The pounding of a gun, the explosion of a shell.
Barbed wire barriers. Jesus Christ, this is hell.
The shallows red with blood, sand too soft to grip.
My mate has fallen, bullets pass me, zip, zip, zip.

Smoke clouds fill the air. It’s far too thick to see.
No one said it would be like this. Pain in my knee.
A hole in my combats, blood pouring on to my boots.
It’s every man for himself. No one gives two hoots.

‘Mum, I need you now. Dad, please carry me away.’
I don’t way to die. Certainly not like this. So I pray.
I’m laying by a fallen man. Tucked tightly in to him.
Mortars are landing awfully close. I know him. It’s Jim.

I close my eyes, but I can’t close my ears. It’s so, so loud.
I remember the Brigadier saying that he was very proud.
I’m not proud, I’m terrified. I want this anguish to end.
If I don’t make it, that could that be a Godsend?

I can no longer feel my leg. The noise is lessening now.
‘God, I’ll always love you if you can stop this somehow.’
Who’d have thought it, Jim and me, buddies at the close.
I think I can taste my own fear now as my heartbeat slows.

This is it. All sounds are muffled. Cold sweat on my temple.
What a way to go! Please God let this last part be gentle.
I only have my thoughts now. My senses have ceased to be.
What time did I make it to? I think it’s half past three.

The Wilson’s stood at the grave of their 19-year-old son Ron.
A Normandy cemetery, fifteen months further on.
‘The Brigadier is proud of you son. Always on his mind.
We‘ve got a lovely letter that he personally has signed.’