Colin F. Jones


Fatigue and misery are the soldiers’ lot,
Sweat and pain; freezing cold and hot,
Mud clad boots rain teeming down,
Wind blown grit from the sandy ground.
Digging trenches; filling sandbags too,
From dawn to dusk; the whole night through,
Always anxious ready and alert,
Sometimes afraid; afraid of being hurt.
Loaded down with ammo and grenades,
Haversacks and entrenching spades.
Rifles, MGs, helmets protective vests,
Maps and compass; and all the bluddy rest,
Ration packs, hoochies, hope and brotherhood,
And something else not quite understood.