel, lie in a mass of heap for days on end, and inevitably be on the receiving end of an enemy bullet. If there was no war, then Wilfred Owen would have most probably been a man of letters but not so much more than that. That is why, the war gave birth to Wilfred Owen, whilst it did at the same time, take it from him.
Owen, it may be argued, was the war’s non-believer. He didn’t believe in the war he fought, or in its sense or cause, however still, he fought it, like every British son. Never once did the word dissertation leave the ink of his pen – only questions. So he was in this regard, a loyal British subject, despite the fact he was born a Welshman. However, questions invoke answers and these answers, or their like, are not always well received by the British War Ministry. So in this regard, Owen was an instigator for thought. And his verses, a picture of the ongoing battle fought by the soldier not against the German fiend but against the whole lunacy that surrounded the war.
Austria, which then included Hungary and most Slavic kingdoms, was at loggerheads with the troublesome Serbia and its mother-ally the Russian Empire, a vast terrain inhabited by the poor and poorer. Austria had Germany, a country of expanding military scope, as its knight in shining armour as its Kaiser put it. Russia, on the other hand, had sought amicable treaties with France and succeeded. The United Kingdom, cut off from continental maneuvers, was in a state of splendid isolation. Given its dynastic relations with the kingdom of Belgium it guaranteed its neutrality with force. It is said that between 1912 and 1914, prior to the outbreak of the war, Austrian generals had almost on a weekly basis marched the steps up to the Hapsburg Palace to demand that their Emperor invade the lands to the south-east...