This poem was inspired by a recent trip to France/Belgium to retrace my Grandad’s steps whilst he was fighting there during WW1. My parents and I visited the site of various battles in the Somme campaign, where Grandad fought in the Machine Gun Corps. The question as to whether the Somme was a success has long been debated. It took some of the heat off the French and ultimately caused the Germans to move their defences further north east to the Hindenberg Line. However, it will forever be remembered as one of the bloodiest campaigns ever fought and I for one find it impossible to justify such loss of life. Many of the battles were poorly planned and executed, and hearing about them now makes me feel that the young soldiers who fought in them were like lambs to the slaughter. It is a fascinating area to visit and, as this poem attempts to show, still contains many poignant reminders of what happened there during WW1.
I amble along in a green field,
Sheep are grazing quietly there.
Historic events not yet revealed,
I amble along without a care.
A sheep emerges from a hidden place,
My interest piqued, I quicken my pace.
A miniature valley comes into view,
Moisture and sunlight form a rainbow hue.
For long still moments I stand there,
In certain knowledge that what I see
Is the grassy remains of a tool of war,
A battle trench there before me.
The thought is almost too hard to bear,
Close my eyes, sights and sounds are there.
Their names alone tell a story,
Devil’s, Sacrifice, Suicide, glory?
I close my eyes and hear the sounds
Of shells exploding amidst the mounds,
Of shrapnel spraying it’s deadly rain,
As it finds its mark men scream with pain.
Hear the rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire,
The constant barrage in the filthy mire.
Men praying ‘Please, make it go away.
Let me go home, there let me stay.’
Then the silence, almost more chilling,
As they wait for orders, the next assault.
All sense is gone but still they are willing
To battle on until told to halt.
They lie there and dream of home,
Of love and warmth, their thoughts roam.
And if time is kind they regain some calm,
Some tea, a smoke, before the next alarm.
Back in the present I look around,
Now more focussed on what I have found.
I see further signs of a dark past,
Horrific results of a die cast.
Lines of trenches on further inspection,
Deep divides in every direction.
A network forming the battleground.
The network forming the burial mound.
Barbed wire supports are evident too,
The remains of a foe of a different sort,
That clutches and tears, trapping men true,
Exposed and alone by snipers they’re caught.
And in between there is No Man’s Land,
Where many young men made their last stand.
Taking no prisoners on either side,
Picking them off, nowhere to hide.
In relentless assault flares reveal
The wounded and sick, no room for appeal.
Like ready-made graves in craters they lie.
Like lambs to the slaughter in craters they die!
For some reprieve did not come so quick,
Their life ebbed slowly as a candlewick,
Left to drown in the mire, or freeze to the bone,
As a new day dawns they die alone.
I amble along in a muddy brown field,
Freshly ploughed so crops it will yield.
And there amidst that fertile soil
Are countless remains of battle toil.
Over eighty years on still tons emerge,
Shards of shrapnel, grenades and shells,
As if the earth itself is trying to purge
The evil from which so many men fell.
I gingerly lift a shell still armed,
Left on a wall by land now farmed.
The weight of it takes my breath away,
Once more I imagine that long ago day.
Men running, struggling, weighted down,
By guns and ammo, war all around,
Wearing heavy coats with pockets that hold
These bringers of death, my blood runs cold.
So you see for those who care to look,
There are many remnants of a war they called great,
Not because it was good but because it took
So many young lives, an immemorial fate.