Sitting and waiting for the whistle to blow again twice in just one day,
I sat and watched the various signs, the returning spring across fields,
In a copse there was a wood lark singing also in the copse a sniper waiting,
Tom tits hung off a house that stood in ruins as shells fly so will they.
A wet face of fear and rain droplets fell into my thick very wet great coat,
Dreading running across ruined fields, charred oak trees, rifles spit at me,
For now I will listen to the peace the loud harsh voice of the missel-thrush,
A man lies near me, so still I kicked him, the heap of bloody rags was silent.
Men walked along the trenches they needed to do something stamping cold feet,
Sitting in the iron depths of winter trying to have faith, hope in my iced heart,
Ears burn in the ceaseless icy east winds it blows so cold, I am so very scared,
There is only a few things we can be sure of that is rain, cold and snow storms.
There is a load bang and sound of speed in the wind a shell falls but it is short,
Bullets fired the tracers are like fireworks they glow as they flash past or over,
Snow falls heavily and the ripped fields of no mans land begins to turn mud white,
If the whistle blows for us to attack we will stand out like silhouettes on paper.
My mouth was so dry I kept on drinking water but each time I dank the thirst returned,
The clothes I wore have not been changed for nearly six months coldness killed ticks,
Noise of the shelling and rifle fire made me feel sick my stomach full of butterfly's
My hands begin to shake uncontrollably as I try to light a cigarette the match is wet.
The whistle blows in frightened confusion we are told to push on and leave the trench,
Officers with guns wait to shoot anybody that does not charge and join the slaughter,
I stand in a snow white field as a black figure on a white background this is my day,
Men wounded many crying this is so wrong a bullet hits my head I fall into blackness.