Shot at Dawn

Were You there GodOn that summer’s dayWhen a lover and his lassMade loveLying on the new mown hayIn the year of nineteen hundred?And were You thereWhen nine months laterTommy Atkins, like a silver bullet,Shot out his mother’s womb?Oh! What time of happinessEven for a bastardAnd a lover and his lass.And when about a decade and a half anonThe power of German might and forceTurned out the lights of EuropeIn that war to end all wars,Did You then mind when,Seeing Kitchener’s extended finger Pointed straight at him, Young Tommy AtkinsLied about his age To join the Colours of the Fusiliers?Armed with the shilling of his KingAnd his chest puffed out with pride,Young Tommy AtkinsClimbed aboard that troop ship That sailed across the ChannelTo a near yet foreign land.He heard the PadreTell the lads that all was well,That You were on their side,And they’d be homeBefore that Christmastide.And when that cargo of human fleshFetched up upon the beach,The lads made their advanceAlong the shoreAnd onwards unto FlandersWhere now the poppies blowIn unforgotten fields.And Tommy AtkinsAs he marched alongSaw not the washingHanging on some future Siegfried LineBut the bloodied bodies of his deadAnd dying friendsDraped over wire of pointed steel.But they were not alone – far, far from aloneFor You are everywhere.But Tommy Atkins was not destinedThere to die pinned helpless on the wire.He sheltered shivering in the shadows of his trench -Freshly dug, and eight feet deep -With a ladder to escape o’er the top.He’d scarce been there for half an hourWhen, of a sudden,A funny noise droned overhead.And then the droning stopped          And something droppedA little further up the trench.There was a flash, and then a bangAnd bodies burst.And Tommy Atkins saw his matesBlown all to smithereens.But You were there For You are everywhere -As everywhere are nowThe spread and spattered bodiesOf Tommy Atkins’ matesAnd later,When the Padre passed along the trenchHe asked why,When with You standing there beside,His mates had all been killed.And the Padre told him,“The ways of God’s are strange”And then it rained and washed awaySome of the blood and gore -And what remained was eaten by the rats.Do You remember Sending those of Your creaturesTo keep Your soldiers company In their cold and sodden trenches?Those rats bit into them no less than did the winter nightsAs they did try to sleep and dream of homeAmidst the tumult and the noise of battle.But You were ever with them – were you not - As your Onward Christian Soldiers soldiered onIn Delville Wood, at Loos and Arras, and at YpresAnd Cambrai and upon the Somme?So was it You who on that fateful dayDid make the whistle blowFor them to raise themselves above the parapetAnd march into the no-man’s land?But march they did – and to great cost.When all about him fell and he was all aloneIn trust young Tommy turned to You;He turned to YouAs he ran and ran and ran in fear and shockFor he knew not which the way he ran -He was but sixteen years of age.But You were there to guide himYou were there God, were you notFor the Padre ‘d promisedYou’d be always at his side?The Colonel said he’d been a cowardTo run away and not to face the foe.So when dark Night gave way to hazy DawnThey tied him, blindfold, to a stakeAnd through their misting eyesHis comrades ripped to ribbonsA heart that bled for England and its King -His fellow Fusiliers had dared not but obeyWhen that last and dreaded order came To take a steady aim and to Fire.But You who would not saveYour own son crucified upon a crossWhy should You save him?The Padre bowed his headAnd in a broken voice did say“Amen! Indeed the ways of God are strange.”But You were with him then God, were you not?When he ran that day in fear and shock,Why did You make him not to runThe other way and towards the foe,For he knew not which way he ran?And whilst he’d still be deadHe’d not have diedA bastard to the Fusiliers.You were there God  -So why was it so, why was it so?The Old Pals have returnedBut some still lie in Delville WoodAt Arras, Loos, at Cambrai, YpresAnd on the Somme.Some passed through the Menim GatesAnd some stayed well withinTheir names inscribed upon the wallsFor families and generationsTo stand before and bow their heads.And elsewhere, in the fields of FranceThe saddened pilgrims chant“They shall grow not old as we that are left grow old,”As they pause before the crosses, row on rowIn a close yet foreign land.But not for him a cross to mark the spotNo name upon a stoneWhere, bare sixteen, he fellShot by his own.Who will remember himWhere e’er the sun does rise and set?Remember reader – remember and mark wellHe also served who ran awayConfused, and scared and shocked.So in the fields of FlandersWhere still he lies aloneWill one poppy blow for him, Lord,Will one poppy blow for him?You should know God,You should knowFor You are everywhere.But bloody hell, GodBloody hellWere you there - or were you not? Written September 11th, 2001 © on Sep 10 2001 08:13 PM PST   0 • 10