Proud I was, to join up and fight for my Country. <br />The khaki uniform, the regimental badge. <br /> <br />Then I saw Charlie. He bled to death, poor sod, <br />no one to help him, <br />he was just cannon fodder. <br /> <br />Are we winning Sarge? <br /> <br />Stuck in this filthy trench, socks saturated, serge wet, <br />soul soaked in despair. <br /> <br />What're we fighting for Sarge? <br /> <br />I'd write home, but they'd most likely never receive it, <br />and even a letter would be plastered with mud <br />before it even got as far as the envelope. <br /> <br />Ammo's low Sarge! <br /> <br />Firing at mirages, floating far off in a mist, <br />ethereal bodies. <br /> <br />Call this life, mate! <br />Nah! Living death! <br /> <br />They said it'll be over by Christmas. <br />Do you believe that Sarge? <br /> <br />Hope so, cos all we have left is 'hope'! <br /> <br />© Ernestine Northover<br /><br />Ernestine Northover<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-somme-1916/
