They call it a village, it looks like hell,
Buildings destroyed by bomb and shell,
Smouldering wood and acrid fumes,
A greyness over everything looms.

There’s mud everywhere under foot,
Mixed with rain, earth and soot,
The heady smell of death everywhere,
A misty foggy dampness fills the air.

Nowhere is there an official sign,
That points the way to the front line,
It can’t be far from the constant sounds,
Ally and enemy firing round after round,

Many a soldier wandering as if in a daze,
Wondering if these are his last days ,
An occasional lorry goes rumbling by,
Overhead a lonely aircraft in the sky.

I carry on with whatever I’m asked,
I can’t argue about what I’m tasked,
‘Shift this, shift that’ are my commands,
I just obey all their many demands.

I’ve learnt to blank out the noise,
I won’t be frightened by little boys,
I’m willing to serve and do my best,
I’m often put to some awful test.

I recall when there were fields of green,
In the countryside that I’d once seen,
I’ll never know those fields any more,
There’s no returning from this bloody war,