Laurel's Choice releases December 1, 2023
For this and the other books in the series please click the cover.
It hasn't been that long since Remembrance Day and my thoughts turn to those who went bravely into the unknown and never returned home. Some who came home did so injured both in body and spirit. When I was a child we lived with my grandparents. My grandfather served in WW1 with the engineering corps and his brother, my great uncle lost his life on August 8, 1918 at the Somme. Uncle Joe is buried in France near a small town called Marcelcave. My Uncle Jim, my mother's brother served in WW2 and spent time in a German POW camp before coming home.
There are so many stories that have never been told, and so many we are losing as these brave souls pass on. It is important that we and the younger generations remember those who gave their lives in all the past wars and those who are currently putting their lives in danger to protect us on home soil.
I love the initiative No Stone Left Alone where the graves of soldiers are visited by school children and others. I wish I could visit Uncle Joe way over there in France. But I hold him in my thoughts and I tell them all in my prayers "The Place that Held You is Still There and I remember you.
We will remember you, all of you.
This is poem I wrote for Uncle Joe.
Somme
Sleep
Nancy M Bell
Crouched and ready we wait,
Dawn is late in coming
And when it does it is shrouded
In mist and fog
It is more than the damp and wet
That sends the shivers over our skin
Anticipation and fear war with each other
Where are the tanks that are supposed to
support us?
Sky and earth merge when we peek over the top
Stitched together by mizzle and mist
Yards away, across the trampled earth
The enemy crouch and wait as we do
Where are the tanks? The support?
Whispers and rumours run up and down the line
Then—suddenly the wait is over
“Over the top, boys,” the sergeant yells
And we go
Surging out of our earthen burrows
Running, firing blind, blinking in the fog
No time to think, only to run and fire
Ducking bullets whining by our ears
Then—it stops
I open my mouth and spit mud
Blood, hot and cold runs through my fingers
The old guys were right
There is no pain when it happens
Just a mixed sensation of disbelief
And relief…
Even if I die right here in the mud
It’s over:
The fear;
the wet;
the lice;
the killing.
Somewhere my mates are yelling and shots echo
But around me there is an odd silence
A separation from the man-made hell
One hand clutching my gut,
the other somehow still wrapped around my rifle
I let the lark song sing me to sleep.
