He lay stretched out on the narrow iron framed bed
Idly staring at the cracked and blotchy ceiling,
Its surface resembling a map of no man's land,
A senseless wilderness of craters and barbed wire.
Unthinking, his mind was empty of all feeling
Other than a sense of utter futility,
A weariness that had seeped into his marrow
Like the water bleeding from the walls of the trench
Whose narrow confines had become his entire world,
A place of despair, stealing the light from his soul.
******
He lit a Woodbine, and watched the skeins of blue smoke
Drifting upwards to add their yellow residue
To the stains left by countless other cigarettes
Smoked by other soldiers in this room, on this bed.
Lifting his head to look round the squalid little room,
Taking in the broken chair with his brown tunic
Carelessly slung over the back, his revolver
Lying on the dirty floor where it had fallen.
Looking the other way he could see the nightstand
With its cracked ewer and basin, and the mirror,
On the wall behind, where the eyes of a stranger
Had blankly stared back at him from the mottled glass,
When he had laid out his razor and shaving brush.
Christ he was tired,
So God-almighty fucking tired.
*****
He woke up with a start,
“Look sharp lads,” he shouted, at
“Get the fuck into the dugouts,”
Then remembered,
Realising the crump of exploding shells was
Just a door banging shut somewhere in the hotel.
“Shit,” he thought,
“I need a good fuck with a cheap whore,
A few sweet moments of blessed oblivion,
Anything to wipe out the memories of death,
Christ, something,
Anything to make me feel alive.”
*****
He slept again, dreaming of that golden summer
In Oxford, in another world, before this hell,
Punting on the Isis, the laughing girls and boys,
Oh they were so innocent in that far off time,
Blissfully, carelessly unaware that their world
Was soon to end in a welter of mud and gore,
Men blown into smithereens, the beauty of limbs
Shattered by uncaring shells, or ripped to pieces
In a hail of bullets spewed out by faceless guns.
*****
He remembered one particular girl, sister
Of his closest friend John, who died a year ago,
In his arms, murmuring through mangled lips, of England,
Of home and beauty, green meadows and waving corn,
His lifeblood seeping into the cold foreign soil
Of Flanders, just one of thousands to die that day,
June nineteen sixteen,
The first battle of the Somme,
Sacrificed on the altar of stupidity,
The folly of politicians, blinded by pride,
And fat generals still fighting yesterday's wars,
Immune to the effects of hot metal on flesh,
Safe in the luxury of their plush headquarters.
*****
Charlotte was her name, Charlie to her closest friends,
Eighteen years old when he first met her, three years ago
When he was invited to spend Christmas with John
And his family at their home in Gloucestershire,
A warm and friendly thatched cottage of Cotswold stone,
In a picture postcard village, beside a green,
Just across from the parish church, and country inn.
He remembered the very first time he saw her,
A heart shaped face framed by tumbling auburn tresses,
With a welcoming smile, and a mischievous laugh,
Vivacious and so full of life,
Stealing his heart.
*****
They had made tender love many times that summer,
In his college rooms, lying naked on his bed,
Gloriously happy in the first flush of love,
Laughing with happiness, suspended in time,
Oblivious to the threatening clouds of war
Spreading their malevolent blight over Europe,
So soon to destroy for ever their innocence,
The beauty of youthful limbs trampled underfoot
Beneath the jackboots of anonymous armies,
Marching robot like across the ravaged landscape,
Of their dreams, the end of a golden age of hope.
Best of all were those afternoons when in a rowboat
They would escape to some secluded backwater
Where, lying in the long grass of the riverbank
He would enter into the mystery of her soul
In a joyful dance of mutual ecstasy,
Radiant with the light of consummated love.
And afterwards, laughing with delight, they would bathe
Naked, playing like children in the cool water,
Only returning home as last rays of the sun
Sent long shadows across the gently flowing stream.
*****
The last time they spent together was in London,
The night before he embarked for France, and glory.
John was there too, with his current girl on his arm.
They went to the Savoy, dinner first, then dancing,
Resplendent in their uniforms, second lieutenants,
In the Gloucestershire Regiment, badges polished,
And boots shining, ready to serve King and Country.
He told Charlotte, better not to upset herself
By seeing them onto the train in the morning,
As he kissed away her tears after making love,
No need to make a fuss, much too embarrassing,
Besides, he said, it would be over by Christmas,
And when he returned they could think about marriage,
A summer wedding would be nice, with all the frills,
With a long honeymoon on the Riviera,
Antibes was particularly nice he’d been told,
Less crowded than Nice or Monaco in summer..