Grandad abroad

Grandad abroad

From Tonbridge to Bombay,

From Quetta to Afghanistan

Grandad had his day.

Another brave young boy

Who fought for God and King.

Another one to deploy.

But Grandad was a fighter,

In grim conditions battled,

But with moments that were lighter.

We cannot pain measure

As he fought for his life abroad,

But we remember him with pleasure.

For the family will always say,

‘Do you remember what Grandad did

That terrible, fateful day?’

‘Twas in the 3^rd Afghan War

He took his rifle standing proud

And was hear to shout and roar.

“Who goes there?” his nerves on edge.

But the assailant answered not,

And Grandad had made a pledge.

Raising his rifle battered and wonky,

He shot, the silence riven

Standing over the fallen donkey.

How do we tolerate war without glory?

Stomach killing and pain in war?

If not through a comical story.

Grandad never told of slaughter

In battle weary lands

Across the divided water.

But the story makes us smile

And we mention aloud his name

And he is back with us for a while.


By Linda Prince