Personal Reflections

Memories of our O.T. Tour of the Western Front by Anthony Lipscomb

Read by Anthony Lipscomb

Memories of our O.T. Tour of the Western Front

From nations' hubris flamed the spark which tore the Belle Epoch apart.
Did Bismark steer the German state on course for such a dreadful fate?
Or Britain's headlong Dreadnought race bring warring armies face to face?
A Serbian pistol toppled first the dominos of a Europe cursed
and opened every country's door to send unleashed their dogs of war.

We cold and windswept pilgrims met, united all by common debt
to commemorate the final hours of those whose graves were lined with flowers
but also these survived from hell, of gas and flame and poison shell
that back to Blighty then returned, all different men 'spite victory earned.

We reached the Somme that afternoon, (at school I'd read Siegfried Sassoon)
and knew Mametz, Delville, Thiepval had seen the death of many a PAL.
Beneath those arches name on name, we sheltered from the wind and rain
and looked across the fields of France and men all lost in that advance.
We stopped en route to see the graves of the Devonshire soldiers walked so brave
from their front line to certain death, when guns extinguished final breath.

The town of Ypres, next port of call where newly stands the old cloth hall
and gargoyled spires rise up this day where bodies, stones and rubble lay.
The next two days drained emotions too, from George's church to Kokelikoo.
The spotted dick there cheered a lot, before the graveyard called Tyne Cot.

Last day arrived with much unseen, from Poperinge town to more cemeteries green
with pearly white headstones all standing so clear, marking name, rank and number, a loved one so dear.

This trip was outstanding, one I'll never forget, both for history tragic and the people we met,
like Peter and Peter with their trusty wheelchair and David and Anthony who made us aware
of their knowledge (and patience) and love of this time when so many fell without reaching their prime.

By Anthony Lipscomb