I asked old Len,
‘Were you scared at Monte Casino?’
‘I can’t remember,’ he replied. ‘I suppose I must have been’.
Then he sank between the protective flanks
Of his deep, old armchair,
His eyes red with unshed boozy tears.

‘I can remember being sick,’ he continued.
‘Puked me ring up I did.’
Then struggling, up and away from seated sanctuary,
His face became jaw-snarled ugly,
And taking stance, feet spread in balance,
Right arm high, left and eyes pointing down,
He entered sobriety through recollection,
To demonstrate death by impalement.

‘Stuck me bay’net frew is froat I did.’
Then he paused,
And stepping back through his lushful years
He bent and focussed and forced
His arms forward,
And down,
And into,
And through the boy’s pallid throat,
Presented to him for slaughter.
‘In, twist, out.’

And after the jerk his pose was stilled:
A toy-soldier, tin or lead or plastic: it makes no difference.
‘Good looking he was; about eighteen, same as me.’
Then shaking his head he sneered a reluctant ‘No’,
And by way of blurred emphasis he repeated,
‘I can’t remember Charlie,’
Though he added through the film,
‘But he did have nice eyes.’