An old man, sat with his back against a dry stone wall
That ran the entire length of a high steel ridge, over looking the river Darrent in the county of Kent.

A great swaythe of red poppies, the soldiers flower covered several acres of the ridge
And besides the poppies, a great cross had been cut out of the chalk that lay only inches beneath the soil.

The old man was a survivor, one of the very few of the countless thousands that had marched behind the village bands all over Britain
They had followed the bands with eager step to the recruiting offices, to the training Depo's, to the troop trains and onto France and to Belgium. Where the bands had ceased to play.

Beside him sat a young lad he had befriended on the road, he had not asked his age
If he had wanted to talk he was more than ready to listen
The old man waited for an opportunity, for it was he who wanted to talk, he had a story to tell, and consequently had welcomed the lads company

He watched as the lad stirred the tea, brewing in the old Dixie the old man had carried in his pack since 1914 even the tin mug tied to his belt was service issue
The lads skin was as smooth as a young girls, cheeks yet to feel cold steel of a razor
He was perhaps fifteen years old and almost certainly a run a way
What did it matter, did anything matter anymore.
But the lad must listen, it was a story worth telling!

The lad raised his eyes from the bubbling brew, looking out over the flowers
Swaying in the warm gentle breeze
''This is a strange place. All these red flowers. And that cross cut out into the ridge
I have never seen the like. What do you make of it Mr?''

The old man did not answer. his knees had been drawn up under his chin, he stretched them out into the poppies. His joints were very stiff and painful, his ankles were swollen to twice there size and he had not been able to take off his boots in several days

No fixed abode meant no GP, but three months ago he had called into a casualty department in Bristol
Severe Arthritis and several slivers of shrapnel had been the diagnosis.
He had told the staff nothing. But a well intentioned nurse going through his rucksack
While he was being examined had found some fascinating documents, an army discharge book amongst others.

She had meant no harm of course. But no sooner had the matron been informed
Than the hospital administration had swung into action
How was it possible, that a man of his great age could have survived so many years on the open road ? something had to be done and at once
Visits from the salvation army had followed and from the services benevolent society

" good grief man you fought from the first day a the mons until the armistice"
you even survived the flu pandemic, that saw off more men than the Germans ever did , and not once have you drawn your war pension. We are not offering you charity if that’s what’s bothering you . Were simply offering you what you are entitled to “
“will it be back dated?”
His visitor a retired major , was clearly shaken
Back dated to 1914? Well I really don’t know about that, I shall look into it of course , But you know what government departments are like?”
Yes he knew what government departments were like , this government and all the governments back to lyod George
So he smiled and shook the man’s hand and “yes he looked forward to his next visit”

The last straw was the social worker
She arrived after breakfast, the very next day. Brisk and efficient after first leaving her heart soul and conscience in a filing cabinet in her office labelled “no doubt impedimenta”
She had sat down besides his bed, eyes fixed on the buff file spread open on her lap
“well now Mr Taliesin, That is your name?
He was already planning his escape, she looked at him with cold piercing blue eyes
Tapping her teeth with a pen weighing him up
“Taliesin” she mused I don’t believe I have come across the name before is it English?
He had been asked that question many a time, and it still irritated him.
“It’s welsh”
“Oh i see Mr Taliesin, Your welsh!?”
“No I am a Yorkshireman”
He enjoyed the seed of confusion briefly sown in the bureaucratic mind!
“My mother was once upon a time in service to an English mine owner in Wales
She had a fling with a stable hand his name was Taliesin “
Just for an instant he thought he had sparked some interest in himself as an individual
And not a case file, that she might engage him in a meaningful conversation
But she failed the test and the moment passed
“So Mr Taliesin I am afraid you may have to stay here for some time until we can find you a place
For you in a council home.
But on the positive side you will be able to have a good rest and I know the doctors wish to carry out more tests In the meantime you need not concern yourself, just leave everything to my department.
We will sought out your state pension, and I expect to hear about your other benefits to.!
At that she snapped her file shut and left without so much as a nice to have met you Mr Taliesin
He never saw her again , for as the staff were busy changing shift he slipped into his clothes and walked into the night!
“I said what do you make of it all?”
Asked the lad irritably “The flowers and the cross?”
“Oh I expect it’s something to do with the war” the old man answered , with a heavy sigh.
“You mean the second world war? My father was in the royal air force”
The old man shook his head, a faraway look in his eyes.
“No lad more likely the great war 1914-1918, people erected Monuments all over the place after the great bloodletting. And they were not all made of stone and bronze , Poppies from flounders field do seem more fitting . I think the lads would have appreciated flowers more than statues and inscriptions . Living things to commemorate the dead, their roots probing the soil to embrace their bones . they died so young and I have lived to long,
“You talk as though you knew them answered the lad , aware for the first time that there was more to his old companion than he had imagined
“Yes I knew some of them like many others I enlisted the day war was declared along with every other likely lad and able bodied man, from my village, leaving old men, women and children to manage the farms. What did it matter, after all we really did believe it would be all over by Christmas.
For some, myself included it was going to be a great adventure, for others it was an escape from servitude, the ploughboy tired of following the plough
The Brick maker with burned and calloused hands that had baked to many bricks , the footman who
Had bowed low once to often, and of course we were all immortal, you don’t die at the age of 18!
With a bullet between your eyes in a muddy field.
The lad was astonished even with his poor grasp of history, he knew how old his companion must be
“you were only 18?”
The old Man smiled sadly
“No as a matter of fact I was only 16, but so tall and sturdy that the sergeant in the recruiting office turned several older men away. So keen was he to have me in the regiment
Well lad it did not take long for me to realise I had made a dreadful mistake.
Oh and the sergeant and corporals were good enough , even the regular long service men, most from backgrounds similar to my own.
But the bloody offices , my god! My blood still runs cold even now to think of them.
Brave as lions certainly, but to me and my mates they might just as well have been creatures from another world
At the start they were all Sandhurst men. With all their arrogance of those who believe they have a god given right to command other men, who have to click their heels and coming to attention, ask for permission to speak.
Later as the mounds of dead rose even higher , they were forced to cast the net wider, Doctors, teachers, Bank Managers, Public school boys anyone who had some education and did not speak with an accent who would disgrace themselves in the mess by picking up the wrong cutlery, A fish knife is a fish knife after all!
I remember that they were all so keen to do well, to Distinguish themselves, to be mentioned in dispatches and to win the prize gong!
Lord knows how many good men were left hanging on following those fools
Over the years I have read so much, tommy rot about the British officers. How we followed them cheerfully in the jaws of hell!
How most of them carried only a swagger stick into action, how we were inspired by their British
Pluck to dash towards the Jerry trenches kicking footballs before us, well incredible though it seems now that was all true, in the beginning . But those of us who survived such lunacy,
Soon enough adapted ourselves to the reality of war,
For the most part we kept our heads down, we never volunteered we left that to the new lads
The replacement keeping a low profile they would call it today”
The old Man paused for an instant....
The lad was staring intently, he had caught his attention. It was he had hoped for , not once had he ever spoken of his experiences in the trenches, but recently for some reason he had felt the driven to tell the truth to someone, not the truth of history books, but the truth once known to all those countless thousands whose voices had been stilled by bullet, shrapnel, disease, and in many caused madness.

The lad inched closer as he continued his tale.....
“Yes those of us that survived that first awful year kept our heads down all right
But there was no escaping the inevitable
One day we received a new officer replacement, our fourth in less than a month
I will never forget his name
“John Percival Prendagast” no more than boy fresh from Oxford University Officer Company
We knew from that day, that a death sentence hung over us all, unless promotion
Or a kindly bullet made by krups saw him off
He was constantly on the go, Patrolling up and down the company Line
Looking for some poor bastard to put on a charge.
We where knee deep in mud most of the time and slept in burrows dug into the side of the trenches
Yet still “John Percival Prendagast” expected us to turn out like boxes of Britain’s toy soldiers
More than once I wanted to put my fist in his face, He never tired of peering over the parapet
Attracting the inevitable sniper fire!
He could of course have used periscope like the rest of us, but that might have looked as though
He had the wind up in the first week we lost three men to sniper fire due to Prendagast, but worse far worse was to follow.
Would you believe it, he only started volunteering I suppose because he thought there was not enough action, I actually overheard him say to our sergeant “ won’t get a VC to send home to my partner this way”
Trench raids were Prendagasts forte!
The old man saw the question in the lads eyes
“Yes if the brass thought a new enemy unit had moved in the front they would order a raid across no mans land to snatch a prisoner or two
We would go out at night, no rifles just clubs studded with nails and pockets stuffed with grenades
It was brutal and bloody nerve racking, the colour would drain from men’s faces when they heard they had been detailed for a trench raid and Prendagast volunteered himself and us for every raid
Ordered even when none were called for , he would suggest one.
Back at H.Q prendagast was flavour of the month!
“Extremely successful raid impressive results”
“KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK”
Well Prendagast got his hanged for mention in dispatches and the military cross for good measure
Although he never got to wear it!
I hope his father thought it was worth it!
He was killed then asked the lad?
Utterly enthralled by the old mans tale
“yes he was killed right enough, But not until his bloody heroics had done for 15 of my mates, and got me a leg stuffed with good German Iron!
He was killed fighting in the German trenches then hand to hand?
The lad could hardly contain his excitement
“well not exactly lad, it was more like hand to shell hole, it was pitch dark
That night, and foggy to a good night for concealment but to easy to lose your bearings
Especially crawling on your belly,
He was right in front of me I could just about see the soles of his boots then they suddenly vanished
As he went down into the shell hole!
I was about to whisper his name I thought it would be safer after all we were still only a few yards from our own trench, when suddenly there came the unmistakable sound of a grenade exploding
I was showered with dirt
Most of the boys had scarpered back to the trench but for some reason I crawled into the shell hole!
It was not heroism I hated his guts but I would never have left a dog to die like that!
“he was still alive then”?
“depends on your definition of life.
He was conscious but the right side of his head had been torn wipe open as I threw him over my shoulder I felt his blood trickling down my collar, then as I stood up all hell broke loose
Jerry could not see me but they knew I was there and opened up with a machine gun
Those of our lads that had not already bolted were caught by the first burst from the tracer I could see that their aim was off by about three yards not much but I moved fast, I ran like old nick was after me, I made it to parapet of our trench, only for jerry to correct his aim at the last moment
A bullet just creased the side of my head and I tumbled six feet to the bottom of the trench
With Prendagast coming down on me like a ton of coal.
When I came to I was in a field hospital a good comfortable distance from the front
Although I could still hear the rumble of the guns in the distance
I used to keep a glass of water beside my bed, if the water shook I could tell what size shell Jerry was throwing over,
“But what about Officer? Asked the lad eagerly as he poured the tea into two tins . Heinz 57 vareity!
He died two days after I brought him in, without regaining consciousness. They gave me a decoration I still have it – part of the citation reads
“ FOR BRINGING IN A MORTALY WOUNDED OFFICER UNDER HEAVY ENEMY FIRE AT GREAT RISK
WITH COMPLETE DISREGARD FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY”
“I did not argue with their judgement they were keen to pin something on me, they thought
It was good for moral, to occasionally pin something on one of the underclass
Still that medal and a bad headache kept me out of the line of fire for three bloody marvellous months
After I had recovered they sent me back to the front line, with indecent host
The was chewing men up like a thrashing machine, and everyman was needed, and so the madness went on.
The trenches had become are world, and there were times I believed it would never end until one day, as I was sat in the dugout going through dead men’s packs in search of tobacco for my pipe
The curtain screening the entrance was slowly drawn aside. To slowly for my liking I reached for my rifle, A Man was standing at the top of the stairs I could not see his face it was hidden by a shaft of light streaming into the dugout, but I knew his voice, it was Archie Fergusson a trench runner from C company,
Now there was a man who should of died a thousand times over running as he did with messages from dugout to dugout during artillery barrages, but like myself he came through
Aaron he said in a low whisper have you noticed how quiet it is? There has not been a shot fired in over an hour
“The lull before the storm I answered” as my fingers closed around a plug of tobacco, my pipe had been cold for three days, going without food was one thing, but to be with the makings in a front line trench was more than some men could endure,
Gripping the guide rope Archie made his way down the steps into the dugout, it was only when he reached the bottom step I could see the smile on his jaundiced face
“If it a lull Aaron it be going to be a long one long enough for you and me”
“Is it true Archie I asked ! don’t play games”
A runners just come from battalion H.Q Aaron there is a cease fire all along the front an armistice will be signed today!

Five long months later I found myself home
Nothing had changed apart from the large hole by the village church were workman where
Already laying the foundation for a monument to the fallen,
They were always the fallen, never the murdered, never the butchered, and no doubt the monument was completed with a suitable inscription You know the sort of thing I mean
“For your Tomorrow we gave our today”
“They shall not grow old as grow old”

Bloody bunk, they gave nothing willingly
They were murdered, every last man of them English, German French!
They did not die to make a better world!
They were marched like bleating lambs to the abattoir , so that those with bloody red tabs on their
Collars, could keep their world of privilege just as it was and in many ways they succeeded well enough despite that useless bunch who call them selves socialists
The monarchy is still there with its vast train of hanger on media, watchers royal biographers official and unofficial
The tory’s are still there telling the same old lies no one believes anymore
New labour led by an anodine prime minister who oozes sincerity as a stoker oozes sweat
The line of prophets has come to an end lad we shall know no more blakes and kein hardy’s
The old man had never felt so tired
He was gripped by an over whelming desire to sleep
He turned to the lad and asked
“In the morning son, will you do something for me?
The lad answered cheerfully
“of course I will just name it?” you have been good to me
Well then lad i am afraid i feel much more tired than usual and i have an odd tingling sensation in my right arm, and I swear i cannot feel my right leg either don’t look good
If i can not make the road tomorrow, you best go down to the village below, not for mysake but there might be someone can help you, put you on the right road you don’t want to spend your life as I have try the vicarage,
“Oh you will be alright your just over tired, and you haven’t told me why you didn’t stay at home after the war?
He had hoped to end his story with his return from France, But the lad would not take no for an answer, and chivvied him to go on!
“Well I went straight to village pub, there was just the one, The Fowlers Arms
The potman peter lyndsy who had spent his life down the mines until silicoise destroyed his lungs showed no sign of recognition wheezing like an old traction engine as he pulled my pint sipping the watery beer i turned and i was about to join two ol men playing Dominoes in a corner
I hesitated, for an instant glancing about the pubs single room eight customers
All old men I knew, them all by name, but saw no welcome in their eyes
I felt a hand on my shoulder,
“You must not blame them Taliesin it was old Mrs Grogan the landlady, she had always been kind to me as a lad, particularly after my mother died at the age of 23, leaving me to be brought up by two old spinsters in the village, no relation just lonely and kind
“They will get used to having you back Taliesin, There’s not a soul in the village that’s not fond of you
My dear try to understand, it’s just that you are the only one,
She saw the look of shock and disbelief on my face and in my eyes
Come home lad, and I am right glad to see you but for many you will be a constant reminder of what they have lost
I thanked Mrs Grogan, told her I understood and as I accepted her offer of a room and board for as long as I wanted it,
Already in my minds eye i saw myself leaving the village
By an old drivers track leading onto the hills
So here I am now an old man that has lived to long, with his memories
I needed to talk to you lad, needed to talk about my friends, just fading names on wind worn stone now but you know something lad, If I close my eyes
I can see all their faces hear their voices as though they were coming up the ridge now
I am very tired, and where better for an old soldier to stretch out and sleep
But In a field of poppies....

The old Man did not wake..
And as the young lad stirred he could hear distant voices singing
He rubbed his eyes which widened as he saw and heard
“Were poor little lambs who
Have lost our way, bah bah bah
Were little black sheep who have gone astray
Bah bah bah
Gentleman songsters out on a spree, doomed from here to Eternity
Lord have mercy on such as we
Bah Bah Bah
( song sung by The Great war soldiers in the trenches)

To those who gave and to those who were taken
We shall always remember you