Old Bootnecks never die. I met him at the Staffordshire Wall, that cold November day, His eyes were clear and bright, although his hair was grey. He wore a faded jacket, and as he knelt and prayed, I looked in admiration at his medals on display. Proud of my own new uniform, I stood up straight and tall, Beside this older bootneck, now weeping by this Wall, His hands seemed somehow faded, like the tiny badge they held, He stumbled slightly as he rose; I now his cane beheld. And as he looked at me, his eyes still filled with tears, A smile of recognition came, despite my fewer years, One glance up at my uniform, another at my chest, Told him of my recent past, my face told him the rest. “In WW2 they said we won;” deep pain now filled his eyes. “But I remember, yes I remember, the agony and cries.” “For many years I’ve kept this badge, and carried it with pride, In memory of our brothers there who fought and bled and died.” “I tried to re-join,” he said, “They said I was too old.” “And this old leg feels greater pain, ‘specially in the cold.” My own eyes now filled with tears as he gave the badge to me. “Carry this for all the others who died to keep us free.” I think about that old bootneck, who passed to me his dream, Whilst kneeling here with all my kit beside an Afghan stream, I swear by all that’s holy that I will do my best, To save his dream, then touch the badge now tucked into my vest. “Duty, honour, Country,” now becomes my creed, I serve the cause of England, I ride on freedom’s steed, As we get on board, the Chinook, to Afghan plains we fly, I touch this badge and now recall, “Old Bootnecks never die.”
Posted on: Sat, 28 Sep 2013 19:45:33 +0000
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