A Remembrance Day Poem

The wind cuts through the skin, Like a dagger. It’s cold chill awakens my senses. With the wind a sound is carried, The sound of a thousand guns firing.

The earth, it moves beneath my feet, As a shell leaves our gun to meet the enemy. A nasty greeting. My friend grabs the rod, and swabs out the gun, while another loads a charge and the other a shell. A team of precision. My closest friends. A band of brothers. Harbingers of death. Sending uncertainty, fear and terror. Sending support, cover and assistance. We are foe. We are friend.

We are The Fighting 59th.

Coordinates received, we traverse our gun. Elevation set, our time has come. I grab the pull cord, to release the shell, I await the order…it’s just me…and the order.

“FIRE!”

*KABOOM*

The gun roars to life, as a 95 pound projectile finds a new purpose. Before it was stacked, then carried, just a number. But now…. It’s ferocious, it’s deadly and it’s…gone. We can’t get it back. I no longer have control. I hope the OP (Observation Post) got it right.

We are the artillery.

We create our own thunder.

We are the artillery.

We give life and death.

We are the artillery.

A Machine of War Like No Other.

We are the artillery…

Remember Us.

Dedicated to my grandfather, Francis “Frank” Marshall, Gunner in the 59th Newfoundland Heavy Regiment, Royal Artillery, British Second Army, 1940-1945. Picture above are the Long Tom’s of the 20th Battery in Combat.