Thread: Poetry - By/for/about soldiers etc

All the blooming way.
by: D Hunter of 2/12th Bn

I saw a kid marchin' with medals on his chest.
He marched alongside Diggers marchin' six abreast.
He knew it was ANZAC Day – he walked along with pride.
He did his best to keep in step with the Diggers by his side.
And when the march was over the kid was rather tired.
A digger said "Whose medals son? " to which the kid replied:
"They belong to Daddy, but he did not come back
He died up in New Guinea on a lonely jungle track".
The kid looked rather sad then a tear came to his eye.
The Digger said "Don’t cry my son and I will tell you why,
Your Daddy marched with us today – all the bloomin' way.
We Diggers know that he was here, it’s like that on ANZAC Day."
The kid looked rather puzzled and didn’t understand
But the Digger went on talking and started to wave his hand.
"For this great land we live in, there’s a price we have to pay.
And for this thing we call freedom, the Diggers had to pay."
"For we all love fun and merriment in this country where we live,
The price was that some soldiers, their precious life must give.
For you to go to school, my lad, and worship God at will
Someone had to pay the price, so the Diggers paid the bill.
Your Daddy died for us my son – for all things good and true,
I wonder if you can understand the things I’ve said to you."
The kid looked up at the Digger – just for a little while,
And with a changed expression, said, with a lovely smile:
"I know my daddy marched with us today – on this, our ANZAC Day,
I know he did – I know he did – all the bloomin' way "

THE CROSSES GROW ON ANZIO

Oh, gather 'round me, comrades
And listen while I weep;
Of a war, a war, a war...
where hell is six feet deep.

Along the shore, the cannons roar.
Oh how can a soldier sleep?
The going's slow on Anzio
And hell is six feet deep.

Praise be to God for this captured sod
That’s rich where blood does seep;
With yours and mine, like butchered swine;
And hell is six feet deep.

That death does wait
There's no debate;
No triumph will we reap
The crosses grow on Anzio,
Where hell is six feet deep.

BY: Audie Murphy, 1948

A BEACH IN FRANCE

Last night I sat and watched a man die
He wasn't afraid he seemed in good cheer.
Last night I sat and asked myself why
A dying man should feel no fear.

One minute he breathed, a faint smile on his face
He wasn't afraid he seemed so at peace
One minute he was here and then he was gone
An empty shell in a lonely space

He said "At last I'm old" and then he died
Too many go young when a thief steals their time
At least he was warm, with a friend by his side
No one should die alone

Last night I sat and watched a man die
He wasn’t afraid, he'd faced death before
Last night he told me how he'd stolen his time
On a beach in France in '44'.

From youth he jumped chest high in pink water
Wading ashore in another worlds war
Random selection in a senseless slaughter
Praying to his Jesus for a few minutes more

He killed his first man near that beach in France
Fifty years later he still prayed for his soul
He found his God on that beach in France
Crying in terror in a too shallow hole

(Dedicated to the memory of ex Sergeant Arthur Walton,
Kings Shropshire Light Infantry, British Army 1939 - 1947)

By: Frank Gibbons

Goodbye, G.I.

Goodbye, G.I., big-hearted Joe.
We are glad you came. We hope you’re sad to go.
Say what you can for this old-fashioned isle;
And when you can’t - well, say it with a smile.

Goodbye, G.I., and now you know the way.
Come back and see us in a brighter day,
When England’s free, and “Scotch” is cheap but strong,
And you can bring your pretty wives along.

Goodbye, G.I., don’t leave us quite alone.
Somewhere in England we must write in stone!
“Here Britain Was Invaded By The Yanks,”
And under that, a big and brilliant “Thanks!”.

Eulogy for a Veteran

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the Gentle autumn rain
When you awaken in the mornings hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there, I did not die.

Author Unknown

The soldier
by
Antoine de Saint Expury

The soldier is not a man of violence.
He carries arms and risks his life
for mistakes not of his making.
He has the merit of being unflinchingly
true to his word, to the end,
while knowing that he will be forgotten.

The Final Inspection
The soldier stood and faced his God
Which must always come to pass.
He hoped his shoes were shining
Just as brightly as his brass.
Step forward now, you soldier,
How shall I deal with you?
Have you always turned the other cheek?
To My Church have you been true?
The soldier squared his shoulders and
said, No, Lord, I guess I ain't,
Because those of us who carry guns
can't always be a saint.
I've had to work most Sundays,
And at times my talk was tough;
And sometimes I've been violent,
Because the world is awfully rough.
But, I never took a penny
That wasn't mine to keep...
Though I worked a lot of overtime
When the bills just got too steep.
And I never passed a cry for help;
Though at times I shook with fear.
And sometimes, God forgive me,
I've wept unmanly tears.
I know I don't deserve a place
Among the people here.
They never wanted me around
Except to calm their fear.
If you've a place for me here, Lord,
It needn't be so grand.
I never expected or had to much;
But if you don't, I'll understand.
There was a silence all around the throne
Where the saints had often trod.
As the soldier waited quietly
For the judgment of his God.
Step forward now, you soldier,
You've borne your burdens well.
Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets;
You've done your time in Hell.

This was written in reply to Brooke's The Soldier:

The Mother

If you should die, think only this of me
In that still quietness where is space for thought,
Where parting, loss and bloodshed shall not be,
And men may rest themselves and dream of nought:
That in some place a mystic mile away
One whom you loved has drained the bitter cup
Till there is nought to drink; has faced the day
Once more, and now, has raised the standard up.

And think, my son, with eyes grown clear and dry
She lives as though for ever in your sight,
Loving the things you loved, with heart aglow
For country, honour, truth, traditions high,
- Proud that you paid their price. (And if some night
Her heart should break - well, lad, you will not know.)

May Herschel-Clarke