Young enough still to hold my fathers <br />hands, we walked at my pace. <br /> <br />passing stalls selling stencils, crumpled <br />comics, mystical rugs it was endless. <br /> <br />Father led me to a spot draped in <br />camouflaged sheets. A man behind <br /> <br />the badge littered table smiled. I saluted <br />him with the right hand he saluted with <br /> <br />the left. Looking at my father with a <br />silent question. The man smiled, lifted <br /> <br />an armless arm 'lost it on the fourth day <br />of D-Day' He looked down at his <br /> <br />sagging collection of silver and bronze <br />badges 'in honour of my arm' he sighed. <br /> <br />Father bought me a unspent bullet <br />polished and gleaming. Leading me <br /> <br />through the horde of people I asked <br />father why he had never showed me <br /> <br />Grandads medals. Father looked <br />out at the sea and squeezed my hand. <br /> <br />Tighter and more affectionalty than ever <br />before 'There are many types of a <br /> <br />casulties of war'. This did not make <br />sense for a long time. Until last week <br /> <br />when I stumbled upon a yellow aged <br />letter written by my Nan to her friend <br /> <br />Betty telling her that her husband had <br />met a 'French Whore' whilst he was <br /> <br />serving his country and he would not <br />be coming home again.<br /><br />Not Long Left<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/casualties-of-war/
