AQA Level 1/2 Certificate Higher Tier June English Language

Transcription

1 AQA Level 1/2 Certificate Higher Tier June 2014 English Language 87052H Paper 2 Insert A The six sources that follow are: Source A: A British recruitment poster from the First World War Source B: An extract from Memoirs of an Infantry Officer by Siegfried Sassoon, recollecting events from the First World War Source C: An extract from Nurse Alice Fitzgerald s diaries, 1916 Source D: Life in the Trenches, an extract from a history text book about the First World War Source E: Lyrics of a song called The Green Fields of France Source F: An extract from a taped interview with a German soldier Please open the insert fully to see all six sources H/IB/105207/Jun14/E3 Insert to 87052H

2 2 Contents Section A: Source Material Page A British recruitment poster from the First World War 3 B An extract from Memoirs of an Infantry Officer by Siegfried Sassoon, recollecting events from the First World War 4 C An extract from Nurse Alice Fitzgerald s diaries, D Life in the Trenches, an extract from a history text book about the First World War 8 E Lyrics of a song called The Green Fields of France 9 F An extract from a taped interview with a German soldier 10

3 3 Source A: A British recruitment poster from the First World War Turn over U

4 4 Source B: An extract from Memoirs of an Infantry Officer by Siegfried Sassoon, recollecting events from the First World War An hour before dawn the road was still an empty picture of moonlight. The distant gun-fire had crashed and rumbled all night, muffled and terrific with immense flashes, like waves of some tumult of water rolling along the horizon. Now there came an interval of silence in which I heard a horse neigh, shrill and scared and lonely. Then the procession of the returning troops began. The campfires were burning low when the grinding jolting column lumbered back. The field guns came first, with nodding men sitting stiffly on weary horses, followed by wagons and limbers and field-kitchens. After this rumble of wheels came the infantry, shambling, limping, straggling and out of step. If anyone spoke it was only a muttered word, and the mounted officers rode as if asleep. The men had carried their emergency water in petrol-cans, against which bayonets made a hollow clink; except for the shuffling of feet, this was the only sound. Thus, with an almost spectral appearance, the lurching brown figures flitted past with slung rifles and heads bent forward under basin-helmets. Moonlight and dawn began to mingle, and I could see the barley swaying indolently against the sky. A train groaned along the riverside, sending up a cloud of whitish fiery smoke against the gloom of the trees. The Flintshire Fusiliers were a long time arriving. On the hill behind us the kite balloon swayed slowly upward with straining ropes, its looming bulbous body reflecting the first pallor of daybreak. Then, as if answering our expectancy, a remote skirling of bagpipes began, and the Gordon Highlanders hobbled in.

5 5 There are no sources printed on this page Turn over for Source C Turn over U

6 6 Source C: An extract from Nurse Alice Fitzgerald s diaries, 1916 The following is an extract from a nurse s diary from She had been posted to a casualty station which was closest to the Front (the main area of battle). October 3rd, I am living in a tiny bell tent. When I first came in I would have to stoop all the time but found that I could stand erect round the centre pole. There is no floor except the bare earth and as it has rained without ceasing for two days, I feel as if I were in a bath. I find mud everywhere on my clothing. [The men are] on stretchers laid on the ground and I have to kneel or crouch in the mud to nurse them, dress them and feed them. What is nursing here? There is not time even to undress the patients except a few who are to be operated upon. All we can do for the men is to feed them, try to keep them as dry as possible and dress their wounds as often as necessary. The poor things huddled up on stretchers or straw mattresses trying to keep warm was a pitiful sight. We give them all the hot tea or cocoa they want Between the stretchers it is like a slide and I slip and slop around in great style. I can more readily understand what terrible hardships the men are suffering in the trenches in this kind of weather with never a chance to dry out while there. It is a wonder to me that any of them survive or even keep well. October 4, Torrents of rain. Everything one puts on is wet and muddy inside and out. The mud is the kind that has to be scraped off with a stick or a knife. My rubber boots make my feet so cold and uncomfortable, and yet there is nothing else one can wear to keep dry. I caught quite a chill when I first came here when my tent floor was a pool of water and have developed a little colitis which will not clear up with this continued dampness; makes me feel seedy but I know it is not serious I might be a soldier and lying in the mud of the trenches. Cont

7 7 October 11, A night of terror. I hope never to spend another like it. The moonlight was dazzlingly clear. I dreaded air activity and it came with a vengeance. Taubes* came about midnight; our flyers were up already and several fights took place at once. The very powerful French anti-aircraft gun which is quite near here began to thunder forth in addition to our own anti-aircraft guns and the din was deafening. The shells whizzed and whistled by, the bombs began to fall in the near distance and every minute I expected one to fall on us. After a time it all quieted down, but three hours later the whole performance was repeated. The patients are the worst sufferers when we have an air raid. At the front they expect constant danger, but just when they begin to feel safe here and lie helplessly waiting for transportation, along come bombs or shells which make the bravest of them quake with fear. The shelling at the front was also active and noisy all night and we all spent anxious hours. I am not particularly afraid of dying but lying helplessly in bed hearing bombs drop nearer and nearer, knowing there is nothing you can do to stop them, and wondering where the next one will drop is not particularly conducive to a good night s sleep. * Taubes: German fighter or bomber planes Turn over U

8 8 Source D: Life in the Trenches, an extract from a history text book about the First World War The First World War In the trenches Life in the Trenches Daily life for the soldiers depended upon what military operations were taking place in the area. When there was no major battle the troops were supposed to spend four days in the front line, four days in support, four days in reserve and fourteen days resting. But there were instances in battles when men spent over a month in the front line waiting to be relieved. For front line soldiers the day began with the morning hate when both sides would fire at the enemy for several minutes. Then the men would be divided between those on sentry duty, those responsible for bringing up rations and supplies from behind the lines, and those on trench maintenance. Trenches needed constant repair as a result of damage caused by enemy fire or by poor weather. Men s lives depended on the trenches being secure. An important part of the daily routine was weapon cleaning, to ensure that rifles were free from dirt and rust. A rifle not properly maintained could easily jam and cost a soldier his life. The daily routine was generally very boring for soldiers, but for most it was better to be bored than have to go over the top into No-Man s-land and face death or injury in an attack on enemy trenches. Trench life in the First World War consisted of long bouts of tedious waiting and short bursts of terrifying actvity. Life was very harsh in the trenches; proper sleep was almost impossible and it was common for soldiers to go without a good wash for weeks on end. This led to the men becoming infested with lice, which lived in the warm places in a soldier s clothes or on his body. The lice bit the soldiers and made them scratch, often resulting in skin diseases and boils. Lice were very difficult to kill and were best removed by running a candle along the seams of clothes where they tended to congregate. Another problem for soldiers was the enormous amount of flies. There were thousands of horses at the front and the flies lived on the tons of manure produced by the horses. But the soldiers greatest dislike was reserved for the rats. The soldiers complained that the rats were everywhere. Some of them were described as being as big as cats and gave the men a terrible fright when they woke up in the night to find a rat snuggling down under a blanket with them. The rats also ate any food which was not kept in tins. What the soldiers really hated, however, was the knowledge that the rats grew fat by eating the bodies which lay unburied in No-Man s- Land. In the cold and wet conditions of winter, disease and illness were common. Soldiers contracted dysentery, pneumonia and bronchitis in their thousands. Through constantly having their feet wet many men suffered from a very painful condition called trenchfoot. They also suffered from plagues of lice and flies. Under such difficult conditions it is not surprising that food in the trenches was poor. The main food was tinned bully beef with bread or biscuits. A very popular meal was Trenchfoot a common affliction, resulting from the feet being cold and wet for prolonged periods. Maconochie, a kind of tinned Irish stew which could be heated quickly over a charcoal brazier. Other treats were bacon, cheese and jam. Proper hot meals were only served when the men were behind the lines and near the field kitchens. In summer a ration of neat lime juice was served. In the winter this was replaced with a tot of rum to help warm the men on a cold day. Drinking water had to be transported from behind the lines and treated with chloride to kill the germs in it. It had an unpleasant taste.

9 9 Source E: Lyrics of a song called The Green Fields of France Well, how do you do, young Willie McBride? Do you mind if I sit here down by your graveside? And rest for a while in the warm summer sun, I ve been walking all day, and I m nearly done. I see by your gravestone you were only 19 When you joined the great fallen in 1916, I hope you died well and I hope you died clean Or, Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene? Did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined? Although, you died back in 1916, In that faithful heart are you forever 19? Or are you a stranger without even a name, Enclosed in forever behind the glass frame, In an old photograph, torn, battered and stained, And faded to yellow in a brown leather frame? The sun now it shines on the green fields of France; There s a warm summer breeze that makes the red poppies dance. And look how the sun shines from under the clouds There s no gas, no barbed wire, there s no guns firing now. But here in this graveyard it s still No Man s Land The countless white crosses stand mute in the sand To man s blind indifference to his fellow man. To a whole generation that were butchered and damned. Ah young Willie McBride, I can t help wonder why, Do those that lie here know why did they die? And did they believe when they answered the cause, Did they really believe that this war would end wars? Well the sorrow, the suffering, the glory, the pain, The killing and dying, were all done in vain. For Willie McBride, it all happened again, And again, and again, and again, and again. Turn over U

10 10 Source F: An extract from a taped interview with a German soldier In this extract, Sergeant Stefan Westmann, a soldier in the German army, recalls an incident which occurred during the First World War. We got orders to storm the French position. We got in and I saw my comrades start falling to the right and left of me. But then I was confronted by a French corporal with his bayonet to the ready, just as I had mine. I felt the fear of death in that fraction of a second when I realised that he was after my life, exactly as I was after his. But I was quicker than he was, I pushed his rifle away and ran my bayonet through his chest. He fell, putting his hand on the place where I had hit him, and then I thrust again. Blood came out of his mouth and he died. I nearly vomited. My knees were shaking and they asked me, What s the matter with you? I remembered then that we had been told that a good soldier kills without thinking of his adversary as a human being the very moment he sees him as fellow man, he s no longer a good soldier. My comrades were absolutely undisturbed by what had happened. One of them boasted that he had killed a poilu* with the butt of his rifle. Another one had strangled a French captain. A third had hit somebody over the head with his spade. They were ordinary men like me. One was a tram conductor, another a commercial traveller, two were students, the rest farm workers ordinary people who never would have thought to harm anybody. But I had the dead French soldier in front of me, and how I would have liked him to have raised his hand! I would have shaken it and we would have been the best of friends because he was nothing but a poor boy like me. A boy who had to fight with the cruellest weapons against a man who had nothing against him personally, who wore the uniform of another nation and spoke another language, but a man who had a father and mother and a family. So I woke up at night sometimes, drenched in sweat, because I saw the eyes of my fallen adversary. I tried to convince myself of what would ve happened to me if I hadn t been quicker than him, if I hadn t thrust my bayonet into his belly first. Why was it that we soldiers stabbed each other, strangled each other, went for each other like mad dogs? Why was it that we who had nothing against each other personally fought to the very death? We were civilised people after all, but I felt that the thin lacquer of civilisation of which both sides had so much, chipped off immediately. To fire at each other from a distance, to drop bombs, is something impersonal, but to see the whites of a man s eyes and then to run a bayonet into him that was against my comprehension. *poilu: a French infantryman END OF TEXTS

11 11 There are no sources printed on this page

12 12 There are no sources printed on this page Acknowledgement of copyright-holders and publishers Permission to reproduce all copyright material has been applied for. In some cases, efforts to contact copyright-holders have been unsuccessful and AQA will be happy to rectify any omissions of acknowledgements in future papers if notified. Source A: IWM (Art.IWM PST 5051) Source B: Siegfried Sassoon, by kind permission of the Estate of George Sassoon Source C: Alice Louise Florence Fitzgerald Papers, 1916, MS 987, H. Furlong Baldwin Library, Maryland Historical Society. Image Thinkstock Source D: Text: Pearson Education Ltd; Images: IWM (CO 2533), IWM (Q 4665) Source E: Text: Eric Bogle, 100 PLD/Domino Publishing Co Ltd.; Image: Michael Westhoff/E+/Getty Images Source F: Imperial War Museums Copyright 2014 AQA and its licensors. All rights reserved.