Year 1916 (MCMXVI) was a leap year starting on Saturday (link will display the full calendar) of the Gregorian calendar and a leap year starting on Friday of the 13-day-slower Julian calendar.
Below, the events of World War I have the "WWI" prefix.
Fergal Patrick Keane (Irish name: Fearghall Pádraig Ó Catháin) (born January 6, 1961), is an Irish writer and broadcaster. For many years, Keane was the BBC's correspondent in Southern Africa. He is the nephew of Irish author John B. Keane.
Born in London, he grew up in Dublin and later in Cork. His father was the Listowel-born actor, Éamonn Keane. He attended two independent, fee-paying schools, Terenure College[citation needed] in Dublin and Presentation Brothers College in Cork. In 2010, he published his first major history work Road of Bones: the Siege of Kohima 1944, an account of the epic battle which halted the Japanese invasion of India in 1944.
On finishing school in 1979, he started his career as a journalist with the Limerick Leader. Subsequently, he worked for The Irish Press. Later, he moved into broadcast journalism with Raidió Teilifís Éireann (RTÉ).
He joined the BBC in 1989 as Northern Ireland Correspondent, but in August 1990 he was appointed their Southern African Correspondent, having covered the region during the early 1980s. From 1990 to 1994 Keane's reports covered the township unrest in South Africa, the first multi-racial elections following the end of apartheid, and the genocide in Rwanda. In 1995 he was appointed Asia Correspondent based in Hong Kong and two years later, after the handover, he returned to be based in the BBC's World Affairs Unit in London.
Sir Charles Spencer "Charlie" Chaplin, KBE (16 April 1889 – 25 December 1977) was an English comic actor, film director and composer best known for his work during the silent film era. He became the most famous film star in the world before the end of World War I. Chaplin used mime, slapstick and other visual comedy routines, and continued well into the era of the talkies, though his films decreased in frequency from the end of the 1920s. His most famous role was that of The Tramp, which he first played in the Keystone comedy Kid Auto Races at Venice in 1914. From the April 1914 one-reeler Twenty Minutes of Love onwards he was writing and directing most of his films, by 1916 he was also producing them, and from 1918 he was even composing the music for them. With Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks and D. W. Griffith, he co-founded United Artists in 1919.
Chaplin was one of the most creative and influential personalities of the silent-film era. He was influenced by his predecessor, the French silent film comedian Max Linder, to whom he dedicated one of his films. His working life in entertainment spanned over 75 years, from the Victorian stage and the music hall in the United Kingdom as a child performer, until close to his death at the age of 88. His high-profile public and private life encompassed both adulation and controversy. Chaplin was identified with left-wing politics during the McCarthy era and he was ultimately forced to resettle in Europe from 1952.
16 years old when I went to war,
To fight for a land fit for heroes,
God on my side, and a gun in my hand,
Chasing my days down to zero,
And I marched and I fought and I bled and I died,
And I never did get any older,
But I knew at the time that a year in the line,
Is a long enough life for a soldier,
We all volunteered, and we wrote down our names,
And we added two years to our ages,
Eager for life and ahead of the game,
Ready for history's pages,
And we brawled and we fought and we whored 'til we stood,
Ten thousand shoulder to shoulder,
A thirst for the Hun, we were food for the gun,
And that's what you are when you're soldiers,
I heard my friend cry, and he sank to his knees,
Coughing blood as he screamed for his mother,
And I fell by his side, and that's how we died,
Clinging like kids to each other,
And I lay in the mud and the guts and the blood,
And I wept as his body grew colder,
And I called for my mother and she never came,
Though it wasn't my fault and I wasn't to blame,
The day not half over and ten thousand slain,
And now there's nobody remembers our names,
And that's how it is for a soldier.
16 years old when I went to the war
To fight for a land fit for heroes
God on my side and a gun in my hand
Chasing my days down to zero
And I marched and I fought and I bled and I died,
And I never did get any older,
But I knew at the time that a year in the line
Was a long enough life for a soldier.
We all volunteered and we wrote down our names,
And we added two years to our ages
Eager for life and ahead of the game
Ready for history's pages
And we brawled and we fought and we whored 'til we stood
Ten thousand shoulder to shoulder
A thirst for the hun we were food for the gun
And that's what you are when you're soldiers.
I heard my friend cry and he sank to his knees,
Coughing blood as he screemed for his mother
And I fell by his side and that's how we died,
Clinging like kids to each other
And I lay in the mud, an' the guts and the blood,
And I wept as his body grew colder
And I called for my mother and she never came
Though it wasn't my fault and I wasn't to blame
The day not half over and tenthousand slain,
And now there's nobody remembers our names,
i let my hands get caught
in all the flame
well i cannot play again
when do you ask me if
i am okay?
i see it when we dance
and make a pouters potrait
on the steps, oh my
it is divine
but there is just one more question
i will ask, is all this really mine?
inside my heart i scream,
it must be time this weather cant be right
we rode our horses to the outer edge
the crusty, dry divide.
and we became the people
we have never meant to be
those dying flames
the pieces we did not want to receive
and when you come home from your dinners
darling, do you want to fight?
and when i cut the lines within my hands
will you still want to cry?
and when your gal decides she's on her own
you'll rethink your romance
you never want to care for
anyway you're taking down that fence
but when you come home to the kitchen
i am waiting at the sink
my salty fingers ride across the cupboard
drenching it with skin
we are in love
and rare descendants
of the faithless brats
who bit their tongues
who screamed instead
to scare their onward sons
and in the trees they built their
truths and meaningless machines
we grew from beans
that froze beneath the snow