This is a song by Harvey Andrews which mesmerises me!

Its very sad!



In a station in the city a British soldier stood
Talking to the people there if the people would
Some just stared in hatred, and others turned in pain
And the lonely British soldier wished he was back home again

Come join the British Army! said the posters in his town
See the world and have your fun come serve before the Crown
The jobs were hard to come by and he could not face the dole
So he took his country's shilling and enlisted on the roll

For there was no fear of fighting, the Empire long was lost
Just ten years in the army getting paid for being bossed
Then leave a man experienced a man who's made the grade
A medal and a pension some mem'ries and a trade

Then came the call for Ireland as the call had come before
Another bloody chapter in an endless civil war
The priests they stood on both sides the priests they stood behind
Another fight in Jesus's name the blind against the blind

The soldier stood between them between the whistling stones
And then the broken bottles that led to broken bones
The petrol bombs that burnt his hands the nails that pierced his skin
And wished that he had stayed at home surrounded by his kin

The station filled with people the soldier soon was bored
But better in the station than where the people warred
The room filled up with mothers with daughters and with sons
Who stared with itchy fingers at the soldier and his gun

A yell of fear a screech of brakes the shattering of glass
The window of the station broke to let the package pass
A scream came from the mothers as they ran towards the door
Dragging their children crying from the bomb upon the floor

The soldier stood and could not move his gun he could not use
He knew the bomb had seconds and not minutes on the fuse
He could not run and pick it up and throw it in the street
There were far too many people there too many running feet

Take cover! yelled the soldier, Take cover for your lives
And the Irishmen threw down their young and stood before their wives
They turned towards the soldier their eyes alive with fear
For God's sake save our children or they'll end their short lives here

The soldier moved towards the bomb his stomach like a stone
Why was this his battle God why was he alone
He lay down on the package and he murmured one farewell
To those at home in England to those he loved so well

He saw the sights of summer felt the wind upon his brow
The young girls in the city parks how precious were they now
The soaring of the swallow the beauty of the swan
The music of the turning world so soon would it be gone

A muffled soft explosion and the room began to quake
The soldier blown across the floor his blood a crimson lake
There was no time to cry or shout there was no time to moan
And they turned their children's faces from the blood and from the bones

The crowd outside soon gathered and the ambulances came
To carry off the body of a pawn lost in the game
And the crowd they clapped and cheered and they sang their rebel song
One soldier less to interfere where he did not belong

And will the children growing up learn at their mothers' knees
The story of the soldier who bought their liberty
Who used his youthful body as a means towards an end
Who gave his life to those who called him murderer not friend



Troop

This has been on the board before but it could have been written today:
A Dead Statesman

I could not dig: I dared not rob:
Therefore I lied to please the mob.
Now all my lies are proved untrue
And I must face the men I slew.
What tale shall serve me among
Mine angry and defrauded young?

from Epitaphs of The War 1914- 1918

Rudyard Kipling

[align=center]] 45 Minutes

45 Minutes so they were told
In went our soldiers so brave and so bold
45 Minutes well that was a lie
Soon our brave soldiers had started to die.

45 Minutes that was a lie,
one man who knew was soon to die
45 Minutes was fishy and smelly
That man to die was David Kelly

Those WMD's were never found
Blair insists they are under the ground
Those WMD's went to Iran
How many lies can come from this one man

We will pay the blood price that's what he said
Over one Hundred and twenty are now lying dead
Over one hundred and twenty so far have died
because our Political leader decided to lie.

How many families must pay this blood price
How many sons and daughters to his sacrifice
How do you sleep with blood on your hands
While they lie dying on desert sands.

Roadside bombs and mortar shell
These brave soldiers living in hell
Poor body armour, Poor equipment still
While Brown keeps the money in the till

Snatch Rovers,Wimiks, no armour on
Another life lost, its ok, its not your Son
Blair get a grip, the situation is dire
Sort out your mess, You f*****g liar

We're down in't coyle 'oyle
Where't muck slarts on't winders
We've used all us coyle up
And we're rait down't t'cinders,
But if 'Itler comes
Ee'll nivver findus
Cos we'll be down in't coyle 'oyle
Where't muck slarts on't winders

This needs to be brought to a bigger audience I feel. Just came down the wire this morning. Author is Lt. Col. in the RLC TA.

Evening Whispers on the Somme (Guillemont Cemetery March 1997)

........don't go yet, Sir. Can't you stay and chat with me
A little longer?
Christ! It's nice to have some soldiers here again to see
(Even though you are officers)
I must say you lot look a whole lot stronger
Than we were.
Must'ave been the months of endless bully beef again
And endless sodding bloody rain
Day in - day out; it just gets you down;....... mustn't complain
But it don't seem fair.

.....don't mind them two Captains over there,
Cracking a joke,
They don't mean no disrespect, but can you explain
Who's this bloke
'John Major' that they're laughing about?
Prime Minister is he? Did he know Mr Asquith's dad; is he out?
He's over there, you know, the son I mean
They say his dressing wasn't clean.

'Ere - ave you seen me Mother's brother, Uncle Hal?
(Sargeant Major Henry Cleary)
He were a right bastard, so I'm told - an 'Etaples Canary'
With no heart of gold
I don't believe he's too far from here, come to think,
Maybe Serre Road or Thiepval.
Christ, I'd die for a drink! But anyway, getting back to Uncle Hal
He did well for a Burnley Pal

Did you see the big 'oles at Y Sap and Lochnagar?
The Frogs 'ave filled them in you say?
Good lads those Durham miners; blew the Hun to Kingdom come,
Did they?
O right, Lochnagar is still an 'ole, I see;
Must be bloody HUGE!
We heard the bang from our lines at the Sunken Road -
(What a cracking sub-ter-fuge!)
One of our lads, I think, caused Hawthorne to explode
Just before the whistles blowed..........

"Up lads and at 'em" shouted Mr Jones,
"Follow me," he said.
He were only a young lad himself, and now his bones,
Like ours- are dead.
He got no further than his elder brother,
I was just behind him - to the right.
He's somewhere hereabouts - I heard him call out "Mother"
Over there, the other night.

Sir, I hear you thinking "What's his story"
Why's he lying there - unblinking?"
Well, I can tell you straight, there ain't no glory
Whatsoever in the manner of my death.
One minute I was running - no walking, yet out of breath
Past 'A' Company's revette,
The early morning July sun glinting off my bayonet
All fixed and ready.
Shells, whizzbangs exploding all around, the din were terrible!
But I played my part
When suddenly - those buzzing bullets stitched my heart
And killed my body.

It were a crime ,Sir, to make us walk in all that heavy kit,
Through no-mans-land towards their wire.
After all the Colonel's talk about our fire;
A 'seven-day bombardment'
What a stupid git! We all knew the Boche were underground
In their hardened casements, waiting.........
Waiting, until the sound of our guns stopped.
Then up they popped!

But I s'pose it's only fair to say he did his best
For us, his boys.
It's higher up the blame should stay; Sir 'Enery whats 'is name
With the red tabs, 'Big Noise'
What's 'e know about this game - all safe and dry and well-defended?
To him we're nothing more than toys
To be expended.

Sir, d'you know what I really miss the most........
My main regret these eighty years?
Imagine that! A nineteen year old ghost, who never had
The hopes and fears of being a Dad
Who only ever wanted to have a lad
Of his own, to take fishing.
And when he's older, to the pub, like my Dad did for me
At the Rochdale Miners' Social Club
Christ! Surely for me to ask it isn't much,
Who never had a woman's touch

So do me a favour, Sir, you and your mates,
(Even though you are officers)
Stop yer moaning; don't complain about your fates
You lucky buggers! (Begging your pardon, Sir)
You've all got it made, for any of us here would gladly trade
Places with you. You say you're fifty two
Jesus, what I wouldn't give to have just one more chance to live
And make fifty, too.

But it's getting late and I'm really glad you stopped to chat.
We don't see many soldiers here now,
So me and the lads - even the officers- are pleased for that.
But do me another favour, if you thoughts allow;
See if the old Red Lion's still there
Up in Rochdale, off Market Square.
Have a pint of best, you and yer mates, and think of me
Lying here.........

For eternity.

By Roger Laing

From ''The Rhymes of a a Red Cross Man.''




Jean Desprez

Oh ye whose hearts are resonant, and ring to War's romance,
Hear ye the story of a boy, a peasant boy of France;
A lad uncouth and warped with toil, yet who, when trial came,
Could feel within his soul upleap and soar the sacred flame;
Could stand upright, and scorn and smite, as only heroes may:
Oh, harken! Let me try to tell the tale of Jean Desprez.

With fire and sword the Teuton horde was ravaging the land,
And there was darkness and despair, grim death on every hand;
Red fields of slaughter sloping down to ruin's black abyss;
The wolves of war ran evil-fanged, and little did they miss.
And on they came with fear and flame, to burn and loot and slay,
Until they reached the red-roofed croft, the home of Jean Desprez.

"Rout out the village, one and all!" the Uhlan Captain said.
"Behold! Some hand has fired a shot. My trumpeter is dead.
Now shall they Prussian vengeance know; now shall they rue the day,
For by this sacred German slain, ten of these dogs shall pay."
They drove the cowering peasants forth, women and babes and men,
And from the last, with many a jeer, the Captain chose he ten;
Ten simple peasants, bowed with toil; they stood, they knew not why,
Against the grey wall of the church, hearing their children cry;
Hearing their wives and mothers wail, with faces dazed they stood.
A moment only. . . . Ready! Fire! They weltered in their blood.

But there was one who gazed unseen, who heard the frenzied cries,
Who saw these men in sabots fall before their children's eyes;
A Zouave wounded in a ditch, and knowing death was nigh,
He laughed with joy: "Ah! here is where I settle ere I die."
He clutched his rifle once again, and long he aimed and well. . . .
A shot! Beside his victims ten the Uhlan Captain fell.

They dragged the wounded Zouave out; their rage was like a flame.
With bayonets they pinned him down, until their Major came.
A blonde, full-blooded man he was, and arrogant of eye;
He stared to see with shattered skull his favourite Captain lie.
"Nay, do not finish him so quick, this foreign swine," he cried;
"Go nail him to the big church door: he shall be crucified."

With bayonets through hands and feet they nailed the Zouave there,
And there was anguish in his eyes, and horror in his stare;
"Water! A single drop!" he moaned; but how they jeered at him,
And mocked him with an empty cup, and saw his sight grow dim;
And as in agony of death with blood his lips were wet,
The Prussian Major gaily laughed, and lit a cigarette.

But mid the white-faced villagers who cowered in horror by,
Was one who saw the woeful sight, who heard the woeful cry:
"Water! One little drop, I beg! For love of Christ who died. . . ."
It was the little Jean Desprez who turned and stole aside;
It was the little bare-foot boy who came with cup abrim
And walked up to the dying man, and gave the drink to him.

A roar of rage! They seize the boy; they tear him fast away.
The Prussian Major swings around; no longer is he gay.
His teeth are wolfishly agleam; his face all dark with spite:
"Go, shoot the brat," he snarls, "that dare defy our Prussian might.
Yet stay! I have another thought. I'll kindly be, and spare;
Quick! give the lad a rifle charged, and set him squarely there,
And bid him shoot, and shoot to kill. Haste! Make him understand
The dying dog he fain would save shall perish by his hand.
And all his kindred they shall see, and all shall curse his name,
Who bought his life at such a cost, the price of death and shame."

They brought the boy, wild-eyed with fear; they made him understand;
They stood him by the dying man, a rifle in his hand.
"Make haste!" said they; "the time is short, and you must kill or die."
The Major puffed his cigarette, amusement in his eye.
And then the dying Zouave heard, and raised his weary head:
"Shoot, son, 'twill be the best for both; shoot swift and straight," he said.
"Fire first and last, and do not flinch; for lost to hope am I;
And I will murmur: Vive La France! and bless you ere I die."

Half-blind with blows the boy stood there; he seemed to swoon and sway;
Then in that moment woke the soul of little Jean Desprez.
He saw the woods go sheening down; the larks were singing clear;
And oh! the scents and sounds of spring, how sweet they were! how dear!
He felt the scent of new-mown hay, a soft breeze fanned his brow;
O God! the paths of peace and toil! How precious were they now!

The summer days and summer ways, how bright with hope and bliss!
The autumn such a dream of gold . . . and all must end in this:
This shining rifle in his hand, that shambles all around;
The Zouave there with dying glare; the blood upon the ground;
The brutal faces round him ringed, the evil eyes aflame;
That Prussian bully standing by, as if he watched a game.
"Make haste and shoot," the Major sneered; "a minute more I give;
A minute more to kill your friend, if you yourself would live."

They only saw a bare-foot boy, with blanched and twitching face;
They did not see within his eyes the glory of his race;
The glory of a million men who for fair France have died,
The splendour of self-sacrifice that will not be denied.
Yet . . . he was but a peasant lad, and oh! but life was sweet. . . .
"Your minute's nearly gone, my lad," he heard a voice repeat.
"Shoot! Shoot!" the dying Zouave moaned; "Shoot! Shoot!" the soldiers said.
Then Jean Desprez reached out and shot . . . the Prussian Major dead!



--- Robert Service

NEVER MORE

1/ On fame’s eternal camping ground,
Their silent tents are spread,
And glory guards in Solemn sound,
The bivouac of the dead.


2/ ‘Tis night far down our Northern glens,
The autumn breezes sigh,
Afar the mountains echo back,
The curlews lonely cry.
The river onward flows the way
Of centuries before,
But tonight the waters seem to sob and whisper “Never More�.


3/ The Drums of death are sounding across the Northern Wave,
And there’s weeping ‘mong the Highland Homes,
For our beloved brave,
For those who knew and loved those hills,
In boyhood days of yore,
For those who died for home and King,
Amid the battles roar.

4/ Ah, where are now our kilted lads
So handsome brave and grand,
Who marched away for honours sake,
And love of this far land.
‘Tis o’er a narrow strip of blue,
Somewhere in blood soaked France.
They sleep the everlasting sleep
Behind the great advance.

Elsie Spence Rae Banff 7th November 1915.



The poem “Never More� was found in Corporal Angus Mackay Royal Scots, personal diary. He was killed in action during the Battle of Arras in 1917

Originally Posted by Jake-

From ''The Rhymes of a a Red Cross Man.''
Jean Desprez

Jake, Robert W Service has always been one of my favourites, I once owned an LP with a lot of the poems set to music by Country Joe MacDonald, must have been 1971 or something.

Wished I could find it again, I used to sing and play a lot of the songs before I joined up and even after all this time I can still hear it sometimes. Like 'Cannon King', 'Young fellow mi lad'. These days the songs have a richer meaning to me.

Kipling's poems are my favourite as is Wilfred Owen's Dulce Et Decorum Est. I also like this one:

For The Fallen
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
- Laurence Binyon

Now all roads lead to France
And heavy is the tread
Of the living; but the dead
Returning lightly dance.
..........Roads, January 1916

EDWARD THOMAS (1878-1917)