Just in Case

A pistol lying on a velvet cushion,

The promise ‘pro patria mori’.

It means nothing now to frozen faces.



“Quick lads! Ammunition!”

Goes the cry from the officer,

Powdered shells slither into unforgiving metal

The slightest indecision means the ultimate end,

The heat from the furnace staining wearied faces

A pistol lying on a dirty workbench,

“Just in case, lads, just in case.”

And all the while bombs are falling.



The heat is rising,

The worry is rising,

The pressure is rising.

German planes, obscuring the moon,

Flying like hornets above,

Ready to unleash a violent sting,

“Save the weapons!” Comes the call,

They dart like frightened bulldogs in all directions,

Ungainly, awkward,

For some this is the last time.



A pistol lying on a velvet cushion,

And still the bombs are falling.