Jim - Unknown Author - The Trenches - 1916

I’m wondering at a poignant time if it’s possible through this forum to feature a verse written long ago by an author whose name will never be known ? I have many in my collection and this one is absolutely my favourite as a lover of dogs. It’s perhaps not widely realised that soldiers in the trenches of WW1 often adopted stray dogs left behind by fleeing civilians, and had good reason for doing so. This verse to my knowledge has never been published anywhere, which is a shame I think. - Alan Marquis

Jim - Unknown Author - The Trenches - 1916

A hard little, scarred little terrier
with a touch of sheep-dog thrown-in.
A mongrel, no matter,
for there’s no better ratter,
in trenches or dug-outs than Jim.

A tough little, rough little beggar
and merry are the eyes of him.
No German nor Turk
could do dirtier work,
with an enemy rat, than Jim.

He’s a fighter and a biter,
fear is unknown to Jim.
Loyal and bold with a heart of pure gold,
he loves me as I love him.

When light is done, night is falling
and the shadows are dark and dim,
in my greatcoat he’ll nuzzle,
his pink little muzzle
and growl in his dreams, little Jim.

Unknown Author - The Trenches - 1916.

Unknown Soldier - Alan Marquis

Now he’s just a soldier
once christened with a name,
who lived and breathed and questioned,
as to fields of war he came.
Where death has taken away from him
that final, last respect,
denied a name upon his stone,
the least he could expect.

In Flanders fields he bravely trod,
this unnamed soldier known to God.

His mother never came here
with tears to cloud her eyes,
nor children bringing flowers,
for they knew not where he lies.
So here’s a place to remember,
with roses, lillies or a poppy cross,
knowing not a name, yet mourning still a loss.

In Flanders fields he answered the cry
and here in peace will forever lie.

A soldier among thousands
who fell in Flanders mud,
has no name to honour him
yet once was flesh and blood.
Someone somewhere loved him
this soldier who had no choice,
and whatever language was his
he might ask if he still had voice.

Forget me not, Vergissmeinicht,
une soldat inconnue,
sacrificed not in vain,
if at least I’m remembered by you.

In Flanders fields he faithfully trod,
not really a soldier, just a boy,
and now, . . . only known to God.

Alan Marquis

November 19th 1918 - Alan Marquis

`It’s December next month lads,
and at last there’s nothing to fear.`
`All over by Christmas they said,
though they didn’t mention which year.`

`We’ve a parrafin lamp to see by,
as we write our letters home.`
`no more reason to march anywhere,
never again any cause to roam.`

`A charcoal stove a’glowing,
filled for a change with fuel,
if we sit almost inside it,
there’s relief from cold that’s cruel.`

`And across the way out there,
the foe have no more hate.`
`They’re doing the same as us,
raking embers from the grate.`

`Abandoned are the weapons of war,
no bullets or bombs in the night.`
`Thoughts of peace have substance now,
sleep well my friends, sleep tight.`

R.I.P. John Duquemin, John Rihoy, George Robert. who served with 245 ( Guernsey ) Troops Company RE.
All three perished as a result of Carbon Monoxide Poisoning on the 19th of November 1918.

Alan Marquis

Warmth - Alan Marquis

Pacing anxiously up and down, how I worried waiting there,
until my cabin door bursting open, filled with an icy stare.
A vision of beauty, perfection, all I could do was smile,
as frantic fears dissolving, lifted my heart a mile.

No greater relief could exist, than that within my breast,
my love for a wandering lady, who put me to this test.
Laughing aloud in deepest joy, unable to conceal desire,
I urged a welcome quickly, to a place beside the fire.

Where logs seemed to glow more brightly, fuelled by her perfection,
while wind outside howled cruelly, indignant at rejection.
As I wrapped my arms so tightly, around her trembling frame,
whispering words of love, repeating, again and again her name.

Ice cold water dripping, from tangled, matted hair,
she glared, indignant, at my over-zealous care.
Though I felt I should be angry, at reckless desire to go,
wandering alone in moonlight, out there in freezing snow.

Yet how could I speak of danger, how could I explain my fright,
knowing she loves the snow, I could never deny her right.
So concealing my dismay, I pretended not to mind instead,
as a sopping-wet dog, my lady, sought refuge in my once dry bed.

R.I.P. `Indy` Half Husky)Bannf, Canada.

Alan Marquis

Telegram Boy - Alan Marquis

Please don’t halt your bicycle,
do not dismount at my door.
Though I long for news from my lover,
I don’t want to hear of war.

Watching from behind my curtain,
I see you pass every day,
praying you will not stop,
dreading what a message might say.

No news in two months now,
no letter of love and kissing.
Nothing since that awful news,
`Regret your husband is Missing.`

My heart sinks to lowest ebb,
almost making me want to hate.
Your bicycle falls in the hedge,
you reach to open my gate.

Moments pass as the world unwinds,
waiting for unwelcome knocking,
my life in a whirlwind passing,
as future hopes are unlocking.

The longest walk of all my life,
to answer your dutiful call.
My footsteps echo in the hallway,
as my heart begins building a wall.

And a painted box behind the door,
those much loved wooden toys.
Already I struggle to imagine,
how on earth will I tell our boys ?

Alan Marquis

Nameless Fears - Alan Marquis

1st Btn Essex Rgt. Patrol report, Feb 1917, Boom Ravine, Somme.
Outpost sentry not named.

Nameless Fears - Alan Marquis

Waiting, waiting, in still of night, almost drowning in a sea of black,
my thumping heart a candle, flickering to welcome them back.
As emptiness cloaks the earth, a bitter wind blows from the north,
I’m forbidden to leave my post, I cannot go back nor forth.
So alone I wait, only part prepared, for duty I half understand,
watching a rat attracted by warmth, hesitate near my hand.

I hear sighing sounds in darkness, from friends or foe I enquire,
or gas erupting from rag-dolls, hanging limply on the wire.
Then dull metallic clinking, my nerves are wearing quite thin,
is that someone creeping near me or a wind-blown empty tin.
And sudden, protesting squeals of anguish, what the hell is that,
perhaps the foe who test me, or just another loathsome rat.

Ice is forming around my boots, `O Dear Lord with me abide.`
I cannot even feel, do they still have my feet inside.
No glorious thoughts in mind, of fighting to make men free,
I only want to bugger-off home, for a steaming mug of tea.
But I’m losing my grip, I must focus on a ghastly plot,
or risk that final difference, between living a life, or not.

Soon I know they’ll come at me, those mud-men from the night,
expecting me to challenge them, though not to fire in fright.
So I try to hold my courage, every minute growing older,
knowing friends are out there, is comfort to make me bolder.
Though shivering in my misery, as my throat fills-up with phlegm,
a cough could make me vulnerable and be greater risk for them.

A machine gun rattles hatefully, somewhere far-off along the line,
punctuating someone’s death, thankfully this time at least, not mine.
And I’m not a bloody General, I cannot see the greater plan,
nor anything much at all in fact, I’m just a bewildered man.
Waiting for mates to appear, or someone to rush from the gloom,
wondering how soon till relief, or how sudden might be my doom.

Duty to mates is clearly defined, I know perfectly well what to be,
though not so clear is Flanders night through which I cannot see.
As awful sounds assault my ears, sudden threatening noises of night,
I hold my rifle closer, for love of life squeeze it tight.
I’m waiting, must not leave my post, it seems I wait for years,
nerves on edge, heart racing fast, forgive me for nameless fears.

Alan Marquis

Beaumont Hamel, Somme 1916 - Alan Marquis

This poem is my interpretation of an event which took place in November 1916. My source was a conversation with the son of a veteran of 51st ( Highland ) Division, Bob Duncan. 7th Btn Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders. His service record from WW1 and a sketch-book, were presented to the Museum at Sterling Castle in June of this year. - Alan

The Battle of the Somme began early on the morning of July 1, 1916, near the town of Beaumont-Hamel. In less than half an hour, the fighting was over. That one day remains the bloodiest day in the history of the British Army. 57,470 British soldiers were killed or wounded. For the next 3 months the Beaumont-Hamel front remained relatively quiet; while the great battles of the Somme raged to the South. Then, on November 13, 1916, Beaumont-Hamel was assaulted by the 51st (Highland) Division in what was to be the final act of the Somme battles. Within a day, all the 29th Division objectives of July 1 had been taken; along with a great many German prisoners. - John

Beaumont Hamel, Somme 1916 - Alan Marquis

We buried him there beside a track, in a shallow grave of mud,
where we found him lying obscenely, stained by his own dark blood.
Just another bloated corpse, yet another shell without soul,
not worthy of special mention, nor effort of making a hole.

No noble act of compassion, we barely stopped to think,
only needing to cover him over, to curtail an awful stink.
Yet we felt compelled for some reason, to search him for a name,
perhaps in hope for ourselves, that someone might do the same.

We found a silver pocket-watch and wedding-band of gold,
both inscribed with a single word, in Gothic letters clear and bold.
`Elona.` Such a pretty name, and then we found her smiles,
in battered, faded photographs he’d carried along his miles.

Our hearts returned to us, in sorrow for a lady and a foe,
he’d never see her face again, his fate she’d never know.
For we found no name nor number, nothing to give a clue,
though across one crumpled image, she’d written, `Ich Liebe Du.`

In sombre mood we laid him down, in shell-torn wilderness, by a track,
his treasured things of course, all of them were given back.
A burial brief and without fuss,
little enough for the journey, of a man after all, like us.

Alan Marquis

The Angel From Hell Came Driving. (with his dog) - Alan Marquis

The wind a force of darkness, running its endless race,
the moon a huge silver rocket, soaring supreme through space,
as neon light bathed tarmac, at the last-stop petrol point,
when the Angel from hell came driving, to Charlie’s Hamburger Joint.

He’d a baseball cap on his head, a beard filled with boils at his chin,
a jacket of smooth black leather and Levi’s worn pretty thin.
His T-shirt glistened and glimmered, in that light it seemed like new,
but that was just reflection, from oil-stains, more than a few.

Wheels kicked-up dust in the car park, headlights cut night like a knife,
as he leaned on his horn for a moment, to call for the love of his life.
Skidding through a cloud, spilling beer from an ill-balanced bottle,
throaty engine roaring as he revved impatiently at his throttle.

Then a vision in shadowed light, she appeared from around the back,
Charlie’s black-eyed daughter, Conchita, munching on a snack.
Twenty stone of blubber, her bum almost four feet wide,
but the Angel from Hell adored her, `My Babe, My Babe,` he cried.

She hurried across the parking lot, her progress not with ease,
unfamiliar with any exercise, and her face filled with triple-cheese.
The Angel wrapped arms around her, or as much as he could reach,
in desperate effort to move her, like pushing a whale on a beach.

Struggling for breath the Angel, tried to lift her to the truck’s floor,
there wasn’t a moment to waste, and she’d never fit through the door.
Heaving one leg in a panic, he couldn’t manage both together,
and time was not on their side, if they wanted to live forever.

To the Angel’s mangy, cross-bred dog, this excitement lacked any fizz,
since he knew if arses got shot tonight, the first one would likely be his.
So leaping from the truck, he stole a triple cheese then bit Conchita’s butt,
and she cleared the tail-board in a mighty jump, thanks to a wise old mutt.

Then Charlie came screaming from the joint, greasy scarf around his head,
waving a twelve-gauge shotgun, he aimed to fill the Angel with lead.
But swirling dust in the driveway, spinning wheels, he was just too late,
as Angel hit pedal to metal, and in the back rolled his black-eyed mate.
(and a dog eating a burger)

Away along desert highway, seeking life they could live by their wits,
a forty burgers a day fat chick, and an Angel with a beard full of zits.
And whatever you may make of this tale, one thing is sure alone,
the Angel and his big Conchita, both owed the dog a bone.

Alan Marquis

Only Yesterday - Alan Marquis

To me they are the same, in every perfect way,
those sweet sounds across the bay,
resounding in caves beside surf and foam,
where a boy once played, who called this home.

Here in these caverns, so cool and deep,
the wind outside is calm, still asleep,
as light comes to hold in quivering gleam,
silent sea-weed, swaying in the stream.

Though the boy of old is still in my eye,
his long passed dreams can only sigh,
for those days when he scrambled beside,
and shared unknowingly, a throne with the tide.

Where once his laughter filled these caves,
drifted out, far across those waves,
the boy in his heart must fondly say,
those happy days were really, only yesterday.

Alan Marquis