Little Norman
Watery blue eyes never flickered
As he relived his wartime tales.
Never sad. He spoke not of the horror
But of the friendships made.
Funny stories of accents new,
Of smells and places cold.
Never played the hero
But spoke of others who
Inspired him in some special way
And the things they’d say and do.
He spoke of British rations
The Yanks had so much more.
He spoke of massive waggons
That never cleared the shore.
The tiny roads in France,
The beaches at Dunkirk.
Reminisced not of retreat and fear
But polished buttons and creased shirts.
Captured by the Russians
Held against his will.
His captain couldn’t find him so
My gran thought he’d been killed.
The Russians changed their minds mid-way
And they let my granddad go
But straight back to the front he went
His captain never let him home.
He bore the scars of bullets
But never told me how
He spoke about French gratefulness
When they liberated towns.
When he said the French were friendly
I knew just what he meant
A foreign secret bit his arse
When the MOD sent
A letter asking him to pay
To a little girl, his own,
One who never saw her daddy
And he never saw her grow.
He never knew I knew
Of his secret wartime child
Of a mademoiselle so friendly
Who must have caught his eye.
As I grew up he told me more
Of how he watched men fall
Of triggers pulled, machine gun fire
Oh, how he watched them fall.
Rows of men, like dominoes
Ten more, ten more, ten more.
Ten more widows, a million tears
He never kept the score
He told me of the Jerrys
And how he held no hatred for them
He didn’t want to kill, but he didn’t want to die
So he simply followed orders.
“The Jerry’s were just like me and you,
We were thrown together, see.”
“I didn’t really want to kill”
“And I tell you, nor did he.”
He spoke of Adolf Hitler
And said some funny things
That Hitler was not sound of mind
And Goebbels pulled the strings.
I’m sure that he had medals,
But I never saw a one.
He didn’t care for them at all,
He was a modest man.
He wasn’t tall, he wasn’t big
But I’m sure that he’d been brave.
My granddad, Little Norman,
With his happy, friendly face.
I never saw the soldier,
That was hidden in his eyes.
I only saw the smiling man
Who was gentle, calm and kind.
As he relived his wartime tales.
Never sad. He spoke not of the horror
But of the friendships made.
Funny stories of accents new,
Of smells and places cold.
Never played the hero
But spoke of others who
Inspired him in some special way
And the things they’d say and do.
He spoke of British rations
The Yanks had so much more.
He spoke of massive waggons
That never cleared the shore.
The tiny roads in France,
The beaches at Dunkirk.
Reminisced not of retreat and fear
But polished buttons and creased shirts.
Captured by the Russians
Held against his will.
His captain couldn’t find him so
My gran thought he’d been killed.
The Russians changed their minds mid-way
And they let my granddad go
But straight back to the front he went
His captain never let him home.
He bore the scars of bullets
But never told me how
He spoke about French gratefulness
When they liberated towns.
When he said the French were friendly
I knew just what he meant
A foreign secret bit his arse
When the MOD sent
A letter asking him to pay
To a little girl, his own,
One who never saw her daddy
And he never saw her grow.
He never knew I knew
Of his secret wartime child
Of a mademoiselle so friendly
Who must have caught his eye.
As I grew up he told me more
Of how he watched men fall
Of triggers pulled, machine gun fire
Oh, how he watched them fall.
Rows of men, like dominoes
Ten more, ten more, ten more.
Ten more widows, a million tears
He never kept the score
He told me of the Jerrys
And how he held no hatred for them
He didn’t want to kill, but he didn’t want to die
So he simply followed orders.
“The Jerry’s were just like me and you,
We were thrown together, see.”
“I didn’t really want to kill”
“And I tell you, nor did he.”
He spoke of Adolf Hitler
And said some funny things
That Hitler was not sound of mind
And Goebbels pulled the strings.
I’m sure that he had medals,
But I never saw a one.
He didn’t care for them at all,
He was a modest man.
He wasn’t tall, he wasn’t big
But I’m sure that he’d been brave.
My granddad, Little Norman,
With his happy, friendly face.
I never saw the soldier,
That was hidden in his eyes.
I only saw the smiling man
Who was gentle, calm and kind.
Fri, 11 Nov 2011 01:18 pm
Thank you Darren for sharing this poem on this special day of remembrance.
Fri, 11 Nov 2011 04:44 pm
