The Squaddie


Just a whine then a phut! Was the last sound he heard

As his body hit the ground.

No one was to notice not even the birds

As his blood spilled all around


No bier for him, no bugle call

No grave with its fine engraved cross.

No one would notice he wasn’t around

Truth is no one gave a toss.


At eighteen years he was hardly a man

Had never known love, only hate

Hadn’t really seen life since leaving high school

Not even a first serious date


Yet here he had died in this tropical mire

Not when or who by

Just lay on his back, his face to the sky.

Sightless eyes asking the question, why!


The rest of the troop had forged on ahead.

Not one of them dared to look back’

While today they try to remember the name of the man

Who they left on that dark jungle track.


More than forty years on and there’s nothing left

Of his being there is not trace

So we console ourselves repeating over again.

O’ please God, never again, what a waste


If you have found the web site of use or interest and you feel that you would like to show your appreciation, why not send a small donation to the memorial to the victims of Japanese bestiality being erected In St Martin in the Fields London on the 16th August.

Fepow Memorial at Camden