by Graham Bedford from Edenfield.

White marble headstones at 'Attention',

Row upon row of straightest backs;

With telling lines writ on their faces,

Revealing only the barest facts.

Fearstruck thousands, vomit tainted,

hit the water from the landing craft;

And entered hell of shot and shrapnel,

blood and limb all from their draft.

Mind conditioned to moving forward,

Smell of cordite, scream of pain;

Eighty pounds through heavy water,

Before the ill named Gold Beach gained.

The unbelieving praying loudly,

Men frantically trying to re-group;

To form a presence and protection,

From the battery shelling by German troop.

Hard men sobbing, jesters silent,

Young boys men in half an hour;

Bizarre lone acts of heroism,

No fear for self, the concept 'our'.

Objectives known for each platoon,

Fond words recalled in last letters written;

Left, and sealed, in tented camps,

Below the Georgian spire of Lower Snitton.

Comannding orders to make advance,

Towards that wall of bullet and shell;

Through barbed wire role and lonely sand,

Acre and acred of dying Hell.

Zig zag process and flat on belly,

Five privates and a fresh faced sergeant;

Gained yard by yard the priceless sand,

Before Private Millett fell - just silent.

No shout, no moan - just silent,

As the Sergeant halted the move he led;

And rolled the body of Millet over,

To find just one bloodied hole into the head.

Grey eyes staring, mouth gaped open,

All pain and fear and presence gone;

Except on a headstone at 'Attention',

And Betty's letter 'Love from John'.