Grasscutters

I was sent to work at the old Repat.

It was forty years since the war,

Those ancient diggers would sit and swear

At the pain of the limbs they wore,

The wounds would open as years went by,

They’d come for another slice,

That war was never over for them,

And morphine was paradise.

 

I saw one veteran struggle and curse

As he ripped at the buckles and straps,

The new prosthesis had rubbed him raw

As his knee began to relapse.

He tore the leg from his wounded stump

Sat on his bed, and roared,

Then swung the article over his head

And flung it across the ward.

 

The others had ducked as the leg took off

And bounced off the opposite wall,

‘I’ll have to report you,’ the nurse exclaimed,

‘It’s a good leg, after all!’

‘You wear it then,’ was the man’s response,

‘For it’s driving me insane,

What would you know of Flanders Fields?

You wouldn’t deal with the pain!’

 

My job was to settle and calm him down

So I asked him about his leg,

‘When and where did you lose it, Dig?’

The veteran tossed his head.

‘You’ve heard of a place called Flanders Fields

Where the bullets came in like hail?

Well, I was there with the Anzac’s, son,

At a place called Passchendaele.’

 

‘Our Generals were trying to murder us,

I swear, on my mother’s head,

They kept on sending us over the top

Until half of the men were dead.

The German gunners would enfilade

As we struggled against the mud,

I’ll never forget the battlefield,

It was spattered with bones and blood.

 

They’d send artillery shells across

At the height of a soldier’s knee,

We’d watch them come as they parted the grass,

They were Grasscutters, you see!

Well, I was running with bayonet fixed

And praying for God’s good grace,

When suddenly I was lying there,

I’d tumbled, flat on my face.’

 

‘It’s strange that I never felt a thing,

When the Grasscutter got me,

It took a while ‘til I saw my leg

Was gone, from under the knee.

But that was the end of the war for me,

The end of the life I’d known,

I spent some time back in Blighty, then

I came on a ship, back home.’

 

I never chided those men in there

Though they’d curse and swear, and roar,

For every man was a hero where

They'd trudged in mud through the war.

That Repat. job was a fill-in job

And I left, still young and hale,

But I never forgot the Grasscutter

Or the man from Passchendaele.

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Claire in VA]

I enjoyed the impeccable, as always, rhyme
and meter in your poem. Some may consider
it old-fashioned to write in this style, but I love
it! It represents orderliness for me, and I hear
and feel the musical qualities. I wonder which
style, free verse or structured, actually sells
more and to which people does it sell the most.

The story itself is a learning event for me. I
know that the wounded soldiers of past wars
are heros, but you give the stories life. The style
of your verses draws me, and I am blessed with
knowledge of the past.

Fantastic!

[TPK Stories]

Good storytelling David, as always.

[Lyn Anderson]

Well, I wouldn't have expected quite that from grasscutters, but I really liked it, with the historical references and the great imagery.

[Leslie Philibert]

David is a master of quality narrative poetry, and has earned his popularity with careful, talented work !

[David Lewis Paget]

This is the final of the series which go to make up my book, 'The Storm & the Tall-Ship Pier', now available through Lulu.com. 60 Poems, 200 pages, you can review it at -

http://www.lulu.com/shop/david-lewis-paget/the-storm-the-tall-ship-pier/paperback/product-21529052.html

[Coyote Poetry]

"The veteran tossed his head.
‘You’ve heard of a place called Flanders Fields
Where the bullets came in like hail?"
A powerful poem. Flanders Field left us with many stories. Most ended badly. Thank you for sharing the excellent poetry.
Coyote

[emmajoy]

'They’d send artillery shells across ~ At the height of a soldier’s knee, ~ We’d watch them come as they parted the grass, ~ They were Grasscutters, you see!'

Oh my, what a read, what an experience to go through that terrible war, the post war hell and its memories. Want so much to applaud your literary skills, David, always, always perfectly done, but it's your choice of themes that more often or not impress me, and, truly, dear friend, this is one of the very best. But, probably, the saddestand, because of what happened, and, the very fact that those poor men come with every generation after war. Brilliant in its sadness.

[Lena M. P.]

Very touching piece David. Men like those deserve respect and our gratitude but never our pity. You have got it on the mark with this poem.

[Tate Morgan]

Well done Dave a great tale .You accounts of history would make for so much better reading than the history books we have today. Adventure pain, suffering, glory.It isnt all they make young men think about. It needs to be told that war is hell and the men left behind pay for it all

[Marie]

This is certainly unforgettable. Those with crippling wounds are just as much heros as those who died for their country.