The Scout

6 days to go until this country will be commemorating the end of World War One and Two, also, all other conflicts from 1945 onwards. We will be honouring those brave men and women who fell and all those husbands, sons, and brothers who fought for our freedom.

This poem is about the Scouts who wandered out into no-mans land to log enemy field placements etc, they were an elite bunch who kept to themselves, they made their own encampments and drew their own rations, their life expectancy in the field was just six months, I have a book World War One in Verse, If you want a copy of my book please inbox me, these are some of my poems and they are my personal way of remembering.

The Scout

The year was nineteen seventeen
when new recruits joined our platoon,
Their faces shocked at what they’d seen
for some, the war had come too soon.
But this new blood and old would weld
together as the wounded men
returned to posts some once had held
still wondering why, where and when.

The end of May was wonderful
Behind the lines the ruins were hid,
By tall grass – colourful – not dull
Garden flowers which someone did
nurture so lovingly and tend,
as wild ones all along the wall
seeded themselves once more to blend
Before we came and spoiled it all.

Everywhere the waste of war
was softened by prolific surge,
of unchecked crops which now did soar
from blood soaked soil they did emerge.
Within a stone’s throw of the guns
the mating birds would build their nest,
sitting – chirping, on the cannons
their joyful songs were surely blest.

By nightfall we had reached the place
a thousand yards from German lines,
The shelling here at gentler pace
where road and village intertwine,
An oasis in landscape of mud
where we could rest and be at peace,
Deep inside a dense deep wood
we’d wait for daylight to decrease.

We always worked in groups of three
So one would stay behind in camp,
He’d stay preparing food and tea
for our return in cold and damp.
Then, under cover of black night
we’d head toward the German lines,
Watching everything in sight
listening for the danger signs.

All I.D was left behind
no discs or letters should death loom,
No information could they find
if trench became our catacomb,
No steel helmets on our head
in case it clanged against our gun,
We wore a forage cap instead
and a bandolier for the hun.

One black night whilst on patrol
the moon was hid by thick grey cloud,
Through No Man’s land and near our goal
when we heard voices talking loud,
We lay quite still upon wet ground
as Germans passed us within yards,
They walked quite freely homeward bound
and didn’t bother with rear guards.

When suddenly a Verey light
lit up the sky and all around.
Everything was snowy white
even the mud upon the ground,
Machine gun fire scoured the hill,
on which we hid away from view,
Our men’s bullets trying to kill
the Germans and attempted coup.

As daylight dawned things became hushed
we had been on that hill all night.
We needed to go but wouldn’t be rushed
until the time became right,
We slowly crept back to our base
hidden deep within the wood,
We could leave. have a change of pace
but we wouldn’t although we should.

Men thought our job a dangerous one
our workplace – in No Man’s Land.
But we drew and cooked our own ration
dismissed fatigues out of hand,
Each fourth day was a day of rest
spent in an observation post,
Better than sat in a trench so stressed
with death on your mind uppermost.

We scouts survived – no man was lost
out there on Menin road Ridge,
Although this war came at a cost
to the millions held hostage,
The Menin road where we now stood
and the battle yet to come,
Was nothing but a river of mud
As we trudged our way back home.

Eric Harvey 02/11/20