When Johnny Comes Marching Home

The wind rustles the dry leaves

and the sun shines warmly yellow through

I step out into this world

each foot before the other

like I did some 68 years before

from my father’s arms

toddling

into my mother’s embrace

the wind blows chill

nature’s trash swirls beneath my feet

bringing gentle cyclones

and eddies around my legs

hands in my pockets

my jacket around me like a suit of armor

I stroll forth along the sidewalk

Across the way

in the field that adjoins my street

a high-school band starts to play

marching

marching

music wafts over to me in cold gasps

sounding muted

strained

carried away by the wind

slicing through the leaves

as they make their way to ground

I recognize the tune they play

it is a military march

full of the tin of brass

and tat-a-rat-tat-tat-tat

and boom, boom, boom

of the big drums

my steps now steady falling

in cadence

down the street

past the tracks

beyond a brick wall

that I can just see over

lies another field

this one orderly and full

soldiers of stone  

each one straight and rigid

each one taut with attention

each one ready for drill

ready for march

ready for battle

in through the rusty iron gate

following a broken concrete path

I am amongst the stone soldiers

the leaves cover their feet

some in piles, others in heaps

sharply left I go

turning of the ball of my foot

the men seem to lean forward

as if to say

‘Ready for inspection, Suh!’

I stop at the first man in line

a bit faded

Paul Mead 16th Royal Engineers, 1899-1917

leaning forward, almost as a nod to me

I stare hard at him

trying

trying

to intimidate this man

so young

but he stares back, and

as if to prove himself in

stoic madness

I know this one would not fail me

when the artillery started to fall

I lay a rose at his feet

next

with cracks down his brow

shaken

disheveled

stands

George Sneedlough, 4th Infrantry, El Alamein, 1943

he does not meet my gaze

battle worn

tired

subjected to the elements

I feel for him, I really do

but war is war

so I dust him off

‘Pip, pip my man’ I say

as if to reassure him

and lay a rose at his feet

then I move on

all around me

in this fortress

with barbed brick walls so high

are rows and rows of

stone soldiers

all waiting for inspection

flowers lay in front of some

as if boots polished

to show

we are still soldiers

we are always soldiers

frozen in your memories

strong, supple

smiling out

from your photos

and your lockets

and as the faint sound

of the military march

wisps away

I come to another soldier

much newer than the rest

Ian McCray, 3rd Para, Falklands 1958 �" 1982

I will inspect this one much as the rest

‘Hands out’ I say

‘Buttons up’ I say

‘Helmut straight’ I say

my resolve fails me

and lean forward on this soldier

for support

my hand upon his cool dry forehead

this

this

this is my soldier

my tears fall freely

upon his face

I take from my coat

always starched, always pressed

a bouquet of flowers

also a hand full of toffees

favorites

lay them at his feet

polish his uniform

tell him what’s happening

how his mum is

how his sis is

how I’ve kept his room the same all these years

haven’t moved a thing son

a deep breath

gather myself

stand up, dust my coat off

look around

hope none of the other’s see my thinness

my brittle hard coating

I move on now

for I must

I am soldier too

still left in this world

here to inspect

here to memorialize

never to forget

‘Pip, pip men’, I say again

‘Inspection passed’

and quietly they stand

beaming and proud

until next month’s inspection

silent

waiting

remembered

--william paris