Having spent much of this afternoon in the University’s Special Collections, I thought I would relay two of my findings which seem to have particular poignancy on this day.
They are both poems written by W.M. Letts in 1917.
The Deserter
There was a man, – don’t mind his name, Whom Fear had dogged by night and day He could not face the German guns And so he turned and ran away. Just that – he turned and ran away, But who can judge him, you or I? God makes a man of flesh and blood Who yearns to live and not to die. And this man when he feared to die, Was scared as any frightened child, His knees were shaking under him, His breath came fast, his eyes were wild. I’ve seen a hare with eyes as wild, With throbbing heart and sobbing breath. But oh! it shames one’s soul to see A man in abject fear of death. But fear had gripped him, so had death; His number had gone up that day, They might not heed his frightened eyes, They shot him when the dawn was grey. Blindfolded when the dawn was grey, He stood there a place apart, The shots rang out and down he fell, An English bulelt in his heart. An English bullet in his heart! But here’s the irony of life, – His mother thinks he fought and fell A hero, foremost in the strife. So she goes proudly; to the strife Her best, her hero son she gave. O well for her she does not know He lies in a deserters grave.Casualty
John Delaney of the Rifles has been shot A man we never knew Does it cloud the day for you That he lies among the dead Moving, hearing, heeding not?
The Cowfield 
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