I dedicate this poem to my father, who as a young soldier in the Royal Fusiliers was severely injured at the Battle of Cambrai in France during the 1st World War, when we lost half a million men in just three weeks. He was deaf for the remainder of his life, and of his seven children, he never heard the last four speak. I was the last.

"There's nothing to worry about," they said,
"this going up the line."
To the front line trench, the sergeant led,
saying, "You lads will be just fine."

I cannot look at the many dead,
that lay within this trench,
covered in blankets, many stained red,
but I smell the awful stench.

This churned-up earth, with that foot exposed,
those soldiers killing lice.
Shell-shocked with horror, their poor minds closed,
to the scurrying rats and mice.

Half a million of English dead,
in only just three weeks.
"There's nothing to worry about," they said,
but death around me reeks.

"Oh, take me back to dear old blighty,"
a soldier sings in despair,
followed by a "Christ almighty,"
seeing us pass with a stare.

"There's nothing to worry about," they said,
some-one whispers, "Poor sods,"
I stumble forward in growing dread,
my boots like muddied clods.

I shake and tremble as bullets whine,
and shells and mortars strike."
"Keep going lads, you will be fine."
Is this what hell is like?