The Red Horizon

by Patrick Macgill

Overview

Experience the brutal realities of World War I through the eyes of a British soldier in Patrick MacGill's "The Red Horizon." This gripping war memoir offers a firsthand account of life in the trenches, capturing the daily struggles and harrowing experiences of soldiers on the Western Front. As an autobiography, it provides an intimate glimpse into the psychological and emotional toll of trench warfare.

"The Red Horizon" is a powerful testament to the human spirit amidst the devastation of war. MacGill's unflinching narrative delivers a visceral and authentic perspective on military history, making it an essential read for anyone seeking a deeper understanding of World War I. It is a story of courage, resilience, and the enduring impact of conflict. A vital contribution to the literature of the Great War.

This work has been selected by scholars as being culturally important, and is part of the knowledge base of civilization as we know it.

This work is in the public domain in the United States of America, and possibly other nations. Within the United States, you may freely copy and distribute this work, as no entity (individual or corporate) has a copyright on the body of the work.

Scholars believe, and we concur, that this work is important enough to be preserved, reproduced, and made generally available to the public. We appreciate your support of the preservation process, and thank you for being an important part of keeping this knowledge alive and relevant.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781023037440
Publisher:	Anson Street Press
Publication date:	03/28/2025
Pages:	150
Product dimensions:	6.14(w) x 9.21(h) x 0.32(d)

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER III OUR FRENCH BILLETS The fog is white on Glenties moors, The road is grey from Glenties town, Oh! lone grey road and ghost white fog, And ah! the homely moors of brown. THE farmhouse where we were billeted reminded me strongly of my home in Donegal with its fields and dusky evenings and its spirit of brooding quiet. Nothing will persuade me, except perhaps the Censor, that it is not the home of Marie Claire, it so fits in with the description in her book. The farmhouse stands about a hundred yards away from the main road, with a cart track, slushy and muddy, running across the fields to the very door. The whole aspect of the place is forbidding, it looks squalid and dilapidated, and smells of decaying vegetable matter, of manure and every other filth that can find a resting place in the vicinity of an unclean dwelling-place. But it is not dirty; its home-made bread and beer are excellent, the new-laid eggsare delightful for breakfast, the milk and butter, fresh and pure, are dainties that an epicure might rave about. We easily became accustomed to the discomforts of the place, to the midden in the centre of the yard, to the lean long-eared pigs that try to gobble up everything that comes within their reach, to the hens that flutter over our beds and shake the dust of ages from the barn-roof at dawn, to the noisy little children with the dirty faces and meddling fingers, who poke their hands into our haversacks, to the farm servants who inspect all our belongings when we are out on parade, and even, now, we have become accustomed to the very rats that scurry through the barn at midnight and gnaw at our equipment and devour our rations when they get hold of them. One nighta rat bit a man's nose—but the tale is a long one and I will tell it at some other...