Remembrance Day

I was not just enshrined in black and white
trained to react to a whistle
and launch myself over the top
I didn’t just stare at No Man’s Land
jumping at every falling leaf
nerves shot to pieces, trembling with fear
I was not just shipped hastily to Europe
attempting to aid our Allies
in facing down the Nazi machine
I was not just despatched to the Mediterranean
sand-whipped and sweating
to fight in a theatre far flung from home
I am not a romantic notion of old boys and idealism
telling war stories of camaraderie
I am not decades past.
I am the young man hobbling down the street
I am the hands held out for a bit of spare change
I am the woman bound to a wheelchair
I am the mental health patient facing down the day
I am sitting next to you on the bus.
I am here.
Remember, I am here.


Tomorrow is Remembrance Sunday here in the UK, and of course Monday is 11th November, Armistice Day.

Copyright - Nicola J Cutts

Copyright – Nicola J Cutts

Jankers – Alastair’s Photo Fiction

Here is my offering for Alastair’s Photo Fiction this week, inspired by the photo below.  Why not take part? And why not visit his photography and writing blog to take a look at his other photos…?

Copyright - Kattermonran

Copyright – Kattermonran

– Jankers –

All the boys had second jobs when they weren’t on a tour of duty, but no way could you be working in Civvy Street whilst in uniform. Paul pictured his bag of clothes making their merry way on the 6.41am to Swansea without him. What an idiot.

Money was scarce these days, but the sight of his ice cream cart persuaded even the tightest fist to loosen up for a 99-flake, especially at his local hospital’s fundraiser. He scanned the crowds for signs of military bearing amongst the happy family groups. No, he was safe.

Satisfied, he crouched down, rummaging in his cart for more napkins. A shadow grew tall on the grass next to him, ram-rod straight, stretching out forever. Sweat prickled between his shoulder blades. Damn – he couldn’t even look the soldier in the face. If it was his Warrant Officer, he was done for….

“Corporal Jones! What the hell d’you think you’re playing at?”

Paul’s head snapped up, recognising the voice as if it was his own.

“Dad! Thank God! I though I was done for!”

“Here’s a change of clothes, son. Now get a move on before you get caught for real.”


And for those of you scratching your heads at my choice of title this week, take a look here.