This poem is dedicated to those who made the ultimate sacrifice in and were touched by the Great War. It is an apology for unfulfilled promise.

They persuaded me to enlist, so I lied about my age. Had I known the truth, at an early stage I would have heeded the voice, whispering in my head. But my pals paid my price; they’re dead.

But whatever the reason, I was on the front line. ‘Though I tried so hard not to cry or whine, if only I could, I would certainly have fled, away from the others, for they were all dead.

The Chaplain led us, in a sermon of sorrow - “God keep us safe to live for tomorrow.” It was Easter Sunday, when we bowed our heads, praying for our brothers who were all dead.

I thought they were joking about the ‘Vickers’ machine gun - It had killed so many. They’d no more see the sun break through the clouds, shinning overhead. How could they ever? They’re all dead.

So, I stood in the trench, my rifle in hand, fearing the order, dreading the command. “God keep me safe,” I pleaded, I cried, “Not like the others, for they have all died.”

I thought about my darling, my dear sweetheart, and the promise I made that we’d never part. Then the guns fell silent as I looked ahead. Like a bullet it struck me - I’d soon be dead.

My legs felt weak, my stomach heaved aloud; each soldier around me had his bare head bowed. That pitiful sight should have filled me with dread, for I knew that soon, they’d all be dead.

But I was not moved for them; not I. I shouldn’t have been there, I didn’t want to die in that Hell, that blasted, bloody place of dread. I wanted to live, but soon I’d be dead.