Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.
Author’s Note: This poem explains
what happened to a small, light brigade of only 600 soldiers. Their leader had
made a mistake and sent them into the valley of death (the battlefield) even though they had no chance.
The leader didn’t know it, but the brigade did…
“Ride on, Ride on!” roared the gallant commander, “Press the
fight my brigade!”
“But
it’s useless!” men scream and shout in mutiny, “We will all die!”
“It
is better to die loyal then to live a coward!” I yelled. Still shouts of
opposition, but we never broke stride. You didn’t have to be clairvoyant to know
that we are all doomed. The sounds of cannons and whinnies roared. I remembered
a poem that I had once heard a drunken man recite before drawing his last
breath; Once more into the fray, into the last good fight I’ll ever know. Live
and die on this day, live and die on this day. I chanted this throughout my
mind. This will be my last fight. I have lived, and now I will die. Racing
through the valley the hooves thunder. We charge, until we break the line…
This
is it, this is the end. Fight onward, Fight till dawn. I look to my right, and
see my friend -- a 15 year young boy -- spear an enemy. Throwing his arms up in
his own victory, he is shot through the chest by a dying fellow. His insides
are splattered upon my face, but I must move on. Left and right, death by
death, we are depleting. The stink of carrion melts the nostrils. I pull my
pistol, and fire. It hits an enemy and he drops like a ton of bricks. Surely he
had a family. Surely he had sons
and daughters that will mourn at his
funeral. I don’t take it as a heroic act. I killed men and destroyed families
with mere bullets. I changed history with the movement of a finger. For better
or for worse? No one will know. At least none of the six hundred.
Snapping of gunfire and the screeches of men
split the foggy noon air, and still we ride. The guns roaring, and earth
flying, and still we ride. The blood
spraying and hope losing, and still we ride. Cannons hit home, torn to pieces,
we no longer ride……