Grandpa,what did you do in the war ? [Moved]

This message was edited 2 times. Last update was at 02/11/2007 10:50:16

I am posting this here,but please feel free to move it to an appropriate place xx

I still remember the day I asked this question to my Grandpa,and the fact that I never really got a reply,accepting the silly remark that he made,the question was never asked again!!

Then this morning I was looking for a poem with Ruby-Mae and found this,which when I look back,makes so much sense.

Grandpa,what did you do in the war?

I`d been mowing the lawn and pulling some weeds,and slipped inside for a breather
I picked up the paper and turned on the news,not paying attention to either
When my grandson came in with a look on his face and a question that hit me full bore
An innocent question,no intention to hurt,"Grandpa,what did you do in the war?"

My skin went all creepy,I had sweat on my brow,my mind shot back fifty years
To bullets that thudded and whined all around,to terror,to nightmares,to tears
I was crawling through mud,I was shooting at men,tried to kill them before they killed me
Men who had wives and children at home,just like mine,just like my family.

"What did you do in the war?"he had asked,a question not meant to cause pain
But it brought back the horrors I`d left far behind in a deep dark recess of my brain
I remembered the bombs being dropped from the planes,the explosions,the screams,and the loss
Of a friend - or an enemy - but a life just the same,replaced by a small wooden cross.

The visions attacked me of tramping through jungles,hot and stinking,with leeches and flies
Of orders that seemed to make no sense at all - of distrust,of suspicians,of lies
I lived once again all those terrible storms,the dysentery,fever,the snakes,
The blisters that lives with me month after month,all those blunders,and costly mistakes.

But how could I tell the boy all about that,`Twould be better if he did`nt know
It`s a part of my life that I don`t talk about from a good half a century ago
So I gulped,took a breath and tried to sound calm,and bid him to sit by my side
Then opened my mouth to say a few words,but the tears welled up and I cried.

He cuddled to me with a look of concern,and I mumbled of feeling unwell
Then took hold of myself,blew hard on my nose,while I thought of some tales I could tell
"What did I do in the war," I began,then the stories began tumbling out
And they flowed with such ease I felt better again,and got over my pain and my doubt.

I told him of how I had made many friends,how I`d trained and had gone overseas
Made a joke of how seasick I`d been on the way,almost dirtied myself when I`d sneezed
I told of the joy of the letters from home,of the hand-knitted socks and the cake
That I got for my birthday but three weeks late ¬cause it went somewhere else by mistake.

We talked about mateship and what it had meant to trust someone else with your life
And of when I came home to my family again,to my kids,Mum and Dad,and my wife
Of the crowd on the wharf,the bands,and the pomp,and the pride I felt in the parade
But I`m not ashamed that I hood-winked the boy,a decision I`m glad I made.

He can grow up without seeing fear in my eyes,or know of the terror I knew
For he`d not understand - and neither he should - all those memories that hit me anew
But maybe some day when he`s older than now,I will tell him what war did to me
But with luck he won`t ask me ever again,about wars that never should be.

by Jeff Cook

So,Gordon Percy Lain,5 Commando,6 troop,heavy weapons........It`s 30 years later.......and I want you to know....I understand now xxxx R.I.P

Denise,
Yes that's a good poem. (as you will note I did move it

)

We all want to know what our fathers, grandfathers etc did during the War, but we're probably all guilty of tending to build a picture in our minds that comes straight out of comic books - the rugged hero (our fathers/grandfathers etc), dressed in immaculate uniform, battling on the side of good against evil...
But we all know it wasn't like that at all...
We tend to overlook the horrendous conditions that these guys had to endure, we forget that war is about killing fellow human beings. We push the awful atrocities that they witnessed, to the back of our minds.
And, naturally, the guys that witnessed all this don't want to talk about it.

At the same time these heroes, our fathers and grandfathers, must have great stories about camaraderie, friendship, initiative, survival etc that would be great to hear about.

see you soon,
Nick

Denise, its a beautiful verse that I suppose sums up what asking questions can do. I understand why my Dad didn't want to talk about his combat experiences. He would tell funny stories about events before or after action but barely ever mentioned what we would call te real nitty gritty. It wasn't until he was in his mid seventies that he upped and joined the RBL, mind you I think that was more for the cheapo ale and bingo nights!

See you in 7 days

Steve

For Denise,
A Poem For Remberance Day.
"The Inquisitive mind of a child"

Why are they selling poppies Mummy?
Selling Poppies in town today.
The Poppies, child are flowers of love.
For the men who marched away.

But why have they chosen a Poppy, Mummy?
Why not a beautiful rose?
Because my child, men fought and died
In the field where poppies grow.

But why are poppies so red Mummy?
Why are the poppies so red?
Red is the colour of blood, my child.
The blood that our soldiers shed.

The heart of the poppy is black, Mummy.
Why does it have to be black?
Black, my child is the symbol of grief.
For the men who never came back.

But why, Mummy are you crying so?
Your tears are giving you pain.
My tears are my fears for you my child.
For the world is forgetting again.

Lest we Forget.

Regards Ron

This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 03/11/2007 08:27:30

morning peeps!!

I need your help here....last year at the Alex we picked up a copy of "The Men of The Green Beret"....I can`t find my copy and was wanting a copy ofor Ruby-Mae to take to school.....this is the cheeky bit...I need it before Tuesday as that`s when we head off for our travelodge....so please have a root about for me!!

thanks,take care,Denise xx

See you all soon xxxxx

For you Denise and others who may not have seen it.

The Green Beret Men.

A word in the house, a stroke of the pen,
The country disbanded a body of men,
With fighting finesse and fitness supreme.
The creme de la creme, they wore berets of green.

Their training was tough, it had to be so.
How to fight with a knife, how to kill with one blow,
Salerno and Vaagso, Dieppe, St Nazaire,
With impossible odds, the Commando's were there.

Their raids so successful that Hitler said,
"If captured, no prisoners, I want these men dead",
Too late he discovered, his men were not keen,
To battle with those wearing berets of green.

On D Day at Sword beach, they were there to the fore,
They jumped from their craft and made for the shore,
Their contempt for the Nazis was plain to be seen,
For they wore not steel helmuts but berets of green.

When it was all over, the fighting no more,
The first they disbanded was the green beret corp,
They went back to their shires, their towns and their glen,
A body of gentle self disciplined men.

Yet the years roll by, they meet, it is said,
To talk, toast their Queen, and remember their dead,
Their memorial stands at the foot of the Ben,
Where they trained for the right to be green beret men.

For our freedom of movement, our right to free speach,
To those who came after, this gospel I preach,
That word in the house, that stroke of the pen,
Can't wipe out the debt to those green beret men.
Elizabeth Broadman.

Regards Ron

Wonderful......moving........verse.

See you in FW
Regards
John M

wow Ron and Denise your dad and grandpa would be soo proud of you both

Heres another poem, this one is from the pen of dear old Vic, I think you will find this poem quite ironic following the scattering of Vic's ashes at the Memorial Garden of Rememberance on Sunday.

Commando Spirit.

Remote, imposing Highland Hills, where fought fierce warriors of old,
Where Commando's came to hone their skills, a land fit only for the bold.
A Memorial to lost comrades stands, 'midst burns and crags on high,
Veterans led by youthful bands pay homeage to friends now gone by.

The service o'er, the ashes scattered with private thoughts the mass disperse,
To pay respect was what most mattered, knowing death they could not reverse.
But linger on when all else depart, and in the silence of the Glen,
Is it fancy that stirs the heart and sounds the feet of marching men?

No sadness; song and laughter here, all young again waiting as before,
for old friends as time draws near to raid once more a foreign shore.
'Tis but a dream, like a long, lost, song, these ghostly figures cannot exist.
Yet I heard Bill's voice, "You wont be long", before they vanished in the mist.
God Bless you Vic,
Lest we Forget
Regards Ron