Shell Shocked Isabel Shrapnel (1)
November 11, 1918 - In Flame!
I am five, six, seven and my father has cake for my birthday and because it's Armistice. And there are five, six, seven flames on the cake and I blow and I blow and I blow and now there is only one flame left. And in this shivering light I can barely write, but I write. And there is this invisible playmate of mine, his name is the Unknown Soldier. He whispers in my ear I should call the poem In Flame! He says it is the Very First Cruel Little Fairy Tale of Isabel Shrapnel (that's me). But it surely will not be the last, he says.
- World War One: Christmas in a War Zone
All Quiet on the Western Front for Christmas 1914 In Christmas truce started by the Germans in WWI, firing stopped the entire Western Front and the Germans put out little Christmas trees... - Word War 1: America Declares War on Germany!
One of the many great Hubs concerning the First World War by jimmythejock.
The Very First Cruel Little Fairy Tale of Isabel Shrapnel
Once upon a time there was a singer.
Once upon a time there was a singer who sang a song.
Once upon a time there was a singer
who sang a song about a prince.
Once upon a time there was a singer
who sang a song about a prince who was murdered.
Once upon a time there was a singer who sang a song
about a prince who was murdered in a faraway land.
Once upon a time there was a singer
who sang a song about a prince
who was murdered in a faraway land
and that there was a Great War then.
And the Great War came.
And we were all In Flame!
A long way to Tipperary (as sung by Albert Farrington)
It's a long way to Tipperary (Jack Judge & Harry Williams, 1912)
Up to mighty London Came an Irishman one day
As the streets are paved with gold
Sure, everyone was gay
Singing songs of Piccadilly,
Strand and Leicester Square
Till Paddy got excited
And he shouted to them there...
It's a long way to Tipperary
It's a long way to go.
It's a long way to Tipperary
To the sweetest girl I know!
Goodbye Piccadilly, Farewell Leicester Square!
It's a long, long way to Tipperary,
But my heart's right there.
Paddy wrote a letter
To his Irish Molly-O,
Saying, "Should you not receive it
Write and let me know!"
"If I make mistakes in spelling,
Molly dear," said he,
"Remember, it's the pen that's bad,
Don't lay the blame on me!"
It's a long way to Tipperary
It's a long way to go.
It's a long way to Tipperary
To the sweetest girl I know!
Goodbye Piccadilly, Farewell Leicester Square!
It's a long, long way to Tipperary,
But my heart's right there.
Molly wrote a neat reply
To Irish Paddy-O
Saying Mike Maloney
Wants to marry me and so
Leave the Strand and Picadilly
Or you'll be to blame
For love has fairly drove me silly:
Hoping you're the same!
It's a long way to Tipperary
It's a long way to go.
It's a long way to Tipperary
To the sweetest girl I know!
Goodbye Piccadilly, Farewell Leicester Square!
It's a long, long way to Tipperary,
But my heart's right there.
This is your Ghostwriter speaking:
My true name is Isabel Scharpeneel, but my Ghostwriter calls me ‘Isabel Shrapnel', and that's how I spell my name: ‘I-S-A-B-E-L-S-H-R-A-P-N-E-L'.
‘You've made a cute little mistake,' my father says. ‘It's I-S-A-B-E-L-S-C-H-A-R-P-E-N-E-E-L.'
He says it in Flemish, because I'm a cute little Flemish girl.
But I'm only four. Or five. I'm maybe six years old, what do I know about English or Flemish?
My Ghostwriter speaks to me in English and I write my cruel little fairy tales down in English. In this cute little scrapbook of mine. In my secret diary.
‘Shrapnel, that's English,' my father says. ‘You're a Flemish girl, Isabel. You should speak and write in Dutch! Where have you learned to spell Scharpeneel as Shrapnel?'
I don't know. The Unknown Soldier has put this spell on me.
‘You're my cute little Shell Shocked Isabel Shrapnel,' he whispers in my ear. ‘It's an appropriate name for a young writer like you.'
Names are important, you know. They tell a lot about who you are. My invisible friend for instance, I don't know his real name, but he has many... secret names. Appropriate names. I call him The Unknown Soldier, or my Ghostwriter... If he was a Dutchman, you could call him The Lost Dutchman, I guess. And you could call him Sansparole if he was French.
‘I've exhausted all my words,' he once said to me. ‘If I was French, Sansparole would have been an appropriate name for me. But I'm English, and that's why I can only speak in English through your mouth. So listen carefully when I whisper in your ear, ma belle Scharpenelle. It's a secret. Nobody may know what I whisper in your ear. It's our secret. Nobody should know that there was a Great War. Nobody should know how this cute little Flemish girl got In Flame!'
And I write:
A soldier is standing guard.
He counts the stars on the left and on the right
and one two three four five six seven eight
comrades fall into the night.
Shell Shock:
Nervous disease, caused by - among others - Fuckin' Fierce Fiend Fire.
The phenomenon is also known as 'post-traumatic stress'.
Symptoms occur during the battle
or days, weeks, months later.
Sometimes even years.
Patient is tired.
Patient is tired of the War.
Patient is anxious, quickly irritated & greatly depressed.
Patient suffers from insomnia,
caused by - among others - terrible nightmares
& even more
horrible daydreams.
'Bomb in your womb!'
'Give head to the bayonet!'
Patient is disturbed.
Patient can no longer concentrate.
Patient loses his memory & all the lust
in general,
but the lust for life
in particular.
Patient can only destroy the world
in general
& himself
in particular
with alcohol & drugs.
Hospitalisation may be required.
Come & save me, ma belle Sharpenelle.
Patient must be removed from society,
especially when he's living
in a peaceful InterBellum.
Patient should be kept hidden
to the outside Pre-Second-War-World,
because his existence implies a defeat
& we will not report defeats!
We will only report glorious
Victories of the Victorious.
Therefore patient must, can and will
not see the light!
