[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
Christmas Day in the Cookhouse

FIRST SOLDIER
It was Christmas day in the cookhouse,
The happiest day of the year,
Men's hearts were full of gladness
And their bellies full of beer,
When up spoke Private Shorthouse,
His face as bold as brass,
Saying, 'We don't want your Christmas pudding
You can stick it up your ...'

ALL
Tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy,
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy!

FIRST SOLDIER
It was Christmas day in the harem,
The eunuchs were standing round,
And hundreds of beautiful women
Were stretched out on the ground,
When in strode the Bold Bad Sultan,
And gazed at his marble halls,
Saying, 'What do you want for Christmas, boys?'
And the eunuchs answered...

ALL
Tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy,
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy!

Unknown

[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
Paddy Lay Back

T'was a cold and frosty morning in September
And all of me money it was spent,,
Where it went to oh Lord I can't remember
So down to the shipping office went

Oh Paddy lie back, oh Paddy lie back,
Take in your slack, take in your slack
Take your turn put on your hats and jump for board,,
About ship's for England boys be handy
For we're bound for Valparaiso in the morn


Last night there was a great demand for sailors
For the colonies for Frisco and for France
So I slipped aboard a lively barque, the Hotspur
And was paralytic drunk before before we went

There were Frenchmen, there were Germans, there were Russians
There were jolly jacks came just across from France
And not one of them could speak a word of English
But they'd answer to the name of Bill or Dan

I woke up in the morning sick and sore
I wished I'd never sailed to sea once more
When a voice it came thundering through the floor
Get up and pay attention to your name

Well I wished that I was safely in the boozer
With Molly or with Peggy on me knee
And I know exactly what I'd like to do now
And if you were here you'd do the same as me

Oh Paddy lie back, oh Paddy lie back,
Take in your slack, take in your slack
Take your turn. put on your hats and jump for board,
About ship's for England boys be handy
For we're bound for Valparaiso in the morn


Author unknown

[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
Not In Our Names
The Pledge To Resist


We believe that as people living
in the United States, it is our
responsibility to resist the injustices
done by our government, in our names.

NOT in our name
will you wage endless war.
There can be no more deaths,
no more transfusions of blood for oil.

NOT in our name
will you invade countries,
bomb civilians, kill more children
letting history take its course
over the graves of the nameless.

NOT in our name
will you erode the very freedoms
you have claimed to fight for.

NOT by our hands
will we supply weapons and funding
for the annihilation of families
on foreign soil.

NOT by our mouths
will we let fear silence us.

NOT by our hearts
will we allow whole peoples
or countries to be deemed evil.

NOT by our will
and NOT in our name.

We pledge resistance.

We pledge alliance with those
who have come under attack
for voicing opposition to the war
or for their religion or ethnicity.

We pledge to make common cause
with the people of the world
to bring about justice, freedom and peace.

Another world is possible
and we pledge to make it real.

Author Unknown
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
Eternal Light

From the Shankill's narrow streets
To the famed green fields of France
Where a multitude of sacrifice
Would arise and then advance
They charged the men of Ulster
When the battle did commence
And passed into the memory of the Somme

Who dares speak heroic bravery
Of men once proud and strong
For them no more reveille
Shall sound the break of dawn
The bugle call to rouse them
From their beds forever gone
To battle they will never march again

Then goodbye, oh goodbye
Tis the bugles last refrain
Blowing notes of anguish
Far across the lonesome plain
If it should be so decreed
We will never meet again
Oh remember our young fallen Volunteers


The streets they are now silent
Round the Shankill's mourning place
No sound of youthful banter
Of laughter and of the chase
This generation lost to all
We never shall never replace
They now echo round
The graveyards of the Somme

For a husband and for three lost sons
That lamp will still remain
Burning brightly through the night
Till they come home again
They sailed away from us as boys
But died that day as men
Their Eternal Light will shine forever more

Goodbye, goodbye
Tis the bugles last refrain
Blowing notes of anguish
Far across the lonesome plain
Should it be so decreed
That we will never meet again
Oh remember our young fallen Volunteers


In the parish of St, Michael
On Belfast's Shankill Road
Upon the roll of honour
Stands the family of McDowell
Who along with countless thousands
Gave their body and their soul
Their equal we shall never meet again

--Unknown



'Soldier of the Somme'
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
From The Shankill To The Somme

At the age of sixteen years, well he left his home in tears,
His mother watched as he walked out the door,
And as his family bade farewell, and his neighbours wished him well,
From the road his dad and brother took before.

And as the ship set sail for France, he gave Belfast one more glance,
As the ship began to move away from shore,
He could see there on the land, the proud YCV flute band,
And he could hear them play 'The Sash My Father Wore'.

Oh, from the Shankill Road they went,
Oh, their young lives to be spent,
On the first day of July so long ago,
And for the deeds that they have done,
And the glories they have won,
We remember as long as the bright red poppies grow.


When they charged from Thiepval wood,
They were in a fighting mood,
As they made their way across the fields of fire,
And as they stormed the great redoubt,
You could hear those brave men shout,
To have them lie beneath the twisted shells and wire

And from the Shankill Road they went,
Oh, their young lives to be spent,
On the first day of July so long ago,
And for the deeds that they have done,
And the glories they have won,
We remember as long as the bright red poppies grow.


We remember as long as the bright red poppies grow.

We remember as long as the bright red poppies grow.

--Unknown



'The Sash My Father Wore'
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
Billy McFadzean

Let me tell you a story of honour and glory,
Of a young Belfast soldier, Billy McFadzean by name,
For King and for Country young Billy died bravely,
And won the VC on the fields of the Somme.

Gone like the snowflake that melts on the river,
Gone like the first rays of days early dawn,
Like the foam from the fountain,
Like the mist from the mountain,
Young Billy McFadzean's dear life has gone.


Now Billy lies only where the red Flanders poppy,
In wildest profusion paints the field of the brave,
No piper recalling his deeds all forgotten,
For Billy McFadzean has no known grave.

Gone like the snowflake that melts on the river,
Gone like the first rays of days early dawn,
Like the foam from the fountain,
Like the mist from the mountain,
Young Billy McFadzean's dear life has gone.


So let us remember that brave Ulster soldier,
The VC he won, the young life that he gave,
For duty demanding his courage outstanding,
Private Billy McFadzean of the U.V.F.

--Unknown

Pte. William Frederick McFadzean, killed July 1, 1916:

"McFadzean was a 20-year-old rifleman in the 14th Battalion, The Royal Irish Rifles, British Army during the First World War. On 1 July 1916, during the Battle of the Somme near Thiepval Wood, France, a box of hand grenades slipped into a crowded trench. Two of the safety pins in the grenades were dislodged. McFadzean threw himself on top of the grenades, which exploded, killing him but only injuring one other. His citation read:

No. 14/18278 Pte. William Frederick McFadzean, late R. Ir. Rif.
For most conspicuous bravery. While in a concentration trench and opening a box of bombs for distribution prior to an attack, the box slipped down into the trench, which was crowded with men, and two of the safety pins fell out. Private McFadzean, instantly realising the danger to his comrades, with heroic courage threw himself on the top of the Bombs. The bombs exploded blowing him to pieces, but only one other man was injured. He well knew his danger, being himself a bomber, but without a moment's hesitation he gave his life for his comrades."



'The Young Heroes of the Somme'
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
The Somme Battle Eve

Oh I don't know if you'll ever read this letter,
But I'm writing, anyway, to let you know,
With pen in hand I sit here by the campfire,
And hear my comrades singing soft and low.

I thank you, for years of love and laughter,
For constancy to me through joy and pain,
And I wonder here, "I love you", really matters,
I may never see your lovely face again.

And I'm yearning for the Mists of Dalriada,
And I miss the Lagan River flowing slow,
And I hunger for your love dear,
'Cos when the morning comes dear,
A bugle call, my darling I must go.


Well it seems a million miles from Belfast City,
From home and fire and children growing tall,
At this time when fears and doubts beset me,
Dread night before the Battle of the Somme.

And I don't know what tomorrow holds, my lovely,
As I face the angry thunder of the gun,
When wailing banshee shells explode above me,
And the valiant men of Ulster give their blood.

And I'm yearning for the Mists of Dalriada,
And I miss the Lagan River flowing slow,
And I hunger for your love dear,
'Cos when the morning comes dear,
A bugle call, my darling I must go.


The air is full of fearful expectations
This gethsemane of waiting's hard to bear,
But memories of you bring consolation,
Well, a shiny rose beneath the tangled wire.

And I need to tell you that I really love you,
And I know I haven't said it for so long,
My heart will hold the fragrance of your love dear,
Tomorrow at the Battle of the Somme.

And I'm yearning for the Mists of Dalriada,
And I miss the Lagan River flowing slow,
And I hunger for your love dear,
'Cos when the morning comes dear,
A bugle call, my darling I must go.

And I'm yearning for the Mists of Dalriada,
And I miss the Lagan River flowing slow,
And I hunger for your love dear,
'Cos when the morning comes dear,
A bugle call, my darling I must go.


--Unknown

[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
The 36th Brigade

Through cloud and mist that early morn,
1916 when they set off to the Somme,
Only the laughter and the cheers,
Who could notice all the doubts and tears of fear?
But brave men all they sailed away,
Though death lashed back from that battlefield,
Yet through their soul they're not afraid
To fight with comrades of the 36th brigade.

What of the men who fought and died,
And followed Ulster's flag from Theipval wood with pride,
And lift their heads and say with pride,
I fought with Ulster men on Flanders field that day.
Now written down in history,
Tells of the sacrifice they made for liberty,
And with their comrades they are laid
All the men of the 36th brigade.

Lay down their lives for their king and country,
The choice of freedom their reward for bravery,
And they were told that all Ulster men would be
Forever part of this land they fought to free
And all these promises were made
To the men of the 36th brigade.

And from the graveyard all the slain,
They once again reach out and played with Ulster men,
Don't let these men have died in vain
This land is British and this right you should maintain.
So lift your glasses to the men who fought back then
And to the men who will defend this land again
And when all is said and done
Here's to Ulster and the 36th brigade.

--Unknown



'Brave Young Men'


'Memory of the Brave'
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
The Bloody Road To The Somme

Hear the measured beat of Ulstermen marching,
Through the green fields and streets of the towns,
Called up to arms by bold Edward Carson,
To stand for the Red Hand and Crown.

These were the seed of mighty CuChulainn,
These were the sons of Congal Claen,
Determined that Gaels and Rome should not rule them,
And England if need be withstand.

Those were the days of Ulster's defiance,
Those were the days of passion and strife,
Those were the days when England denied us,
And Ulster stood for her life.

The call came for war and the volunteers answered,
The 36th was formed in 1914,
To fight the German Kaiser instead of faithless England,
And maintain their birth right and King.

They marched into hell nearly two years onward,
The first day of July on a bright summer morn,
Aloft against blue skies they bore the Ulster Standard,
Down the Bloody Road to the Somme.

These were the men of Tyrone, Londonderry,
Monaghan and Cavan, Down and Donegal,
The men of Armagh, of Antrim and Fermanagh,
Who walked the Bloody Road to the Somme.

They faced the deadly hail from cannons and machine guns,
Through the bursting shells and hell of no-mans-land,
Triumphantly they yelled the cry of 'No Surrender',
And fought the Kaiser's troops hand to hand.

Three miles they struck through enemy defenses,
In the greatest charge of that European war,
Like a mighty wave they swarmed the German trenches,
Over fallen dead and barbed wire.

Then they were cut off with no one to support them,
They were mowed down by fire from three sides,
Bravely they fell like leaves in the autumn,
Death reaped the bitter harvest of their lives.

When the battle ceased a young man was heard crying,
Bleeding from a wound where the bullet creased his head,
There amid the maimed, the pleading and the dying,
He held the broken body of his friend.

As the red sun sets, smoke drifted o'er the trenches,
These bewildered men trudged back along the way,
The carnage it was great, the slaughter it was senseless,
Five thousand Ulster Sons fell that day.

Here was a time of mourning and of sorrow,
All along the line they gathered up their dead,
Here was a time of yearning for the morrow,
Here was a time when Ulster bled.

The land was filled with grief when news broke of the slaughter,
Thick like black heavy clouds, it hung o'er Croughnay's brow,
The telegrams they came to mothers, wives, and daughters,
And like warm falling rain the tears poured down.

We count the bloody cost they paid for Ulster's freedom,
We cherish memories of those who died so young,
With passing of the years we will not forget them,
Who walked the Bloody Road to the Somme.

As long as earth revolves upon its axis turning,
And day sleeps in the dark and wakens with the dawn,
As long as sun goes down and rises in the morning,
We will remember the Somme.

We will remember the Somme.

Yes, we will remember the Somme.

--Unknown

[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
Great Fenian Ram

Near the town of Liscannor in the county of Clare
Where many great Irishmans plans were laid bare
You saw the wild seals as you stood on the heath
And wondered and gazed at the ocean beneath
Your life of religion was never to be
You soon found your way to the land of the free
In the state of New Jersey you perfected your plan
And your work was unveiled as 'The Great Fenian Ram'.

Some men for adventure have planned for the stars
And others had hoped to see Venus or Mars
but you worked and you labored to build your wild dream
That you'd be the man with the first submarine


Now O'Donovan Rossa Bold Breslan Devoy
Knew that Holland's invention was real and no toy
For to take on the ships of the British Navy
And all would be done now from under the sea
The English protested to Old Uncle Sam
About the mischievous boat called the Great Fenian Ram
Oh he's just an inventor we've got nothing to hide
John Bull was so angry when the Yankees replied

Neath the waves of the ocean this craft was at home
And the Fenians had plans for this boat for to roam
In the Passaic River, your friends were amazed
As your ship moved so silent neath the rivers and waves
An attack on the Empire was prevented by spies
And the cause was all crushed mid dissension and lies
But Uncle Sam's Navy was so proud of the boat
That the Holland's the name of the first sub afloat

Here as I stand beside New York Bay
I can see all the ways you are remembered today
For your name is all written on tunnels and ships
On the streets of New York and on New Jersey's slips
So be proud sons of Erin, an Irishman he
John Holland the first for to voyage 'neath the sea
Let the Statue of Liberty, a beacon shine free
For John Holland, the first for to voyage 'neath the sea.

Some men for adventure have planned for the stars
And others had hoped to see Venus or Mars
but you worked and you labored to build your wild dream
That you'd be the man with the first submarine


Author unknown

The Fenian Ram was designed by John Holland and launched in 1881.

[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
Blood-Stained Bandage

A cold May morning was breaking over Dublin's dreary town
Sixteen brave men have fallen to the rifles of the crown
Because they loved their country and served it night and day
Before they faced those rifles this is what those boys did say

Take away the blood-stained bandage from off an Irish brow
We fought and bled for Ireland and will not shirk it now
We have held in her struggle, in answer to her call
And because we sought to free her we are placed against a wall


Ned Daly, Heuston, Colbert, Mac Donagh and Mac Bride
Mac Dermott and the brothers Ceannt, with Clarke and Plunkett died
Mick Mallin, Pat and Willy Pearse, O'Hanrahan and Kent
And last of all James Connolly this message to them sent

Take away the blood-stained bandage from off an Irish brow
We fought and bled for Ireland and will not shirk it now
We have held in her struggle, in answer to her call
And because we sought to free her we are placed against a wall


Author unknown

[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
The Dying Rebel

The night was dark, and the fight was over,
The moon shone down O'Connell Street,
I stood alone, where brave men perished
Those men have gone, their God to meet.

My only son was shot in Dublin,
Fighting for his country bold,
He fought for Ireland, and Ireland only,
The Harp and Shamrock, Green, White and Gold.

The first I met was a grey-haired father
Searching for his only son,
I said "Old man, there's no use searching
For up to heaven, your son has gone".

The old man cried out broken hearted
Bending o'er I heard him say:
"I knew my son was too kind hearted,
I knew my son would never yield".

The last I met was a dying rebel,
Bending low I heard him say:
"God bless my home in dear Cork City,
God bless the cause for which I die."

Sung by 'The Wolfe Tones'

[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
Good-bye, Old Man
(Suggested by Matania's picture of a soldier's farewell to his horse)

Good-bye, old man; we've fought our last together,
You've struggled bravely, but you've got to die!
Old man, it almost breaks my heart to leave you,
Without one other word, except "Good-bye".

Good-bye, old man; we've kept up well together,
And always shared whatever's come our way,
We came to help old Britain fight the Germans,
And up to now we've kept 'em well at bay.

Good-bye, old man; I know you're going to suffer,
For there are great tears in your eyes,
I wish you understood that 'tis for Britain
That every hero fights, and bleeds, and dies!

Good-bye, old man; you won't be here much longer,
You've got to go, old man, and go alone,
We've always had our troubles both together
And life won't seem the same when you are gone!

Good-bye, old man; I wish that you could answer,
And tell me all your brown eyes try to say.
You know, old man, I've seen a lot of suffering,
But never felt just like I feel to-day.

Author unknown
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
To C.A.L.
(The Hon. Charles Lister)


To have laughed and talked - wise, witty, fantastic, feckless -
To have mocked at rules and rulers and learnt to obey,
To have led your men with a daring adored and reckless,
To have struck your blow for Freedom, the old straight way:

To have hated the world and lived among those who love it,
To have thought great thoughts and lived till you knew them true,
To have loved men more than yourself and have died to prove it -
Yes, Charles, this is to have lived: was there more to do?

by C.A.A.

Charles Alfred Lister died August 28, 1915
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
Seen From An Aid Post

There are many roads in Flanders, where the horses slide and fall,
There are roads of mud and gravel that lead nowhere at all,
There are roads that finish at our Trench; the Germans hold the rest,
But of all the roads in Flanders there is one I know the best.
It's a great road, a straight road, a road that runs between
Two rows of broken poplars that were young and strong and green.

You can trace it from old Poperinghe, through Vlamertinghe and Wipers;
(It's a focus for Hun whiz-bangs and a paradise for snipers.)
Past the solid Ramparts and the muddy moat you're then in
The road I want to sing about---the road that leads to Menin.
It's a great road, a straight road, a road that runs between
Two rows of broken poplars that were young and strong and green.

It's a road that's cursed by smokers for you dare not show a light;
It's a road that's shunned by daytime and is mainly used at night,
But at dusk the silent troops come up and limbers bring their loads
Of ammunition to the guns that guard the Saljent's roads.
It's a great road, a straight road, a road that runs between
Two rows of broken poplars that were young and strong and green.

And for hours and days together I have listened to the sound
Of German shrapnel overhead while I was underground
In a damp and cheerless cellar continually trying
To dress the wounded warriors while comforting the dying.
On that muddy road, that bloody road, that road that runs between
Two rows of broken poplars that were young and strong and green.

Author Unknown
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
The Irish Volunteer

My name is Tim McDonald, I'm a native of the Isle,
I was born among old Erin's bogs when I was but a child.
My father fought in " 'Ninety-eight," for liberty so dear;
He fell upon old Vinegar Hill, like an Irish volunteer.
Then raise the harp of Erin, boys, the flag we all revere--
We'll fight and fall beneath its folds, like Irish volunteers!

When I was driven from my home by an oppressor's hand,
I cut my sticks and greased my brogues, and came o'er to this land.
I found a home and many friends, and some that I love dear;
Be jabbers! I'll stick to them like bricks and an Irish volunteer.
Then fill your glasses up, my boys, and drink a hearty cheer,
To the land of our adoption and the Irish volunteer!

Now when the traitors in the south commenced a warlike raid,
I quickly then laid down my hod, to the devil went my spade!
To a recruiting-office then I went, that happened to be near,
And joined the good old "Sixty-ninth," like an Irish volunteer.
Then fill the ranks and march away!--no traitors do we fear;
We'll drive them all to blazes, says the Irish volunteer.

When the Prince of Wales came over here, and made a hullaboo,
Oh, everybody turned out, you know, in gold and tinsel too;
But then the good old Sixty-ninth didn't like these lords or peers--
They wouldn't give a damn for kings, the Irish volunteers!
We love the land of Liberty, its laws we will revere,
"But the divil take nobility!" says the Irish volunteer!

Now if the traitors in the South should ever cross our roads,
We'll drive them to the divil, as Saint Patrick did the toads;
We'll give them all short nooses that come just below the ears,
Made strong and good of Irish hemp by Irish volunteers.
Then here's to brave McClellan, whom the army now reveres--
He'll lead us on to victory, the Irish volunteers.

Now fill your glasses up, my boys, a toast come drink with me,
May Erin's Harp and the Starry Flag united ever be;
May traitors quake, and rebels shake, and tremble in their fears,
When next they meet the Yankee boys and Irish volunteers!
God bless the name of Washington! that name this land reveres;
Success to Meagher and Nugent, and their Irish volunteers!

Unknown

[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
Paddy's Lamentation

Well it's by the hush, me boys, and sure that's to hold your noise
And listen to poor Paddy's sad narration
I was by hunger pressed, and in poverty distressed
So I took a thought I'd leave the Irish nation

Here's to you boys, now take my advice
To America I'll have ye's not be comin'
There is nothing here but war, where the murderin' cannons roar
And I wish I was at home in dear old Dublin


Well I sold me ass and cow, my little pigs and sow
My little plot of land I soon did part with
And me sweetheart Brid McGee, I'm afraid I'll never see
For I left her there that morning broken-hearted

Well meself and a hundred more, to America sailed o'er
Our fortunes to be made, so we were thinkin'
When we got to Yankee land, they shoved a gun into our hands
Saying "Paddy, you must go and fight for Lincoln"

General Meagher to us he said, if you get shot or lose your head
Every mother's son of youse will get a pension
Well meself I lost me leg, they gave me a wooden peg,
And by God this is the truth to you I mention

Well I think meself in luck, if I get fed on Indian buck
And old Ireland is the country I delight in
With the devil, I do say, it's curse Americay
For I think I've had enough of your hard fightin'

Here's to you boys, now take my advice
To America I'll have ye's not be comin'
There is nothing here but war, where the murderin' cannons roar
And I wish I was at home in dear old Dublin


Unknown

http://youtu.be/_VCX-Zdz5qA

[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
Never Mind

If the sergeant drinks your rum, never mind
And your face may lose its smile, never mind
He's entitled to a tot but not the bleeding lot
If the sergeant drinks your rum, never mind

When old Jerry shells your trench, never mind
And your face may lose its smile, never mind
Though the sandbags bust and fly you have only once to die,
If old Jerry shells the trench, never mind

If you get stuck on the wire, never mind
And your face may lose its smile, never mind
Though you're stuck there all the day, they count you dead and stop your pay
If you get stuck on the wire, never mind

If the sergeant says you're mad, never mind
P'raps you are a little bit, never mind
Just be calm don't answer back, cause the sergeant stands no slack
So if he says you're mad, well - you are.

Author unknown

[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
Battery Sergeant Major

Who struts a backward angle of forty-five degrees?
Who’s dangerous to disobey and difficult to please?
Who digs a great hole on parade whene’er he ‘stamps’ at ease?
Our Battery Sergeant Major.

Who lifts us out of lassitude and works for our salvation
with drill, fatigues, fatigues and drill, and lots of perspiration?
Who’s never heard the blissful words - rest and relaxation?
Our Battery Sergeant Major.

Who rushes round like mad at night and never goes to bed?
Who never misses a mistake, or leaves a thing unsaid?
Who’s rather short, and getting stout - who’s face is rather red?
Is yours Sergeant Major??

Who likes to cast his loving gaze along a perfect line?
And see upon each beret’d brow a brilliant brassy shine?
Who sticks and pokes his own chest out - but rather low behind..?
Our Battery Sergeant Major.

Who’s fearfuller than subbies, a terror worse than tanks?
Who’s speech comprises when he’s wild just blankity blank blanks?
Who’s often known as “so and so”? - who’s called among the ranks,
that .......* Sergeant Major???

(* Battery, of course)

Adapted from a poem in the NZA's Z1 Courier, January 1941


[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
Old Pilot
(1991)

The Spitfire handled well - that was its strength.
I flew from Tangmere with the 607
Until in early June we were transferred
Up to Northallerton, and so missed out
On the Big Show. Some early sorties flown
As wingman to our 'Group', old Snobby Brown,
Ensured my medal, though. I've often thought
About the chaps who never made it back,
And asked myself, "Why me?" You know, this guilt
Of casual survival never goes.
Last year's reunion at Hendon went OK,
But what still stops me, standing there alone,
Is that long list, up on the wall, in stone.

Author unknown

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