1.

One of green fields and work in the pit,

Their circle was small, Alf, Mam and Dad,

What strange quirk of fate could 'er change it?

These were the halcyon days of yore;

But times were changing in dark disguise,

None could predict the onset of war.

Alf's world was cloistered and small,

He knew nought but home and work at the pit,

Of the big world beyond he knew little at all,

Or the strange twist of chance which would change it.

And in the "Derbyshire Times",

Young Alf kept his peace, not one to be vocal,

But seeds of concern took root in his mind.

Ten hours in the pit and a pint at the local,

But in lands so foreign there was soon to be upset,

The dark clouds of war were covering Europe.

He was in a strange place all clothed in khaki,

Strangers repeating "It'll be o'er cum Christmas",

Alf was a member of Kitchener's army.

This whole affair was so strange to him,

Thousands of men all caught up in a maelstrom,

They had stolen his freedom as if on a whim,

He wished he was back in his village by then.

Marched on a boat and shipped off to Europe,

Bellowing sergeants, they screamed and they spluttered,

But through all the mayhem Alf kept his chin up.

All was chaos, in the forces that's normal,

There was panic, disorder much to’ing and fro’ing,

The leaders looked smart and spoke very formal,

But nobody knew where the hell they were going!

Eastward it rattled over land over bridge,

Pretty soon they all knew they'd be thrust into battle,

Their point of arrival was Passchendaele Ridge.

They couldn't help notice the landscape was changing,

A landscape of trees either shattered or bent,

It was wet, it was cold, would it ever stop raining?

Before I proceed let me impart a few facts,

But nothing would phase him, he never looked back,

He'd a mind full of pride and the heart of a bull.

Most of the time they were knee-deep in water,

Peculiar food, peculiar stenches,

The majority destined as lambs to the slaughter.

For most of the men it spelled pain, fear or dying,

It meant 'Over the top', and into the battle,

Some couldn't make it; for these sorry souls the 'Red Caps' were waiting.

At the whim of the 'Brass' would come the next push,

Before the event they were fed tots of rum,

With the sound of that whistle they made off in a rush,

Bayonets fixed and white knuckle grip on the stock of their gun.

The gas and the shelling was pure bloody hell,

Grown men cried like hysterical children,

By the sound that was made they could pick each projectile

The big ones just like an approaching steam engine.

The day that it happened, was like any other,

Most had got used to this life in the trenches,

The shelling had started, men scuttled for cover,

There was then an explosion which rattled the senses.

3.

The razor sharp shrapnel did its job well,

Rank smoke now pervaded what was left of the trenches,

For a second or two it was like living hell.

After some time, who knows how long,

Alf came to his senses screaming in pain,

Nought could he see, what the hell had gone wrong?

This wasn't supposed to happen to him!

Fearing the worst maybe two empty pits,

He sobbed in relief as he found with surprise,

The blindness was caused by the blood of his mates.

Of six good men who'd been there beside him,

The truth it soon dawned with eyes so teary,

Young Alf was now the only survivor.

He'd wake at night in a cold sweat,

That brief moment in time had changed him forever,

The trench and the horror he'd never forget.

They shipped him home to "A land fit for heroes",

Twelve long months in a hospital bed,

They sewed him up, picked out the shrapnel

And attempted to straighten his mangled right leg.

To me he was ancient, a man in his fifties,

But I'll try to recant him the best that I can

In loving respect of his memory.

To me he seemed quiet and gentle in nature,

A man of deep thought and pensive demeanour,

He would sit in the corner aside the old fire

Smoking his pipe or reading the paper.

He ate aspirin like lollies, but all was in vain,

That day in the trenches had doomed him

To a lifetime of suffering and terrible pain.

I never did once see him show it,

As I have said, to me he was kind,

And I'll certainly never forget that.

Brown lace-up boots all ashine,

Dapper he was, clean shaven and neat,

The only way he'd be seen in the street.

He slipped away quickly, still with stiff upper lip,

At long last the terror had loosened its grip;

Gone were the horrors of old Passchendaele.

This story is brief, but so is a life,

I've told it the best way I can,

Alf was my grandfather - a hell of a man,

A grand pleasure it was to have known him!

Nelly Bramley and Grandson Danny - Jacksdale Street (Stone Row) 1970