The Old Soldier to his Grandson, by Trevor Trower. The old man said to the smiling youth If you want to know Ill tell you the truth What it really was like when I went to war When millions died, not knowing what for Yes, we carried our flags, swelled with pride A smile on our face, and a tear inside The rough serge suits and those brave black boots We marched to the sounds of the drums and flutes. I was sixteen then, in my young lifes prime I lived to curse that terrible time Not old enough to vote or drive a car Not yet old enough to go into a bar But old enough to offer my lifes blood To do or die, like anyone should If things had been right Id have stayed in school Not to waste my youth like a bloody fool. It was late fall when in Halifax we took the boat And prayed to God that it would stay afloat Seven thousand boys and men packed all together Crossed the Atlantic in the worst kind of weather Ten days it took to cross the ocean wide Til we came into Liverpool on the evening tide None was there to greet us or to help with our gear Not a sound of music or a single cheer It took most of the night to clear the ship And board the trains for the rest of the trip Packed like sardines and off into the raining Down to Aldershot for the rest of our training. We were told we would spend Christmas in France Backing those Frenchmen so theyd have a chance We were told we were doing a wonderful thing If we played our cards right wed be home next spring But the Germans were well led, powerful and strong And those leading us were all terribly wrong. Our efforts there in France were fierce, thousands died We fell in the muck and mud, man and boy side by side Those of us that fled that hell in a thousand little boats Were grateful that our saviours came with anything that floats We crossed the English Channel and landed on the shore And hung around and waited to fight the Hun once more I was sent to Africa and ate the desert sand With my mates fought the Italians that infested that land But the Italians knew they could fight no more, and by the hundred thousands gave up, as prisoners of war. Rommels men were quite a different story They were bound to fight and win with glory We still remember the Eight Army with pride But conveniently forget the hundred thousand that died That, my dear grandson, is where I lost my leg Though often I wished I had died instead Eventually Rommels army were beat And seemed to wither away in that awful desert heat But once in November, every single year I stand in silence, wipe away my tears And I pray to God with all my might That my beautiful boy will never have to fight...
Posted on: Mon, 04 Nov 2013 03:30:34 +0000
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