Five good years treading this Empire’s routes,

Putting down those trying to tear it apart.

Then, still in step, off to French and Belgian shores,

Left right left, left turn, right turn but never about.

What happened that day? How can I say what;

The noise, the fear – did it become too much?

That straw, that barn, the silence, the peace,

Couldn’t help but rush in to bury my face.

The General said sad to lose such a good man,

But one to teach many just has to be done.

Battalion will parade to witness the shame

Of leaving the ranks, of hiding away.

I march at dawn and stand-to that post,

A few short paces but the longest of roads,

To face old mates over open sights,

Then report to St Peter, or maybe Old Nick.