Colin F. Jones


Where do the bullets go, where fall the rounds
That create trajectories through the sodden air?
We see them fly and know they hit the ground,
But really we, as gunners, know not where.
We taste the cordite, feed the hungry breach,
Slamming it shut behind another shell,
Pull the lanyard when the bubbles reach
A level that “fire” is the word we yell!
Buildings become new creations of flame and dust;
People lose their limbs and heads and lives
As we as gunners do the job we must,
Caring not if anyone survives.
And there is elation almost a passionate lust…
That later becomes an agony when it dies.