Defence of the Realm
- J.B.Wilson
- May 26
- 4 min read
A journal discovered exploring that day,
in a box in a closet, in dust, tucked away.
The ex-pedition, that caused me to forage
and led me to rustle and discard my porridge...
Was that of a thought over breakfast one morn,
to look for a jumper, the one often worn.
Something once lost, no longer adrift,
the lock I did fiddle, and caused it to shift.
The porridge and jumper? My interest was lost,
as the box from the closet, contained a wee ghost.
What's this? (I thought and wonderfully puzzled,)
a stiff cardboard jotter 'twas formerly muzzled.
A logbook? (I questioned,) with prose, verse and rhyme?
No not neither them, 'twas words - lost in time.
Corporal Graham McGinty, faintly scribbled and wearing,
the honest words written were common and sweary.
I'll tell you his entries, through verse prose and rhyme.
If you like... but bear with me, it'll take quite a time.
Corporal Graham McGinty - had a regiment see,
his number it stated, Six slash Seven Three.
An ar-my lad, no longer around,
his diary of stories, that's what I’d found.
Tales of his mates, and the horrors of war,
the battle he fought in, the terrors he saw.
I'll spare you the language, it's quite bad and shocking,
disguising his fear and his dreads they were blocking.
A foe they'd encountered, like none before seen,
who dillied and dallied at speed through the green.
“Stand fast!” - Called the sergeant, (or something like that,
as the Corporals words used were more common and flat).
“Be ready!” - A shout - as the enemy flew,
o’er the heads of his fellows,
brave lads - holding true.
And just like that, the menace was gone,
too fast for these heroes, (who rose at the dawn).
The morning drew long, the mist cloaked the field,
they filed along ramparts, with sword, hat and shield.
Nervously waiting, for orders and whistles,
to break for the bushes, the leaves and the thistles.
Larry, it says, was sent as a scout,
to gather the intel’, and give back a shout,
if he spotted the Barron, or heard him a’ buzzing,
‘round litter, or flower, or simply just huzzing.
“He's coming!” Cried Larry, we watched as he fell,
slipping and sliding, t’was quite hard to tell.
The first of many, to fall that day,
no time to worry, and no time to say.
“Charge!”, cried a Major, I think his name Tom?,
(unsure from the journal, as the page it was torn).
“For Larry!”, came a holler, “We'll show him our metal!”,
Bob, Jim and Terry - they dashed for a petal.
By lunch we had charged, gained ground by the inch,
thank Larry’s slimed trail, we avoided his ditch.
Chaffinch took Frank, Blue Tit snared Wally,
this charge from the Major was nothing but folly.
Alf, Fred and Ginger, stuck to dried leaves,
“Pray let this be over.”, they panted and heaved.
“Behind us!”, “No Left!”, “Over there!”, “Up above!”,
confusion, disorder, “Oh hell!, there's a Dove!”
Carnage, (it says, in the book, from the closet),
(I'll take a quick break, and a drink from the faucet).
-(ah, that's better)-
A number of pages, stuck fast like glue,
I suspect sticky fingers, from McGinty, (it's true).
When evening it came, (the story - took root),
Many had suffered, tubercles, keel ‘n’ foot.
The sun dried our mucus, unable to flee,
“Oh why won't the Barron, just buzz off, let be.”
“Retreat!” and a whistle - far too late,
the heat we feared, had sealed our fate.
Four inches we gained, then gave in a day,
to return home again, such a loss - such affray…
While tending the injured, a Gen-eral issued,
an order to rally, (as they wrapped Tod in tissue).
Our luck was to turn as it did with the weather,
the Barron, it seemed, stuck in boot made of leather.
The last of us darted at speed in a hurry
to capture the Barron and end all the worry.
It took us the week, to gain the few feet,
to reach the old boot and the Barron to meet.
A leaf it would seem, had landed and sealed,
the demons escape, from collar and heal.
A blood churning “Run!”, as we faced the great foe,
he escaped, (it says) from a hole in the toe.
The last of McGinty’s entries I read,
shed light on the ending, when most were near dead.
Exhausted and drying, sun stroke / dehydration…
These warrior heroes, to safeguard their nation,
had given their lives, (it reads like a folly,
for most could be saved, for sake of a brolly).
McGinty and chums, followed whistle and order,
leaving safety of home, to race o’er the border.
A long time ago, back in nineteen eleven,
their losses remembered, in tiny wee heaven.
(And as for the Barron? - He dried in a flower.)
—The fight may be his - but the war shall be ours—
Last words of
Corporal Graham McGinty
6/73 - The summer of 1911
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