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There aint any angels in foxholes,
Jock Grey once said to me.
He was looking at a different scene
Than what we could both then see.

Just tension and maybe boredom
And expectation among the boys,
Just waiting for the action,
Waiting for the noise
That soaks into your being
Once it all kicks off again;
Then it’s all action and panic
Shouting and screaming men.
There’s no glory down in foxholes
Ask any man who’s been there
God and King and Country, no
Let me live is all you care

And whether it’s hot or cold
Dry or wallowing in mud
Only one thing is certain
You’ll see lots of blood.
There ain’t no pride and glory
Just a sense of desolation;
If there is a god he aint gonna
Just back one lot of nations.
He’s probably packed his bags
Closed heaven down in haste,
Sickened by the carnage;
The awful bloody waste.

Perhaps that awful god
Hangs his head in shame
That they dare to do this killing
In his honour and his name.
Let the fountain pen warriors write
Of war’s glory and war’s pride
How many have seen a foxhole
Let alone been down inside
I could see his shoulders heave
See the blankness in his gaze
Feel the raw emotion before 
He came back from those days.

No there aint no angels in foxholes.
I wish they’d get that right.
Now whose round is it lads?
The beer’s bloody slow tonight.

R.I.P.  Jock - survived WW2, died in a train crash late 1960's.
We enjoyed many Mess Nights and beers together.

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