The Soldier

The young man holds in his blistered hand

A moment’s relief from another land,

Travelled by boat from across the sea

To the foreign shore of Brittany.

He removes his helmet, wipes his brow,

And studies the script, so familiar now,

Of his wife’s words, a message of hope,

A spark of joy that will help him cope.

It reads: ‘Keep your head down, and in a month or three,

You’ll be back home, where you belong, with me.

You’ll meet our son, he’ll be one soon,

He looks more like you with each new moon.

Your mother is well, she asked me to say

That she’s missed your smile whilst you’ve been away.

And your father – well, your father’s fine,

He talks about you all the time!

As I write, the November sky is grey,

They say heavy snow is on the way,

And I weep when I think that you

Must be looking at this same sky, too.

Over a year since I saw your face,

But I cannot picture you in that place,

So I keep a piece of you here with me,

In my head, in my heart, where you will always be.

I will stay strong, for you and our son,

And before we know it, the war will be done.

So stay safe, and never forget,

That I love you,

your wife – Colette.’

The young man clears his throat, wipes his eyes,

Shifts feet, shuffles weight, to try and disguise

From his friends a moment of joy and of sadness,

Of relief and of fear on this field of madness.

Distracted, he fails to recognise,

A familiar whistle coming through the skies,

A German mortar with deadly intent,

That will leave British men no time to repent.

It hits the trench with devastating precision,

Soldiers in range absorb the collision,

And when the smoke clears, the ruin is brutal,

Any attempt to escape would have been futile.

The letter dissolves in the wet and mud,

Drowned and stained in the young man’s blood.

A life cut short in an instant of pain,

He shall not see his wife again,

Nor meet his son, a fatherless child,

One of many in a world defiled

By this stalemate war of metal and horses,

European powers with their expendable forces,

Led by old men who refuse to yield

Even an inch of this forgotten French field.

They told the men this war will be great,

And that it will decide humanity’s fate,

And once it is won we shall never more see

Such discord in global harmony.

But peace does not come with ash and with death,

Nor the silencing of mortal breath,

On a plane of red that is violent and vicious,

Men who were promised they’d be home by Christmas.

Not the young man, his future is forfeit

To this fight, even though he did not cause it.

Reap the tears of his wife when she is told

That her husband was found face down – dead in the cold.