Today’s poem

AMONG the pages of my father’s POW diary, I found this poem entitled War, written by a POW in Japaneseoccupied Singapore in 1942. My father had written a footnote saying: ‘The above, written by a POW in the early days of our captivity, certainly shows war as a horrible business. No one ever wins. That certainly can be seen, in the after-effect of the 1914-1918 war and also this one.’ Mrs Margaret Morgan,

Broadstairs, Kent. Rattle, splutter, crackle, stutter — Lewis and Bren guns all around Ack-ack, Bofors,

mortar barrage Help to swell the hellish sound Overhead, the Nippon

war planes Fill the sky with angry roar Lie down flat, you

silly blighters This is what the world

calls ‘War’. Men upon their bellies

creeping, Through the rubber and

the palm Parched and hungry, bereft

of sleeping Knowing not a

moment’s calm Wading through the swamps

and marshlands Clothing stiff with mud

and gore On they went — the

helpless victims Sacrificed, to the god of war. All around the men are lying Fathers, brothers,

husbands, sons Some are dead and some

are dying Victims all of bombs and guns Gasping, groaning, crying

— moaning Is this nature in the raw? No, it’s simply bloody murder History books, just call

it ‘War’. Blackened, bloated,

stinking corpses Lie unburied all around Ants and flies and

loathsome maggots Use them, for a

breeding ground They have died to save

an Empire Don’t, for God’s sake, ask

who for They were simply slain

and butchered In this democratic ‘War’. While at home in London’s

club rooms See the ticking tapes ‘flash in’. Sharp decline! United Rubber Down five cents —

Malayan tin ‘Dammit, I shall lose a packet ‘Lucky, I’ve got plenty more ‘Waiter, bring a

double brandy!’ Yes, my friends, yes, this

is War!