The Desert Soldier

The desert teaches a man
what thirst really means.
Not wanting a drink,
but dreaming of a single mouthful
that isn’t warm
before it reaches your lips.

Sand finds its way
into everything.
Your boots.
Your rifle.
Your food.
Even your thoughts.

The sun shows no mercy.
It burns through helmet and tunic,
bleaches the colour
from men and machines,
and leaves us searching
for shade that does not exist.

Then night arrives,
and the same desert
that tried to cook us alive
steals every ounce of warmth.
We shiver beneath blankets,
wondering how one place
can hold two seasons
in a single day.

The flies are always there.
Around the bully beef.
Around the wounded.
Around the dead…
never caring
which is which.

Days pass.
Sometimes weeks.

Watching empty horizons,
cleaning the same rifle,
waiting for someone,
somewhere,
to decide today is the day
we fight.

The waiting
becomes its own battle.

Letters are read
until the paper softens.
Conversations grow shorter.
Hope must be rationed
like water.

Then someone says,
“When this is over…”

And suddenly
we’re all back home.

A pint of cold beer
running down the glass.
Roast beef.
Yorkshire puddings.
Gravy thick enough
to cover the plate.

No sand.
No flies.
No waiting.

Only home.

Then a voice
breaks the silence.

“Stand to.”

The dreams
fade with the dawn.

We shoulder our rifles,
swallow another mouthful of dust,
and march once more
into a land
that never wanted us here.

Paul Baldry

The Desert Soldier

This poem was inspired by the words of an anonymous British soldier who served in the North African campaign: “Sand, sweat, and waiting. That’s soldiering.” Preserved through the oral histories of the Imperial War Museum, his simple remark captures the daily reality of desert warfare. My poem reflects the hardships endured by those who fought beneath the relentless sun, where thirst, exhaustion and endless waiting often proved as formidable as the enemy.

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