MAIL FROM THE TRENCHES
Posted: Mon Oct 15, 2012 2:55 pm
Some poems that have come to light unexpectedly from England, and were written by my Grandfather.
THE BOYS IN THE BILLET by Sapper Victor George Bower Jacklin – Royal Engineers - WWI
Here they all come what a nuisance they are.
All mud from the head to the heel.
Why can’t they send them away to the war?
We might perchance then get a meal.
What with their rifles, their bay’nets and kit
their puttees and boots – in fact, every bit
of the whole blessed outfit – to me it’s quite plain
we shall never know peace in the old home again.
‘No you cant wash Dad for Bert’s at the sink.
The Corp’ral is having a shave.
You can’t do your hair and I verily think
they’ll never learn how to behave.
What with their blackings and brushes and wire,
polish and pull throughs, you can’t smell the fire.
Bella suggests that in order to meet each day’s plight
we wash, dress and breakfast and dine overnight.”
Now they’re all gone and I really don’t know
all day where I am, for I long
Oh just to see them with faces aglow
and list to the strain of their song.
I’d put up with their rifles, bay’nets and kit
their puttees and boots, in fact every bit
of the whole blessed pack – I confess it with pain,
joy nor peace shall I know till I greet them again.
The Sappers Lament by Sapper Victor George Bower Jacklin – Royal Engineers - WWI
The gentle sapper – a misanthrope, stood with his rifle at the slope
with envious thoughts his brain did burn, he wished he was the Sergeant stern.
Blessed with freedom in the matter of bullying him – a gentle sapper.
The Sergeant with orders in his hand had just received a reprimand
and wished as he went up and down his Company with bitter frown
that he could lord it like that grim Sergeant- Major who bullied him.
The Sergeant- Major in wrathful gloom came from the Company orderly room
and muttered at his visage framed ‘A scapegoat. I am always blamed
for mistakes like a lowly cur - I wish I were the Officer.’
The Captain he sat ill at ease with his responsibilities.
‘I am a wearied serf’ said he. ‘no praise ever comes to me,
but all the worry. How I yearn to be Major of this concern.’
The staid old Major then came in, his brow was black his face was thin.
He moaned ‘life is a weary blight my wretched liver’s never right.
A change I want, that’s what’s the matter. I wish I was a gentle sapper.
AN ‘AFTER THE WAR’ DREAM
by Sapper Victor George Bower Jacklin – Royal Engineers – WWI
Back to the dear old country
back to the wood and the dell,
back from the thunder and clash of the guns
to the pastime we love so well.
Back from the place where the rations are short
and it’s not all skittles and buns,
to the dear little inn that lurks in the hills
the scene of our Saturday ‘runs’.
Back from the trenches and death’s grim lair,
back from the dirt and the grime.
Back to the dear old Surrey hills,
it’s only a matter of time.
When the khaki will go for the cycling suit
and the ‘jigger’ will replace the gun
and we’ll sit round the fire in the old country inn
and tell how we strafed the Hun.
Back into dear Old Blighty
but many alas and alack
when we get back to the old love
will never come marching back.
But they will have done their duty
like men who were ready and true
and while we’re marched back to the front line
their souls will be winging to you.
Footnote: The last words of the second last line and the last line were missing. I have added in what I think perhaps my Grandad would have written.
I am presuming from the tone of this poem that he was a member of a cycling club which was quite popular in those days. My Dad belonged to one as well and travelled the length and breadth of England on some of his cycling sojourns.
THE BOYS IN THE BILLET by Sapper Victor George Bower Jacklin – Royal Engineers - WWI
Here they all come what a nuisance they are.
All mud from the head to the heel.
Why can’t they send them away to the war?
We might perchance then get a meal.
What with their rifles, their bay’nets and kit
their puttees and boots – in fact, every bit
of the whole blessed outfit – to me it’s quite plain
we shall never know peace in the old home again.
‘No you cant wash Dad for Bert’s at the sink.
The Corp’ral is having a shave.
You can’t do your hair and I verily think
they’ll never learn how to behave.
What with their blackings and brushes and wire,
polish and pull throughs, you can’t smell the fire.
Bella suggests that in order to meet each day’s plight
we wash, dress and breakfast and dine overnight.”
Now they’re all gone and I really don’t know
all day where I am, for I long
Oh just to see them with faces aglow
and list to the strain of their song.
I’d put up with their rifles, bay’nets and kit
their puttees and boots, in fact every bit
of the whole blessed pack – I confess it with pain,
joy nor peace shall I know till I greet them again.
The Sappers Lament by Sapper Victor George Bower Jacklin – Royal Engineers - WWI
The gentle sapper – a misanthrope, stood with his rifle at the slope
with envious thoughts his brain did burn, he wished he was the Sergeant stern.
Blessed with freedom in the matter of bullying him – a gentle sapper.
The Sergeant with orders in his hand had just received a reprimand
and wished as he went up and down his Company with bitter frown
that he could lord it like that grim Sergeant- Major who bullied him.
The Sergeant- Major in wrathful gloom came from the Company orderly room
and muttered at his visage framed ‘A scapegoat. I am always blamed
for mistakes like a lowly cur - I wish I were the Officer.’
The Captain he sat ill at ease with his responsibilities.
‘I am a wearied serf’ said he. ‘no praise ever comes to me,
but all the worry. How I yearn to be Major of this concern.’
The staid old Major then came in, his brow was black his face was thin.
He moaned ‘life is a weary blight my wretched liver’s never right.
A change I want, that’s what’s the matter. I wish I was a gentle sapper.
AN ‘AFTER THE WAR’ DREAM
by Sapper Victor George Bower Jacklin – Royal Engineers – WWI
Back to the dear old country
back to the wood and the dell,
back from the thunder and clash of the guns
to the pastime we love so well.
Back from the place where the rations are short
and it’s not all skittles and buns,
to the dear little inn that lurks in the hills
the scene of our Saturday ‘runs’.
Back from the trenches and death’s grim lair,
back from the dirt and the grime.
Back to the dear old Surrey hills,
it’s only a matter of time.
When the khaki will go for the cycling suit
and the ‘jigger’ will replace the gun
and we’ll sit round the fire in the old country inn
and tell how we strafed the Hun.
Back into dear Old Blighty
but many alas and alack
when we get back to the old love
will never come marching back.
But they will have done their duty
like men who were ready and true
and while we’re marched back to the front line
their souls will be winging to you.
Footnote: The last words of the second last line and the last line were missing. I have added in what I think perhaps my Grandad would have written.
I am presuming from the tone of this poem that he was a member of a cycling club which was quite popular in those days. My Dad belonged to one as well and travelled the length and breadth of England on some of his cycling sojourns.