I knew a bloke who rarely spoke,
A gentle kindly soul.
Then one day his words did flow
Through my heart they tore a hole.
His soft voice told a story so hard
It changed my perception of war.
Another point of view from which
I hadn't considered before.
He went to church his faith was strong
But I never heard him preach.
And how to help your fellow man
So much that he could teach
His home a refuge open wide
If you need a place to dwell.
We were all aware of his good deeds
But I never knew him well.
The first communion of our sons
Both were 10 years old.
Proud parents gathering afterwards
Was when his story told.
This man so proud of his only son,
He reflected way back when
He was a child of that same age,
Things were so different then.
We all had childhood heroes
Mine were pilots of the sky.
The “Dam Busters”, what a movie
I watched those bombers fly.
I applauded the Allied victories
Like the thousand bomber raid.
Reeking havoc on the enemy,
A strategic impact made.
We were living in serenity
The peace of a tropical isle.
His memories overwhelming,
The story began with a smile.
He was born in nineteen thirty five,
By the tender age of ten
He had only ever known of war
Daily bombings happening then.
He spoke of air raid warnings
And in bunkers underground.
The constant pounding of the earth
So loud their screams were drowned.
They lived in different places
Each time a brand new start.
The reason being their last house
Had just been blown apart.
He spoke of grief and sadness
And how his mother cried,
Each time they learned an uncle,
Or little cousin died.
Occasionally he went to school
And hung his bag up on the rack.
Each time another empty hook
A little child won't be back.
I was fighting back my tears by then
My eyes beginning to swell,
On learning that this gentle man
Had risen out of hell.
He played amid the ruin and rubble
And occasional body piece.
At ten he’d never considered
That war would ever cease.
Sometimes he skipped the shelters
To watch from a nearby hill.
Exploding bombs and tracer bullets
A horrid childhood thrill.
He bore witness to the spectacle
Of bombers going down.
He watched the firestorm burn
Cremating his whole town.
And my hero bomber pilots,
How could they ever know
That a little boy named Helmut
Played in Dresden down below?
His words cut deep into my soul
They shook me to the core.
Surely no one truly believes
In victory from war.