Back in 1914, my grandfather traveled to France, Its wasnt for a holiday there was no party dance. There were no posh hotels chandeliers and wine What he was faced with should be seen as a war crime. Mud up to his elbows, boots so wet they stank, inadequate clothing, They hardly had a chance. The called them “cannon fodder” and that should give us all a clue, They died together side by side, well what else could they do. They were young and inexperienced, they’d never seen a gun , not like some of the officers that used them just for fun. Which ever way they turned there was no escape, To go and fight or turn and run, they knew what was their fate. Conditions they were awful, the food and where they slept, the British Army at their best, uncaring and inept. They sent these young lads out there, expectations they had none, not very many came back, talking of the sun. My grandad , he got lucky , if you can call it that, After watching all his buddies die , he had to drag them back. He didn’t want to leave them rotting in the soil, so he brought them back across the line, one man’s sorry toil. We are so very proud of what he did that day, Standing by his friends , there when they passed away. He was awarded a Military Medal, his efforts recognised, never leave a friend behind, be with him as he dies. In honour of Arthur Bond, Military Medal. Cheryl OBrien
Posted on: Fri, 07 Nov 2014 11:47:35 +0000
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