No Man's Land Poem by David Lewis Paget

I'd been cleaning out the attic
And the gables in the roof,
Which were dusty, full of cobwebs
And a horror, tell the truth,
There were boxes, wooden chests
And mouldy papers overall,
'Til the ceiling couldn't take it,
It was bowed, about to fall.

So we shunted all this detritus
Until it filled the space
We had cleared on the landing
To gain access to the place,
'What on earth are we to do with it? '
My wife said in despair,
'We'll have to burn the lot, ' I said,
'Except that old box chair.'

I remembered the old box chair
From my Grandad's, Arthur Oates,
It was taken from a hallstand
Where we'd hung our hats and coats,
It was made of polished oak, and sat
So proudly, just inside,
My father must have brought it home
When my Grandfather died.

Later, when we'd finished sorting,
Burning, and so on,
I lifted up the lid to see
What treasures I had won,
My gas mask from the second war
That looked like Mickey Mouse,
Was sitting still within that box,
So many years had passed.

I tipped out scarves and ancient gloves
That still lay buried there,
My sister's broken China Doll
The type that had no hair,
And at the bottom, going brown
And brittle, somewhat dank,
My Grandad's faded diary,
With Number, Name and Rank.

I read it through that very night,
I sat there in the gloom,
And there the 'War to End all Wars'
Unfolded in my room,
It left me pensive, sitting there
For now I understood,
Those many journeys made to France,
My Grandad's bitter moods.

In 1914, Christmastime
He'd lain there in his trench,
The ground was hard and white that morn,
The atmosphere was tense,
The Germans in their trenches were
Just fifty yards away,
He heard them bursting into song,
They Caroled forth that day.

The strip that they called 'No Man's Land'
Lay under recent snow,
The bodies of the slain lay there,
No Christmas would they know!
A note came from the German side
A ceasefire, honour pledged,
Allowing each to venture out
Unharmed, bury their dead.

My grandfather had watched in awe
As slowly, German heads,
Rose up above their parapets,
Dispersed their fear and dread,
He climbed on out himself, and wandered
Over No Man's Land,
When the advancing Boche had smiled,
He shook a German's hand.

They wished a Merry Christmas each
These soldiers who were foes,
They were just men in uniforms
That day, as Jesus knows,
'We have no wish to kill you now, '
One said, 'nor you kill us,
So why shoot on this Christmas Day,
I'm you - you're one of us! '

They all exchanged small gifts that day,
Cigars, chocolate, tobacco,
They spoke in English, and in French
In accents loud, staccato,
They laughed and joked and passed around
Snapshots, from hand to hand,
They even played scratch football
Cheered and laughed, in No Man's Land.

My grandfather then wrote at length
Of one young lad, a Hun,
Blonde haired, blued eyed, his name was Franz
He seemed a friendly one,
They promised, they would find each other
When the war was done,
And drink to peace with Schnapps and Gin,
Scotch Whiskey, one for one.

That day the guns lay silent, then
They filed back to each trench,
Catcalled and whistled, bandied jokes,
Those soldiers were just men,
At midnight the ceasefire was off,
They all fired in the air,
No-one was hitting anyone
Across that land - 'Despair! '

But then the 'War to End all Wars'
Went grimly back on course,
The Officers made threats, and soon
Their orders lent them force,
My grandfather fired at a head
That bobbed in No Man's Land,
The Boche had fallen dead before
He recognised him - Franz.

I always thought my grandfather
Was grim, there was no light,
That animated him by day,
Or cheered his soul by night,
He spoke just once about the war
And said - 'War should be banned!
You'll never understand the horror,
There, in No Man's Land.'

6 January 2009