“YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOU” the notice read,
with Kitchener pointing a finger,
So Willie Johnson joined the queue,
An extremely fit, Arsenal winger.
The last time he’d held a gun in his hand,
Was playing Cowboys and Indians ’till dark,
Along alleyways, backyards and gardens,
As well as the local town park
For V J Day
Pete’s father was a Grenadier Guard in WW2. He was commended for gallantry and carried the coffin of King George V
Like delicate wings of butterflies,
Red petals gently fall,
Past stony faces gathered there,
Inside the Albert Hall.
They shall not grow old as we grow old,
Those fallen brave young men,
Complacency must not creep in,
We must remember them.
Royal Navy and the Merchant Men,
Out on the cruel, cruel sea,
Were taken out by U.boat crews,
As they fought to keep us free.
For a mere second the soldier closed his eyes and succumbed to sleep’s black embrace. It was long enough for him to shuffle off the rain-slicked duckboards. Off that narrow avenue between places of fragile safety.
He landed on his back on the thick, bomb churned mud.
Staring wide-eyed at the gray, rain-filled sky. He screamed a muffled cry of commingled anger and terror at his fatal mistake.
Baring his teeth, he compounded his mistake by struggling to stand on his own two feet.
It was an instinctive act of self-preservation. It allowed the mud to secure its grip.
He knew. Felt himself sink to his knees.
He looked this way and that across a world of mud. Searching for security: for solidity: for firmness beneath his feet.
His Mauser: his ever-present life saver. Lay out of reach. It could not save him now.
The duckboards too were out of reach. He knew. He stretched out his hands nonetheless: tried to move forward.
The mud gripped his thighs.
Hollow-eyed he looked down. He was being devoured.
The crater might be twenty, thirty feet deep. It need only be six to consume him.
He cried out to comrades shuffling by like grey ghosts.
He knew they knew they were powerless to help. To attempt to rescue him from their precarious footing would be suicidal.
The mud gripped his waist.
He bellowed out his anger and his terror.
They went unheeded. Commonplace in this landscape of mud and rain they meant nothing.
The mud gripped his chest.
He ceased his struggle for his life. Struggle hastened its end.
He fell silent.
Death by a bullet or a bomb would have been a far better end. Swifter. More fitting.
Had he been able to reach his rifle. He would have taken that way out.
The mud nudged his chin.
Soon his body would join those of many of his comrades. Become part of the desolated landscape.
Who would miss or mourn him?
Another war had returned his vater to the ground. He would join him soon.
Mutter was an empty shell. Hardened by adversity and loss. She would determine not to miss him.
He gamboled with Gretl in a green valley beneath a multicolored kite.
They shed their clothes in a sun-dappled glade. Explored their bodies. She smiled comely.
He opened his eyes.
The duckboards were gone. As was the mud. Concealed beneath a multicolored carpet to a shimmering blue horizon.
Enveloped in a golden haze above a landscape of golden wheat. Larks rose and fell in a clear blue sky. Singing to each other beneath a golden sun.
“Sah ein knab ein Roselein stehn” rose from the lips of men and woman reaping a golden harvest.
The soldier knew at last where he was. Where he belonged. His final resting place.
He would always be there. Beneath those fertile fields.
The mud swallowed his smile.
Drew him down into its eternal embrace.
“Röslein auf der Heide” (“Rose on the Heath”) is a line from the chorus to the German folksong “Sah ein knab ein Roselein stehn” (“Saw a boy a little rose”) based on the text of a famous poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, written 1771.
I remember what they said,
At the outbreak of the war,
‘It will be all over come Christmas’
Yet I can recall with such horror,
How our lads were slaughtered,
Thousands and thousands, en mass.
I remember signing on, with workmates,
All eager to do our bit.
“Your country needs you.” old Kitchener said.
I remember we proudly marched through town,
People cheered, waving Union flags,
For they could not envisage, most would end up dead.
I remember the years in sludgy trenches,
As we struggled, to keep our sanity,
Suffering trench foot, fleas and mites,
Waiting for the shout, “Over the top.”
With the accompanying shrilled whistles,
Instantly obeying, we set off to fight.
I remember too, mustard gas clouds,
Drifting across ‘No Man’s Land’
Donning the life saving gas masks,
As shells whistled over our heads,
All wondering where they would land,
To be followed, by deafening blasts.
I remember the mud, changing colour,
As it clung to out boots and putties,
A nerve tingling scarlet red,
Skin and bone flying everywhere,
With life blood from innocent lads,
Some wounded, but most of them dead.
I remember thinking, about my wife,
Upset, to be missing my child,
You see, I had walked away from the conflict,
Now I stand before the firing squad,
Their rifles, pointing at my heart,
Please God, forgive me…
THEN is a word that can be used in a number of contexts. As a warning (Now then) or it could refer to a recent happening (Just then) or it could be anticipation (And then) or it could be long ago THEN/ Way back when. As a boy during the war years this is what it was like THEN
Grandad is it true I’m told That you know lots of things because you’re old
Are there giants that shake the ground
And are there fairies that fly around
And why does the moon stay up in the sky
And if it falls will we all die
Why does the sea rush up to the land
And why is the sea shore made of sand
And why is the sea so wide and deep
And are there monsters when we sleep
And when you were a boy like me
Did you ever fall and graze your knee
And living for so many years
Do you still cry those salty tears.
Now old is wise they tell me so
But so many things I’ll never know
The sun comes out to warm the day
The moon at night to light the way
The sand down by the sea it seems
Is for building castles and weaving dreams
And the fairies come at night they say
To drive the giants and monsters away
And when I was a boy like you
I fell and cried just like you do
But now I’m old I never cry
I think I’ve got something in my eye.
Coming Home to War
By David R Graham. 26.09.16
‘Callum.’
‘What d—! Who d’feck–!’
‘Easy.’
‘Killian? Is that you, Killian?’
‘Aye.’
‘Jesus Killian! What d’feck are ye doin’ comin’ up on me in d’dark like that? Ye frightened d’feckin’ shite out’a me. Whew. Ye made it back then? Come in’t d’light an’ let me have a look at ye.’
‘No, Callum. I live in the shadows now.’
‘Jesus Christ, Killian. What d’hell have they done t’ye man? Ye have eyes that would frightin’ d’divil himself. Was it bad?’
‘Worse than bad, Callum.’
‘When did ye get back?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘What? What are ye say—?’
‘You haven’t seen me, Callum. I’m not here.’
‘But—’
‘You haven’t seen me.’
‘Right. I’m with ye, Killian. What about Sean, an’ d’Hardy boys? Are they with ye? ’
‘No. They didn’t make it.’
‘Jesus, Killian. All five a them?’
‘Aye.’
‘Thank God Maddy’s not here t’hear that. The news would a killed her deader than Carpenter did.’
‘He made his play, then?’
‘O aye, he did that. Not long after you lads went off. An’ a bloody play it was too.’
‘Tell me.’
‘He killed everyone, Killian. Burned, bombed, an’ shot his way t’d’top a d’shite heap.’
‘You’re alive.’
‘Ye can call me that, Killian. Others might call me walkin’ dead. I escaped death by d’skin a me teeth. I’m worth fifty pounds to whoever takes me in. You found me, Killian. That worries me. How long have I got? He’s sittin’ up there now lordin’ it over d’whole city. No one can touch him, Killian. He has everyone eatin’ out a his slop bowl.’
‘No one is going to find you, Callum. Or me.’
‘What are ye goin’ t’do, Killian? What can d’two a do against Carpenter’s army?’
‘Tell me about his empire, Callum. Every detail.’
‘Empire’s right, Killian. He sits on top of the entire pile. From City Hall down to d’sewers an’ every club, bar, restaurant, casino, cinema, bettin’ shop, an’ barbers in between. You name it, Killian, an’ if Carpenter doesn’t already own it, he soon will. An’ he’s a army a coldblooded villains who are only too happy t’do whatever dirty work is necessary t’keep his slaves coughin’ up their cash. So you tell me, Killian. What can d’two a us do against him?’
‘Others are on their way, Callum.’
‘Who? Where are they comin’ from?’
‘From the battlefields of Europe. I’ve gathered my own army of coldblooded villains, Callum. Carpenter’s army will be no match for them.’
‘Jesus, Killian. Are ye goin’ t’take him on?’
‘No, Callum. I’m not going to take him on. I’m going to destroy him.’
‘Jesus, Killian. What d’ye want me t’do?’
‘I need to know everything about every one of his soldiers, Callum. They fear no one. They’ll all have a daily routine. I want to know those routines. I want to know the details of every building Carpenter owns, every vehicle he owns and uses. I want to know all of his daily movements; where he eats, where he sleeps, where he works, where he plays, where he does business, and where he keeps his money.’
‘I can’t do it, Killian. I’ve a price on me head. I wouldn’t last five minutes.’
‘You’re going to live, Callum. Disguise yourself. Go behind your enemy’s lines, and move freely among them. You’ll not be alone. I will be covering you. Others will not be far away.’
‘When d’ye plan t’make y’ur move, Killian?’
‘You’ll know, Callum.’
‘When, Killian? When will I know?’
‘When each of Carpenter’s soldiers lies with a spike through his throat, Callum: You will know then.’
Father was a Military Man
Who hailed from North of the Border
Smart in his kilt, hat and Uniform
He would play his bagpipes as his team performed
A Pipe Major in the Black Watch, and proud.
Sadly the flames of World War II were loud
And he and his bagpipes had to part.
As war was declared he was promoted and transferred,
In charge of a battery of anti-aircraft guns, men, and kit,
Posted to London, in the middle of the Blitz,
A busy time for all, with he and his men often under attack.
Transferred again, to the Liverpool docks, they were glad to be back.
After so many firings the guns were cleaned
With a brush being pushed down the barrel
During one such cleaning the Germans attacked,
The orders were given for the guns to fire back.
After the action was over, one brush was found to be missing.
In later life my father would muse, what must the Germans have thought?
When a brush flew past from below, as those British Soldiers fought.
Despite their attempts to sweep the sky,
the guns were attacked and it seemed he might die.
The rest of the story as life carried on, is really quite happy and bright.
Transferred to hospital, over many months, he began to regain his light.
With the care of the doctors, and the wiles of the nurses, he started to notice their smiles,
One in particular, her name was Nurse Margery, her smile caught onto Dads’ heart,
War over, in February ’47, they were happily married,
March ‘48, I finished their story, as that wee bairn she had carried.
Pleased to report, my occasional slumbers, were accompanied by the skirl of his pipes.
Dad would recall his stories, behind the smoke of his pipe, and as I listened I often wondered if that brush ever did come to light?
_____________________________________________________________
June 3rd 1940
22:59pm.
Your Majesty,
Twenty four days have passed since I gratefully accepted your Majesty’s invitation to be the Prime Minister of your Government. Throughout those days I have come to realise just how serious a situation your army and your people face from Herr Hitler’s military actions on the Continent and in eastern Europe. It galls me to say it your Majesty, but say it I must. They are actions that appear to be unstoppable.
The plain and unsavoury truth is that the combined forces of Great Britain and France have proven to be no match for the German Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe. And, as I had privately long suspected, the Maginot Line has proven to have given General Gamelin and his Chiefs of Staff a false sense of security. The Wehrmacht have simply marched round its impressive, but ultimately ineffective fortifications and entered Belgium through the ‘impenetrable’ Ardennes: flouting that country’s neutrality with impunity.
After withstanding repeated hammer blows from the might of the Germany Panzer brigades, General Van Caelenberge and his brave Belgian troops were fought to a standstill and, in a desperate bid to prevent the total annihilation of his forces, he surrendered.
Likewise, in the Netherlands, General Winkelman, by his own admission, had insufficient forces and materiel at his disposal to mount any long term defence against the seemingly unstoppable might of the Wehrmacht and he too was forced to surrender.
This sorry situation has been played out yet again in Norway; particularly at Narvik, where allied forces, under the command of Major General Fleischer, were ultimately unable to recapture the Port and deny its use as an ice free harbour to the enemy.
Coupled with these major military setbacks is the advent of Italy’s entry into the war. At a time when the soldiers of French were already fought to a standstill, ‘the hand that held the dagger has stuck it into the back of its neighbour,’ to borrow the words of President Roosevelt. This treacherous act on the part of Il Duce, left General Winkelman with no other recourse but to surrender his forces to the Germans. The subsequent lamentable martial stamina of the Italian forces henceforth, speaks for itself.
In tandem with the aforementioned, is the stark, undeniably, reality that our own forces have proven to have been totally inadequately prepared to fight a modern war. Suffice it to say that our troops have been badly trained and ill equipped from the outset. In consequence of this appalling and unjustifiable mismanagement and mishandling, over many years, a very desperate rescue operation is underway to try to bring home as much of our shattered army as is humanly possible. I pray God that not many more of your Majesty’s brave soldiers will die needlessly on the blood-soaked shores of Dunkirk.
It is now12:01am and my heart lies heavy in my chest at the very thought of having to write the following words to your Majesty. They are word that I have agonised over for many days and week; words that can only hint at the many more weeks of intense debate with my fellow members of the War Cabinet and those of your Majesty’s Government: words, which I never imagined I could ever bring myself to think, let alone utter and never actually to write to your Majesty. But write them I must. I, Winston Churchill, your most obedient servant and Prime Minister of your Government, seek your Majesty’s leave to sue for peace with Nazi Germany.
Your obedient servant and Prime Minister,
Sir Winston Leonard Spencer-Churchill KG, OM, CH, TD, DL, FRS, Hon, RA.
Retwords 