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Essays on ww2 propaganda
Impact of propaganda in ww2
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The day has come. The day I've feared but tried so hard not to. Two men grab me by the arms and lead outside to the blinding sunlight, reluctantly. My tattered shoes scrape along the rocky sand of the camp, everyones watching me now. They all know what's happening and feel sorry for me, except for a smug figure in the distance, obviously Sergeant Hanley. My eyes dart helplessly around the camp, I see the firing squad and a lump swells in my throat. Then I see Tommo, and remember my promise to him. My head is now held high as I walk through the camp, led by two of my own, toward the post. I pull an incognito smile, not because I'm happy but because I realise how closely this resembles a quick cane by Mr Munnings back at Iddelsleigh. I know from then on I'd always protect Tommo, this time proving it was with my life as well. My feet itch to run as I near the post, the firing squad loading their guilty rifles with their damned guilty bullets. I know it's not their fault, they're as deep in sorrow as I am, but still Sergeant Hanley crosses his arms and his smug grin isn't so hidden anymore as I can hear the thoughts floating through my head, "Look who won now...Private Peaceful." …show more content…
I see Little Tommo, Bertha, and of course Molly. Hastily, my mind is pulled back to reality as I hear the caw of a crow above, and a bag is fitted over my head. I decide I want them to see what travesty looks like. I want Hanley to see my cold, dead, lifeless face as it is lowered into the ground. He deserves it
middle of paper ... ... After I was disposed of, the corporal then made the majority of the 27 sufferers march with the rest of the troops. Most of the men, including an Australian chaplain, died during succeeding weeks, largely as a result of this calculated brutality.’ (Iggulden, 2009, p.22)
From sunrise to sunset, day after day, war demolishes men, cities, and hope. War has an effect on soldiers like nothing else, and sticks with them for life. The damage to a generation of men on both sides of the war was inestimable. Both the novel All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque, and the poem “I Have a Rendezvous with Death,” by Alan Seeger, demonstrate the theme of a lost generation of men, mentally and physically, in war through diction, repetition, and personification.
Today is the day before we go over the top. I’m dreading it, dying or
Brock awoke to the sound of a trumpet. He was ready to get training. Brock put on his long johns, pants, shirt, coat, and hat. Then he slowly walked out of his tent. When he walked out he was greeted by Major General Wayne. He said, “Follow me i'll show you where you will be training.” Brock followed him for a about a mile until they walked into a large field with hundreds of saddled horses, and about 80 other men. Major General Wayne said,
Going to War The arrival of winter is well on its way. Colorful leaves had turned to brown and fallen from the branches of the trees. The sky opened to a new brightness with the disappearance of the leaves. As John drove down the country road, he was much more aware of all his surroundings.
I have received your letter, are the children healthy and well? How are you lately? Have you been sick recently? I am fine, well, as right as one is capable of being over in this land. I have thought of you every second of every day, there is not one moment I have forgotten about you. I just wish to be back home again. Last time you said that Henry was feeling slightly ill, I have some medicine stashed away in the bottom cupboard near the grand clock. If he shall start to feel very poorly, you may go there and find him medicine. You will know which one it is once you see it, I do not want Henry to turn out like poor Will did.
Cause our camp area was apparently “dirty” so we have to stay and clean it, and as punishment we have to stay another night. I was angered with him. I wanted to see my little girl and my beautiful wife after all they are gonna be worried that I’m not coming home when the next group is leaving and my group is coming home to their families and I’m not. They would know if I was dead, because their would have to be a war and there wasn’t one I was training to go to war with the Patriots. So I know that I’m not dead. I help clean up “our“ camp. Then I think myself to
The war has been more than I could ever imagine. I have seen such horrific sights, that will remain with me for as long as I live. War is not as they tell us back home. There is no dignity and pride in killing another man; there is only damage and grief. War is exhausting. Half of us do not even understand why we are here, except to kill the Germans. We just want to be home, even the Germans have families they miss too. The trenches we have been staying in have been especially brutal. We stay here for days on end, staring into fields of shrubbery, waiting for the Germans. Sleep is limited and cherished.
A city was fast asleep as the night shrouded it. The only ones awake were those who belong to the night. A young man ran down the sidewalk, panting heavily.
I heard the steps on London Boulevard. My heart was racing. I felt like my heart was going to explode. The Nazi General Norman Kirkpatrick. He had an army, and I had a Remington 270 783 and four clips. The army was made of the best of the best in Germany. I was the best sniper in the USA army. I prayed that I wouldn't be shot. As I looked through the scope I saw General Kirkpatrick’s badge through my scope. The badge was above his heart. I took a deep breath, and shot him right through the heart, then gunshots rang out through the city they saw me. One of the Nazis said “Feuer Fur Fuhrer”. I was holding my head protecting myself from the bricks, and debris. I called for backup, but they said it was too risky. I turned around and
“We are under attack!” Jimmy, our patrol man, yells leaping for the trench. A bullet pierces his skull before hits the ground leaving his body lifeless and bloody at my feet.
Just a night. An ordinary night, around fifteen to eleven o’clock. I lay there playing with my xacto knife kit. It belonged to my Grandfather’s aunt. So I guess that’s my great great aunt. Well anyways I finally set aside my kit and started to try and sleep. I’m at my grandparents house in the Fairfax District of Los Angeles. The house? Why it’s a classic Spanish themed home built precisely in 1929. At the end of a Golden Era: The Roaring Twenties. So as I turn to closed eyes I see a boy. A young Hasidic Jewish boy. He looks around the age of eight or nine and asks me in a seemingly cute creepily voice Have you seen my family? I asked what family. The family that seems to be missing. I asked are you from around here? He says, yes I grew up here in the brown roofed house.
His wildly varying moods of excitement, joy, and remorse tell us that he is only human after all. When he hears the enemy approach, “his heart beat faster (2),” readying himself for the kill. He feels excited as he aims his pistol in the pitch of battle: “His hand trembled with eagerness (2).” And when he shoots the other sniper, he “uttered a cry of joy (2)”. Not until he kills his enemy does the sniper feel a sense of regret: “The lust of battle died in him. He became bitten by remorse. The sweat stood out in beads on his forehead (2).” The sight of his enemy’s lifeless body gave him a sickening feeling: “His teeth chattered, he began to gibber to himself, cursing the war, cursing himself, cursing everybody (2)”. However, this sentiment is quickly replaced by his curiosity to look at his victim’s corpse. O’ Flaherty uses these descriptions to emphasize the sniper’s conflicting beliefs about war. There is no question on his mind that he has to do what he has to do, but succeeding events forces him to doubt the validity of his actions. This shows how the soldiers in the story are merely pawns of powerful forces, caught up in a situation where one must kill or be
The Creature That Opened My Eyes Sympathy, anger, hate, and empathy, these are just a few of the emotions that came over me while getting to know and trying to understand the creature created by victor frankenstein in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. For the first time I became completely enthralled in a novel and learned to appreciate literature not only for the great stories they tell but also for the affect it could have on someones life as cliché as that might sound, if that weren’t enough it also gave me a greater appreciation and understanding of the idiom “never judge a book by its cover.” As a pimply faced, insecure, loner, and at most times self absorbed sophomore in high school I was never one to put anytime or focus when it came time
It was a dark, cold, cloudy day. The clouds covered the sky like a big black sheet, nothing to be seen except darkness that seemed to go on forever. This was the third day in a row that there had been complete darkness, there was no getting rid of it. This was because of ‘the meteorite.’