Lest we Forget

Lest we Forget

A quarter of a million underage young British soldiers

Fought in World War One.

Each one, one in a million – each one gone.

Journalists arrested or outlawed at the front,

Threatened with execution

For publishing unpatriotic pollution.

Over a quarter of a million women working on the land,

An army in the landscape.

Each one, one in a million – a new role taking shape.

Nurses arrested and executed saving other’s lives.

Medicine in its early days,

Moving into another phase.

A million horses sent over to the trenches,

Mules and dogs on guard.

Each one, one in a million – a life that is scarred.

Objectors, pacifists, those with different views.

Too old, too young, or simply disinclined -

Labelled by society - some heroes, some maligned.

Disabled, grannies or mothers waiting for the news,

Scientists and engineers expanding knowledge and the mind,

Shop-keepers, farmers, all those who were left behind.

Over 37 million casualties – civilian or in uniform -

Statistics are unclear.

Each one, one in a million – but each one someone dear.

And dear the cost to one and all

Will we ever the lesson learn?

Do not forget them, one and all

For each is our concern.

 By Linda Prince

© Charmaine Harrison @ http://charmingphotography.weebly.com/

 

 

 

 

November the 11th at 11am

November the 11^th at 11am

Hostilities will halt but they fought right to the end.

I lost a young soldier, a lover and a friend.

As I stand in the field and survey the watery golden sun

I wait and watch the landscape, a battle fought and won.

There’s an eerie silence, expectant and hushed

That rings in my ears, the foe it is crushed.

The breeze ripples by and is turning

To a murmur of cheering, longing and yearning.

The hands on the watch reach eleven exact

And the signatured agreement becomes an act.

Battles stop and the guns now cease,

Emotions and tears, not bullets release,

And there is peace.

By Linda Prince 


 

Nurse

Nurse

Unaccustomed as I am to hospitals, I’m sure I can help the effort.

Unaccustomed as I am to workers, I know that I won’t be caught short.

I mean how hard can it be?

Unaccustomed as I am to hardship, I can put up with a roughing it a tad

Unaccustomed as I am to foreign lands, of course it’s not a fad.

I mean what is there to see?

One has to support the war effort

So I’ll serve King and Country as a VAD

As a field nurse helping young men,

Walking wounded, shelled shocked and sad.

I’ve had three months training and I’m ready for the trench

Though I haven’t seen a dead body as it rots within sickening stench.

But they tell me I am ready and I’m cut out for battle nursing

And I volunteered, so there’s no reversing.

I mean - how hard can it be?

By Linda Prince

Rose, my Rose

Rose, my Rose

Christmas Eve, nineteen seventeen,

I think of my Rose, just seventeen.

The tenor croons, the first little song of love.

In Picardy roses are blooming.

In Piccadilly my Rose is blooming.

The tenor swoons and our roads may be far apart.

Enlisting for France the Tommy singing,

In Petty France baby Tommy is singing,

Lambert Murphy on record in my heart.

Rose humming our song full of memories and bygones

Rose, my Rose remembering our love that is gone by

The song is the last little song she hears.

By Linda Prince

Grandad abroad

Grandad abroad

From Tonbridge to Bombay,

From Quetta to Afghanistan

Grandad had his day.

Another brave young boy

Who fought for God and King.

Another one to deploy.

But Grandad was a fighter,

In grim conditions battled,

But with moments that were lighter.

We cannot pain measure

As he fought for his life abroad,

But we remember him with pleasure.

For the family will always say,

‘Do you remember what Grandad did

That terrible, fateful day?’

‘Twas in the 3^rd Afghan War

He took his rifle standing proud

And was hear to shout and roar.

“Who goes there?” his nerves on edge.

But the assailant answered not,

And Grandad had made a pledge.

Raising his rifle battered and wonky,

He shot, the silence riven

Standing over the fallen donkey.

How do we tolerate war without glory?

Stomach killing and pain in war?

If not through a comical story.

Grandad never told of slaughter

In battle weary lands

Across the divided water.

But the story makes us smile

And we mention aloud his name

And he is back with us for a while.


By Linda Prince 



 

Goodbye to all that

Goodbye to all that

War of the World, ravaged belligerents in conflict

Eyeing up territory, offensives transfer power as boundaries change.

And weakened states humiliation inflict

And imperial empires fall as borders re-arrange.

The map of Europe redrawn, territories lost or won

What did we achieve, after all is said and done?

By Linda Prince

Fields

Fields

The wind rustles over the carpet and the soft mist of shade sways

Green.

Curving in concord, each blade the brother of the next.

One veneer, one hue.

Yet every blade is different, every blade contains history,

Evolution wrapped up in a small green shoot.

The breeze glides over the meadow and the soft haze of hues swing

Red.

Bending in unison, each poppy the sister of the next.

One covering, one tone.

Yet every stalk is distinctive, every stalk holds bygones,

Evolution wrapped up in a small red flower.

The chill envelops the fields and the soft fog of colours fall

Red, yellow, black, brown, white.

Collapsing in sympathy, each the sibling of the next.

Blankets of colour, many shades.

Yet every soldier is unique, every comrade preserves a bloodline

Evolution’s highest pinnacle wrapped up in a Flanders shroud.

So many colours side by side, brothers in arms, daughters of time

Sleeping in Flanders Fields

By Linda Prince

545927

Private 545927

Born in Penn, clues buried in the past

With Merry Hill and Warstones

How long before the War would play un-merry hell

And in another land bury his bones?

Private 545927

Lived in Manlove Street, clues wedded to the past

With Mr and Mr Lovesey.

How long before the War would take the love of their life

And send him across the foreign sea?

Private 545927

Served in Alexandria, clues buried in the sand

With the 54^th Division and armed force.

How long before the War would lead to division

And he would this life sadly divorce?

Private 545927

Young Leonard rests in Hadra, casualties under the sun

The War was over.

The war for Leonard was over, his course was likewise run.

In quiet solitude he is not alone,

Thousands of young men also did not come home

But in a piece of home tended far away

The white stones of War on parade every day

Remember those who fell.

Thank you private 545927,

And thank you to all of the others.

We think of you all kindly at peace in your Heaven,

We can never repay to your brothers

The debt that we owe.

By Linda Prince

(Private 545927 Leonard Lovesey died in an accident 2 days before returning home.  The photos below show him with his sister and cousin, as a young man and then just before he went to Alexandria.)

The Day the Lights went out

The Day the Lights went out

A Sunday it was I think, yes a Sunday. Mum had been to Church.

Roast dinner, kids fighting in the garden, Mum laughing as they played.

Just another day, like any other day.

Dad moaned about those Suffragettes, Mum shook her head in despair.

Uncle Albert worried about the Emerald Isle, Auntie commented on the spuds.

Just another day, like any other day.

Cousin Alice was remembering the wedding, glamour in Berlin

The Kiaser, Tsar, our own King George - didn’t it prove they all got on?

Just another day, like any other day.

Granddad rocked back and forth and over a thousand miles away

Someone shot an Archduke, we didn’t know just who.

Just another day, like any other day.

It was August I think, yes it was August. Grey had gone to the Commons.

A light lunch, armies fighting on the border, Mum crying as they fought.

Just another day, like any other day.

Dad moaned about Ferdinand, Mum shook her head in despair,

Uncle Albert worried about Belgium, Auntie commented on the sprouts.

Just another day, like any other day.

Cousin Alice was remembering a wedding, unfashionable in the East End

The mother in law, cousins, our own old Gran – didn’t they all get on?

Just another day, like any other day.

The Foreign Secretary rocked Parliament, and many miles away

Someone shot soldiers, we never knew just who.

Just another day, like any other day.

Sir Edward returned to the Foreign Office and as the dawn was breaking,

not just another time, like any other time,

the gas lamps were dimmed and they stuttered out, going out all over Europe,

whispering, “We shall not see them lit again in our lifetime.’’

By Linda Prince