For What?

Amidst the rats and sweat and mud

I dream of leaving, if I could.

But stuck inside this filthy trench

There is nobody ‘on the bench’.

For once the bombs and shooting stop,

But that’s our cue: it’s o’er the top

The whistle blows, we take a breath

And clamber to our certain death.

Our heads protrude the fated lip;

We see first-hand the daunting trip.

We’re up to speed, we know the drill:

The only order: Kill! Kill! Kill!

Head down and raise your bayonet;

For king and country, no regret!

Rat-at-at-at! They mow us down.

Sleep well, dear king, beneath your crown.

We’re sitting ducks, but soldier on

Through no man’s land, our grave anon.

Grenade and bullet, mortar shell -

So, this is whence Bosch foresaw Hell!

My knee explodes, the sudden pain;

I tumble backwards, face the rain.

Above the bombs and clouds and sky,

What think ye, God, from upon High?

My best friend Frank, he’s injured, too

His arm has been shot clean right through.

He rolls us clear, behind a mound;

A welcome port on foreign ground.

And in the end, they saved my friend.

But me? I fell to this grave end.

My gravestone’s bare, no given name.

I died for you, so that’s a shame.

Now don’t you cry! But as you leave,

Just know it’s me who ought to grieve.

Are things now better than before?

Or are we rotten to the core?

Please, tell me that the bloodshed’s ceased

And that our death helped man find peace.

You can’t, ‘cause no one wins at war!

So, what the Hell did we die for?

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“For What?”, a remembrance day poem.

© Jason Darrell, 9th November, 2019.

Image: uo-apocalypse