No 4 Mk 1

He got his gun back in 43
As soon as he was old enough
to run and shoot and kill
dressed in the cheapest cotton drab
that His Majesty could afford

He was scared, so afraid
Dreading each coming day
he clutched the wood stock
trying to squeeze out some hope

He learned to clean it properly
how to march it about proudly
He held it limply when he thought of home
Of his love and the old road
Maybe he'd see them again
If he could lug this gun through the war.

They were up before the sun
on that damnable day.
The barrel was cold
with the mist of sea
but he hugged it for warmth
until he couldn't feel his fingers

He nicked the receiver
as he dropped to earth
and cowered behind a wall
He was nearly shot.

The end of the barrel has a scratch
when he remembered his house
the old road, and the girl
and he wanted to go home so much
and he picked up the gun.
His legs were like rubber
but he managed to stand.

There's chips all through the wood
Where the brick caught bullets
that were meant for him
And its weight kept his hands steady
just long enough to pull the trigger
so he could kill someone he'd never met

The magazine is dented
when he released his grip
to hear the day was over

He took his gun back to the old road
he stashed it in closet
and let it rot
His son found it amongst his things
And sold it to a man for 300 cash