Colin featured in the Somme Poets exhibition held at The Wilfred Owen Story in 2016 but we could not find a photograph of him. Now we have – with many thanks to Catherine Avak.
Born
in Mere in Wiltshire in September 1890, Colin was the youngest of eight
children – six boys and two girls. Colin’s father, John Thomas Mitchell was a
farmer, and his mother was Emma Jane Mitchell, nee Parsons.
Colin
was educated at Shaftesbury Grammar School as a boarder. While there, he won a
prize fo...r English Literature. He was interested in amateur dramatics and
music and on leaving school became a bank clerk.
Colin
joined the 8th Battalion of the Rifle Brigade during the First World War and
was killed in action on 22nd March 1918. The 8th Battalion of the Rifle Brigade
(together with the 7th and 9th battalions) was part of the 41st Brigade of the
14th (Light) Division of XV Corps which saw action at Ypres and on The Somme.
At the time of his death, Colin was a Sergeant. Colin is commemorated on the
Pozieres Memorial in Ovillers-la-Boiselle, France and in Mere Cemetery in
Wiltshire.
Colin’s
poetry collection was entitled ‘Trampled Clay’ and was published in 1917 by
Erskine Macdonald, London.
He also had a poem included in ‘The Malory
Verse Book’ edited by Editha Jenkinson and published by Erskine Macdonald in
1919.
Source:
Catherine W. Reilly, ‘English Poetry of the First World RememberiWar: A
Bibliography’ (St. Martin’s Press, New York, 1978.
Additional
Information kindly supplied by Mere Museum and Historical Society.
Hooge!
More damned than Sodom and more bloody,
‘Twas
there we faced the flames of liquid fire.
Hooge!
That shambles where the flames swept ruddy:
A
spume of heat and hate and omens dire;
A
vision of a concrete hell from whence
Emerged
satanic forms, or so it seemed
To us
who, helpless, saw them hasten hence.
Scarce
understood we if we waked or dreamed.
“Stand
To! Stand To! The Wurtembergers come!”
Shouting
vile English oaths with gutter zest.
And
boastful threats to kill they voice, while some,
In
uniforms of grey and scarlet dressed,
Wear
flame-projectors strapped upon their backs.
How face
a wall of flame? Impossible!
“Back,
boys! Give way a little; take the tracks
That
lead to yonder wood, and there we’ll fill
Such
trenches as are dug, and face the foe,
And no
Hell-fire shall move us once we’re there.
We’re
out to win or die, boys; if we go
Back
and yet back, leaving good strongholds bare,
We’ll
save our lives, perhaps, but not our name.
There’s
no one in this well-trained company
Who’d
save his skin and perjure his good fame.”
We
hold the wood, but, oh, how can it be?
The
shells are raining down amidst the trees,
Snapping
the full-girthed trunks that downward crash
In
dire proximity to us. The breeze
Bespeaks
hot human blood. The scarlet splash
Shows
everywhere, and everywhere the maimed
Are
crawling, white-lipped, to a dug-out where
The
doctor in a drip of sweat seems framed,
So
hard he works to hide the horrid stare
Of
wounds adrip; while many pass away,
And
need no lint to bind their frailty,
For
God has ta'en them; 'tis their triumph day,
And
all their sins shall expiated be.
Thus
are we thrown in Life's great melting-pot,
Humanity
much matrixed; but the ore,
Looms
purer when the crucible is hot:
'Tis
on this truth that we should set our store
