At school I never really enjoyed English lessons, in particular I really disliked English Literature. I don't now why, as in general learning came easy and I did well at most subjects. Perhaps the thoughts of reading Shakespeare was just too much of a turn off ?
But one piece of work my English teacher shared has stuck with me ever since and I was reminded of it when I saw a copy pinned on the wall during last weeks visit to the "Secret Bunker"
I grew up like most Brits within the shadow of a "war" in Northern Ireland, which for the most part was a TV news item, but on occasions effected us on the main land by way of Terrorist Bombings. At about age 6 I remember being evacuated with my parents from a shopping centre because of a bomb threat, I also recall that the BBC had specific reporting restrictions that prevented them broadcasting the voice of anyone connected to the IRA. Instead they would show them with an Irish actors voice dubbed over, but saying the same words (strange) Things have moved on, Jerry Adams the once leader of the Political arm of the IRA is now an elected MP. I also remember the massive explosion at a Brighton Hotel when the Conservative leadership were holding their annual conference. So amidst this background, as an impressionable schoolboy I was presented wit the words penned by Harvey Andrews about the true story of a British Soldier Michael Willets on the streets of Northern Ireland.
In a station in the city a British soldier stood
Talking to the people there if the people would
Some just stared in hatred, and others turned in pain
And the lonely British soldier wished he was back home again
Come join the British Army! said the posters in his town
See the world and have your fun come serve before the Crown
The jobs were hard to come by and he could not face the dole
So he took his country's shilling and enlisted on the roll
For there was no fear of fighting, the Empire long was lost
Just ten years in the army getting paid for being bossed
Then leave a man experienced a man who's made the grade
A medal and a pension some mem'ries and a trade
Then came the call to Ireland as the call had come before
Another bloody chapter in an endless civil war
The priests they stood on both sides the priests they stood behind
Another fight in Jesus name the blind against the blind
The soldier stood between them between the whistling stones
And then the broken bottles that led to broken bones
The petrol bombs that burnt his hands the nails that pierced his skin
And wished that he had stayed at home surrounded by his kin
The station filled with people the soldier soon was bored
But better in the station than where the people warred
The room filled up with mothers with daughters and with sons
Who stared with itchy fingers at the soldier and his gun
A yell of fear a screech of brakes the shattering of glass
The window of the station broke to let the package pass
A scream came from the mothers as they ran towards the door
Dragging children crying from the bomb upon the floor
The soldier stood and could not move his gun he could not use
He knew the bomb had seconds and not minutes on the fuse
He could not run to pick it up and throw it in the street
There were far too many people there too many running feet
Take cover! yelled the soldier, Take cover for your lives
And the Irishmen threw down their young and stood before their wives
They turned towards the soldier their eyes alive with fear
For God's sake save our children or they'll end their short lives here
The soldier moved towards the bomb his stomach like a stone
Why was this his battle God why was he alone
He lay down on the package and he murmured one farewell
To those at home in England to those he loved so well
He saw the sights of summer felt the wind upon his brow
The young girls in the city parks how precious were they now
The soaring of the swallow the beauty of the swan
The music of the turning world so soon would it be gone
A muffled soft explosion and the room began to quake
The soldier blown across the floor his blood a crimson lake
They never heard him cry or shout they never heard him moan
And they turned their children's faces from the blood and from the bones
The crowd outside soon gathered and the ambulances came
To carry off the body of a pawn lost in the game
And the crowd they clapped and cheered and they sang their rebel songs
One soldier less to interfere where he did not belong
But will the children growing up learn at their mothers' knees
The story of the soldier who bought their liberty
Who used his youthful body as a means towards an end
Who gave his life to those who called him murderer not friend
What struck me was not the loss of life but the last paragraph, the futility of a life lost, that makes no effect on those saved. The event in 1971 was not an all changing one in many peoples lives, "The troubles" continued for some time, in fact as those of us that live in Manchester will testify 1996 proved the hostilities to be far from over when the IRA sent a coded warning of a Bomb in our city centre, the area was evacuated but the explosion destroyed the heart of our city
I heard the explosion in our home about 7 miles away, my in-laws were in a department store in the centre of town that had all its windows blown in, but it could have been worse.
The sad thing, when all the destruction and deaths end, it always comes to the same result, men sitting around a table and sorting out there differences. Its true when they say "war is young men dying and old men talking "
