Scar

(written after listening to a WW1 survivor recorded in 1980).

Of course we were bloody afraid
squatting for what seemed like hours,
and hours, the worst bit
waiting on a bloody policeman’s whistle
to squeal out our advance,
one last thought of home
mum, dad, Doris and Bill
and there it is!
at last, we’re Up!
I hope it’s quick, whichever way it goes
and doesn’t hurt too much.
Our young captain called us heroes
but he was the first to go down
like a sack of spuds,
tripped me over, cut my lip
on his shattered helmet
poor bugger.
Don’t listen to them
if they tell you we ran,
we trudged, slowly,
stumbling through a bastard scream
waiting to be caught
by the buzz and ping
and the searing pain.
I’m ashamed to say I was lucky,
my knee’s fucked but  I got back
unlike Frank and Harry and Shiner!
All I brought home was a memory,
of that Captain’s helmet
and the scar on my mouth.
I see his face not mine
every day
when I shave.

© Graham Sherwood 07/2016