Memories of War

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: War and Military  |  House: Booksie Classic
This write was inspired by the interview with Harry Patch. He was the last tommy. It is a fictional write loosly based on his and other peoples experiences brought togethet to give the reader a small insight into what these lads went through.

Submitted: February 26, 2012

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Submitted: February 26, 2012




(Humbly dedicated to the last veterans of World War One)


He stares through the window

In wheelchair he knows,

Gabriel is just a pause behind him.

His last duty, to open a door in his mind

Of memories torn from 1917, where he left,

Jack Fred and Bert, Pals forever


A moment singled out from a thousand days of torment

Bully Beef, Baccy and sweet tea in the Morning

A pair of socks from a loved one,

And friendship forged in the baptism of War.

These were his treasures, His only relief


Then the guns of Britannia, manufacturing widows by the gross, as

Gas and Shell screamed for their quota of today’s carcass.

For a moment Harry felt sadness for his foe

Then it was gone


No time,

Heart Beating, Breath quickening, Stomach in Knots,

Fear held in check to avoid the Officer’s gun,

No time left, Stay Close Jack, Fred glanced,

While Bert squeezed a locket around his neck

A quick nod, The Soldiers farewell

Then the whistle, Gabriel’s Horn, over the top


His refuge abandoned, for the embrace of the fog,

It masked the land, as if to avoid offending God

Slowly creeping its vale of death,


Gun in hand they walked into the grey.

Fodder for the Machine gun, No defence, we fall.

Once more our lads are summoned into oblivion.

Their blood sanitizing the soil with England’s youth

Like a red carpet, for their comrades to walk the next day.

Then the retreat, back to his rat infested trench

Gods reward he thought,


The Roll call, Silence for Jack, Silence for Fred, and Silence for Bert

Harry felt shame in answering, for a second; he too wanted to embrace silence with his pals.

But Soldiers must go on, as do the righteous

And England expects

For I fight for a Heavenly cause, so I’m told,

Though I do not know what that is


All I know is fear

Although this impostor, I can live with

You see my friends are gone;

My humanity is lost

And my soul awaits its next trial

Is it a blessing that I am alive or,

Just a delay,


For death stalks me, waiting for his reward.

My sanity saved only by the sweet tea and a cig,

Dry socks, and a letter or two from home

No time for sentiment, the whistle,


Memories, memories

Oh, there you are Gabriel welcome.

Hello lads where you been.




© Copyright 2017 steven cooke. All rights reserved.

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