I Think Of That Grey Wall

I don’t care about religion

The Sin Bosun's just white noise

He drones a while, and then a pause

And soon we hear the boom.

Pipe the Still.

And I start to think….

I look around those there

There are one or two from then

They slowly age, and their numbers thin

And we will thin, will age like them

I think of him down South

With the Guards, the heat, the noise

His wounds were deep, no marks were seen

30 years and blackness took him

I think of the sandbox

The screen, Op Minimise

A half-built airport that would quieten

For a Lockheed and its passenger

I think of podviniki

Of their treacherous end

Some unnamed thugs, a syringe on screen

A widow’s fading cry

I think of that grey wall

I think of that long grey wall

So many written there, husbands, brothers, sons

Thousands more on walls elsewhere

I think of…..

Carry on.

And so that's it

Off we troop inside

And line up for our glass

All smiles and cheer for one more year

And memories.

The Green Man

Today was a good day. Many, many people came to St Luke's Church, at the Royal Hospital Haslar to say goodbye to Steve Sharpe. His family, friends, field-gunners, Commandos, Medical Branch staff and combinations of all those were there. There are few people who were as friendly or as generous, and this was reflected in his wife's tribute.

In a way, it was a good day for Steve.. The demons - let's not mess around - the PTSD that had been affecting him as a result of the action on RFA Sir Galahad in 1982, and later an incident in Norway, and had caused him to take his own life, can never affect him again.. In that way it's good and we can now associate Steve with the Green Man - not the green of the Commandos, but a symbol of rebirth, and believe he's happily bimbling around some wood or forest. But without a 'house' on his back and a PRR.

This was the closing poem - a favourite of his mum-in-law:

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight.

I am the soft star-shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there; I did not die.

Moving on.....

Stephen

CHILLY!!
He’d shout, when we’d meet
(And that wasn’t often)
There was such a grin on his face
And a welcome in his paw

We first met in that cold, grim place
And worked so hard to match the pace
Then. at night,  the bus to Plympton
To eat egg and chips and dhobi our denims

Later, he’d succeed and I would fail
And, after 30 miles, I'd smile from the back
As he donned the green felt
And stumbled away to faint

I saw him once (at the ferry).
We chatted, we parted.
I saw his note
And we chatted a lot more
Later, I saw him.
(I took Starbucks muffins)
We hugged as old friends do.

CHILLY!!
He yelled when we met
(And that was in Plymouth)
There was such a grin on his face
And, obviously, a pint in his paw.

Much later, came the message, the call.

Operational, not decorational

No fanfares at the jetty
No newsclips on flat TVs
No Freedom marches through Dalgety
No recognition given by the public
No medals from the body politic

We Come Unseen

And then

More private reunions at home
More polyblocks removed from off the plant
More vital maintenance on the dome
More PAGs, more deadlines - there is no can’t
More time on drills and time in trainers
More turkeys, steaks, eggs passed down to the fridge
More crap cleared from 'round the strainers
More paint is added to the bridge
More warheads worked on ‘round the corner
More time spent getting back in order

And then

Once more  the final checks for sea are made
Once more  the family ties are given up
Once more the plant is in the half power state
Once more, stern and headropes singled up
Once more, on a drizzly  Argyll day
Once more, for umpteenth time a black boat makes it's way...

We Go Unseen

©Peter Chilcott