62. 1916 11th January The Theatre of War

F.A.I.s ‘affectionate bros’ was killed in action. He had just celebrated his 24th Birthday.
There was no fighting that day he had obviously been wounded and died later.

I have spent hours at Kew trying to find him but alas his army records did not survive WWII.

He is buried at Menin Road South Cemetery (which opened in January 1916) alongside his other brave brothers who were told and probably believed it is a wonderful and great honour to fight and die for your country (with a lot of them thinking, after joining in 1915, they would be home for Christmas). The Christmas card on the last posting, Arthur says 'hoping you will not forget me'... F.A.I. never did, he gave his 2 sons Arthurs names as their middle names (he was known as Arthur Leonard not Arthur St. John) and Granny, after F.A.I.s death would talk about him.

In deep respect of Arthur St. John and his fellow fighters, one of my favourite poems by Wilfred Owen….. it tells it how it was !

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,

And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .

Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria mori.

From F.A.I.s collection