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South Wales Evening Post - - LETTERS - PAUL REES Bryn­melyn

On the bat­tle­fields bare, of the Great War Noth­ing great, about death ga­lore In a French town north of Ver­dun The fate of Pri­vate Gun­ther, was set upon De­moted from Sergeant the re­sult of a let­ter Crit­i­cism bound, words are a fet­ter Of Ger­man de­scent, so some­thing to prove All doubts of sym­pa­this­ing to re­move Time­less steps of an un­lucky soul Through the steps of time the last to fall Pinned down by en­emy fire Events co­in­cided to con­spire Fool­hardy or brave to a fi­nal fault Bay­o­net fixed for the last as­sault Heart pound­ing within his chest He charged, the Ger­man ma­chine gun nest His own de­ci­sion to en­gage the foe Or fol­low­ing or­ders, we’ll never know Warn­ing shots ig­nored, a price to pay Etched for­ever on the eleventh day An­other minute spared, no wasted life Home to a child, and a grate­ful wife If rea­son were needed to fight no more This is one, of the fu­til­ity of war.

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