Our story begins, in Oxford old,
A land of men with tales untold.
A waving banner of national pride,
Papers to be signed inside.
With pen in hand and papers too,
He scribbled his name, in a box marked who.
He jotted his age, job and father,
To decide his ever after.
Bundled away in a dark green car,
Told they wouldn't go that far,
But days and nights passed overhead,
And still no sign of the base ahead.
Finally there, a fresh new hell,
Drill instructors scream to tell,
Duck! under this, dodge! past that,
Pick up your rifle, and shoot at his hat!
Day in, day out the same routine
Muddied boots, and clothes unclean,
Their final day was soon approaching,
That red letter day, fast encroaching.
Yes it read, upon his sheet,
He waved his arms and stamped his feet.
Soon they were off to fields unknown,
To fight atop the foreign loam.
This wasn't the field that they'd been promised,
Suppose the brass had been dishonest,
No French girls laugh, no chasing skirt,
Just a deep down bloody hole in the dirt.
The bullets whizzed above his head,
Around him, from him, nowt but dead.
A scream of a trooper, a scream of a shell,
Trapped inside this blood-soaked hell.
And here we meet our soldier's end,
A short lived life, a tale unpenned.
Cut short as the boy was in his prime,
He left a sister, aged at nine.
His mother, his father, wept for him,
They missed his smile, so bright yet slim.
All that was left of his broken form,
A battered coat that had been through a storm.
So let it be known to you who read,
That whilst the soldiers lie and bleed,
Do not make light of his life which he lay,
For he gave his tomorrow, to have our today.
by © Harry Walsingham (14)
Faringdon Community College, Oxfordshire
Competition - War Of Words
Copyright remains with the author.