The look on Mum’s face told its own story;

Our dad’s weekly letter had failed to arrive.

In its place, as sombre as a scarecrow,

Was a black-bordered missive from the state.

When we left, it seemed like an adventure:

Hugs and backslaps and putting on a smile.

Then the train rides, through cold nights and long days.

I don’t know where we are. They all seem nice

But they speak strangely and feed us odd food.

I miss my friends. I spoke to Dad last week.

The line was crackly; I could hear loud bangs.

At that moment, I wanted to run home;

To lie about my age and join the fight.

Now, in the bathroom, Mum sobs quietly.