Jacksdale's Unknown Soldier
by Eddie Wilbraham
A
memorial has been standing here,
Since nineteen twenty one,
To crown the top, a soldier stood,
But, sadly, he has gone.
N
o one ever knew his name,
Let alone his Army number,
Yet, he stood on guard, nigh forty years,
That, in itself, a wonder.
W
hen he was posted to the task,
He looked no more than twenty,
He stood erect, with rifle clasped,
My Goodness! What a sentry.
H
e was never late on parade,
Or absent without leave,
He never got a furlough (pass),
Nor a chevron on his sleeve.
H
e knew almost everyone,
Who passed along that way,
He also knew the names by heart,
Of his comrades on display.
F
rom his lofty pedestal,
He observed the streets below,
He could have told a likely tale,
But 'tis better not to know'.
P
eople rushing to catch the trains,
No time for a "Good Morning",
They have all those station steps to climb,
Besides, it's simply pouring.
H
ere comes 'John-ka' Severn's bus,
Or could it be 'Carlins', 'Shaws' or 'Keeling',
They rattle along with such a noise,
No chance of any sleeping.
'
B
ill Beeby' on his way to work,
Would salute him with his cane,
The reply he got was just a wink,
But, acknowledged, just the same.
'
J
acksdale Palace' on Selston Lane,
Showed War Films with no sound,
'Verdun', 'Mons' and 'Vimmy Ridge',
To him familiar ground.
T
he 'Portland Arms' and 'Social Club'
Were out of bounds to him,
Even 'Skelton's Fish & Chips',
Things looked pretty grim.
S
o on one very windy night,
When it was dark & drear,
He nipped in to the 'Portland Arms',
To try a glass of beer.
H
e stayed there until closing time,
Then made his way back 'home',
No one had even missed him,
So he clambered up the stone.
A
s he reached the summit,
Of the place he knew so well,
A sudden gust of wind bore down,
He lost his grip and fell.
H
e crashed into the ground below,
As if on the battlefield,
Smashed to pieces, beyond all help,
His time had come, his fate was sealed.
H
e lay there in the morning,
And as far as I could tell,
The broken bits were gathered up,
No ceremony, no bugles, no farewell.
T
he pieces of white marble,
Were taken without a thought,
To a landfill site near 'Red Road Gate'.
No alternatives were sought.
H
owever, from these ashes rose,
A place still there today,
Called 'Knightsbridge' to commemorate,
A battle so far away.
H
e had fought his last battle,
With one last hill to climb,
"Your name and number?" St Peter asked,
"Jack. S. Dale 8589".
T
he pearly gates swung open,
As he pressed the Golden Bell,
All your comrades are inside,
"Come in lad, you have done your duty well".
(
P
ostscript)
W
hen Peter asked our soldier's name,
Jacksdale fit sublime,
His number, though, was missing,
So I let him share with mine.
B
y 14208589.
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