Within themselves, they hold
more than any man or woman should be asked to hold;
they are the unsung heroes of the peace
which clutches at the coat-tails of a war;
and we can never truly know them;
only offer them love, support, respect…
My first school had been an officers’ recuperation hospital
or final hospice for the wounded – in their body or their mind -
in the 1914-18 war; now
the dignified head doctor of few words
and his beautifully-mannered, voluptuous
ex-head-nurse wife
had made of it an ideal, loving school
for the new children of a new era after
‘the war to end all wars’…
The last resting place of warriors with screaming silent minds
who could not recuperate or
who found death so much more peaceful than their life
became, first the art room,
then the chapel: death, art, God and life
all together in one room.
My second school had as its teaching staff
several ex-officers who had chosen to shroud their memories
in teaching that new generation; but ironically,
were asked to run the cadet force which was
intended to preserve that lovely peace..
the sergeant-major who taught us PT and defensive war
had a face that was a repulsive souvenir –
like camouflage – brown, red, livid white,
almost the yellow-green of mustard gas
that had painted war upon him;
though he saved his lungs…
fine, stern, stiff-upper-lip teachers
shrouding their memories, until
some pupil tested them too far –
then their anger spilled, their canes and swagger-sticks
fiercely wielded, were memories for those (not us)    who knew,
of discipline that might shoot at dawn
for the sake of lives then saved at dusk…
today, they’d be hauled into court for passing on 'abuse';
we were taught by heroes.
My third school gave me a housemaster,
another unsung, unsinging hero, a confirmed bachelor
so we thought, who likewise buried unknown memories
in devoted teaching; few clues except
the same occasional, devastating temper when aroused;
in his modest study, a few small
muzzy photos in silver frames, of comrades – dead or alive?
or did it matter? In his late fifties or even early sixties,
some inner torment of his memories transcended,
he surprised us all by marrying happily and producing
a large family. And once again, we had little clue
about the war he fought; or whether the nights
brought him tormented dreams…
We were taught by heroes who were asked to hold
more than any man or woman should be asked to hold:
do we wish – or should we wish –
that we knew then what we guess now?
They, teaching us from all their memories of hideous war,
how to grow up in peace; only to see
a generation of those same boys and girls
demanded by another war..
Autumn again; brown leaves fall like green lives;
soon, November mists and poppies
red as blood, red as children’s blood
from a terrible union, of heroism and futility
called war.