Road to Burma
We called him Johnny Wintergreen,He never complained about his back.
There was a gentleness about him,
His face was etched in pain.
Jack Pursley was another one,
Who never complained about his fate.
It was on the road to Burma,
After a bloody battle.
They piled the dead along that road,
On top of one another a horrible day.
An officer walked down that line,
I can imagine him shedding a tear.
Dog tags removed from each one,
The finality of war no winners laying there.
As he walked saluting down that road,
He thought he saw movement.
Stopping looking back under the bodies,
He saw a finger move, Just the one.
That was Jack laying there,
A finger of defiance in the air.
He ended up with a plate
Or should I say a metal plate in his head.
Another one I knew although I couldn't,
Remember his name was the last.
Off the cockleshell heroes,
He had a canoe on his mantle piece.
With him inside paddling away,
I said to his wife. "you must be proud of him.
It must have been a wonderful moment,
When they awarded him that canoe".
She answered. Awarded! We had to buy
that for him from the lifeboat museum".
So they made a film about it.
Surely Eastbourne could've done more.
As for Johnny wintergreen,
He was proud of his medals.
My father not so much,
He threw them away.
I'd like to thank all the men and women,
Who lost their lives so we could live free.
Including all those unsung heroes,
Who fought bravely for their country.
Short story by Alan J Ripley
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Written on 2023-04-23 at 03:38
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