Anon

 

A Soldier's Conscience

Author unknown. Taken from the diary of Peter Trodden. Thanks to Mike Trodden.

 

German boy with cold blue eyes,

In the cold and blue moonrise,

I who live and still shall know,

The flower's that smell and winds that blow,

I who live to walk again,

Tired that shot that broke your brain.

 

By your hair all stiff with blood!

By your lips befouled with mud,

By your dreams that shall no more,

Leave the nest and sing and soar,

By the children never born,

From your body smashed and torn.

 

When I too shall stand at last,

In the deadlands vast!

Shall you heap upon my soul,

Agonies of coal!

 

Shall you bind my throat with cords?

Stab me through and through with swords,

Or shall you be gentler far,

Than a bird or than a star.

 

Shall you say, "the way was hid"

Lord he knew not what he did,

Shall you know that I was bound,

In the noose that choked your sound.

 

Shall your eyes that day be mild,

Like the sacrifice of the child,

German boy with cold blue eyes,

In the cold and blue moonrise.

 

 

For God's Sake Get Us Out

Author unknown. Taken from the diary of Peter Trodden. Thanks to Mike Trodden.

 

Now all you people way back home,

Just listen here to me,

And as you hear my story,

A picture you will see,

Of 27 forgotten men,

Weary, worn and sad,

Victims of this filthy war,

A man who must be mad,

Sometimes think and ponder,

As you go about,

Hear us as we kneel and pray,

"For God's sake get us out."

 

Whilst Churchill and the house all stand,

And chatter like parrots,

We're walking round this lousy camp,

Swapping peas for carrots,

Then he sits down, with his cigar,

And says, all will be well,

And someone at the back calls out,

Telling us they will,

Then get our medals ready,

Have our pay made up,

Then send the Royal Navy,

And for God's sake, "Get us out."

 

And as our Parsons in the pulpit stand,

And pray for all their might,

We're working on this German road,

Shovelling from morn till night,

You're praying for the heathens,

Sunken, wiry boys,

And were fed up, far from home,

And wearing bleeding clogs,

Then tell your white winged angels,

Who are flying all about,

That on our bended knees we're praying,

For God's sake, "Get us out."

 

You lovers in the moonlight,

Petting in the lane,

Think of us just begging,

For fog or mist or rain,

And as you pet and kiss,

And cry out loud for more,

We're playing solo, whilst,

Behind a padlocked door,

And as you pray to God for strength,

And stroll around about,

Think of your poor prisoners,

And for "God's sake, get us out."

 

Now all you boozy drunkards,

Stewed, sodden, drunk

Think of us just dreaming,

In our lousy wooden bunk,

We're dreaming of the days,

When we also did get stewed,

Now we walk about this land,

Laughed at, sneered and booed,

So when you order drinks all round,

Whisky, rum and stout,

Order us a barrel, and for God's sake get us out.

 

And you dear wife away back home,

As the kiddies go to bed,

As they kneel and bow their heads,

Tell them that daddy,

Always says a simple prayer,

Prays to God for his wife,

And kiddies, sweet and fair,

Soon we'll meet again my sweet,

And the kiddies will laugh and shout,

And say their prayers were answered,

For God has got you out.

 

 

Give A Thought

Author unknown. Taken from the diary of Peter Trodden. Thanks to Mike Trodden.

 

Have you ever wondered what they think,

In Blighty day by day?

Have you ever wondered if they say a prayer,

For you while you're away?

Let me re-assure you lads,

They give us all a thought,

To those who have not yet returned,

Who went away and fought.

 

Do you ever give a thought to them,

Amidst their strife and cares?

Do you also think to say each night,

Just one or two small progress?

You'll find that life goes better lads,

When everything seems blue,

If you give a thought to those who would who wait,

So patiently for you.

 

 

Memories of Crete

Dedicated to the memory of my comrades who fell in Crete. By G. R. Eldridge. Taken from the diary of Peter Trodden. Thanks to Mike Trodden.

On a mountainous little island,

Nestled in the Aegean Sea,

By the dromes at Retimo,

At Heraklion and Maleme,

Are the graves of our fallen comrades,

In dozens they lie,

Their death was the kind that only,

Gallant soldiers die.

 

On that mountainous little island,

With its peaks all capped with snow,

With its groves of olive trees,

And grape vines row on row,

From the ocean wreathed with white caps,

In the mountains wreathed the same,

Are the fields where they fought so bravely,

they who carried the Allied name.

 

And we who were there remember,

Those day's of hell on Crete,

And we hope that when our time comes,

Those pals again we'll meet,

And as we trudge along the road,

Of life that is left to be,

Our thoughts will often turn to them,

Who sleep, neath the olive tree.

 

 

My England

Author unknown. Taken from the diary of Peter Trodden. Thanks to Mike Trodden.

 

England, my England,

My soul, my life,

My heart beats for you,

In joy or in strife,

You gave me, dear England,

a bed, a home.

 

To return to, no matter where,

I chanced to roam,

In poverty or wealth,

On land or on sea,

Winning or losing, my thoughts are with thee,

Though undeserving of favours,

There's one thing, I crave,

When I die, my England,

May your earth, be my grave!

 

 

Thoughts

Author unknown. Taken from the diary of Peter Trodden. Thanks to Mike Trodden.

 

You are ever in my thoughts,

Though parted we may be,

Side by side we walk its path of merry,

In the lands of hearts' desire we live, and laugh and love,

The future bright before us, and a cloudless sky above,

I cannot hear your voice nor take your hand in mine,

But none can rob me of my dream, nor take my hopes away,

Our lives once linked together, now be so far apart,

But you're ever in my thoughts and always in my heart!

 

 

To My Wife

Author unknown. Taken from the diary of Peter Trodden. Thanks to Mike Trodden.

 

Every time the sun comes out,

My thoughts return to you,

For there's a world of happiness,

In everything you do.

Your courage makes my task seem light,

You brighten all my way,

Because your loving heart has found,

The beauty in each day.

 

 

Wait

Author unknown. Taken from the diary of Peter Trodden. Thanks to Mike Trodden.

 

A sky of blue, the sun is showing brightly overhead, and yet my heart is cold within.

I lack not comfort, safety, health or anything I need to live, my yearning would seem sin.

Beneath the roof that shelters me, our warmth and char and company.

Little do they score, compared with how my aching heart is seething and unsettled as a tide-swept shore.

For I am tied as light as any fettered criminal could be - a prisoner of war.

And yet a card of silver stretches round my heart and back again to England's shore.

I feel I'd gladly venture back right through that hell which brought me here, just for one sight.

If that sweet face I love so well; but God says "No, not yet!" and he is right!

For he must teach me how to wait and watch and pray in tracks of time and fate.

I cannot hope to be as gold tried in the fire, unless he does, so patiently, I wait!

 

 

Where War the R.A.F.???

Author unknown. Taken from the diary of Peter Trodden. Thanks to Mike Trodden.

 

Said the Kiwi, Aussie, and Tommy,

Things are getting rather tough,

Have we got a B----- Air Force,

Or is it just a bluff.

 

They left us on the river,

They left us on the pass,

The dirty rotten B-------,

Want a bayonet in their ----.

 

We didn't want their glory,

We didn't want their fame,

But they couldn't help the Tommy's,

Uphold their famous name.

 

The B.B.C. announces,

The boys are doing well,

They're backed up by the air force,

We are like B----- hell.

 

Now when the war is over,

And victory has been claimed,

I wonder if they'll remember,

The graves without a name,

The boys who fell in Brest.

 

They fought without a plane,

They didn't fight for glory,

They didn't fight for fame,

They only fought for victory,

And the good old Tommies name.