By Paul Baldry

We wore the colours once with pride,
With comrades marching by our side.
We stood our ground through rain and cold,
British soldiers, young and bold.

We slept beneath a canvas sheet,
On frozen ground beneath our feet.
Yet never once did we complain—
We laughed through hunger, mud and rain.

We knew the sound of boots on stone,
And places far away from home.
We carried kit, we carried fear,
And sometimes carried one held dear.

The Union flag upon our sleeves
Was something then we could believe.
For Queen and country, so they said,
We followed where our orders led.

Then came the day I handed in
The battered kit I’d carried with me.
No morning call, no last parade,
Just one more soldier’s farewell made.

At first, I thought that I’d be fine;
I’d find my feet, given time.
But civilian streets were strange to me—
No section, troop or company.

The months went by, the money too,
And doors once open vanished from view.
A rented room, then someone’s floor,
Until my key turned locks no more.

Now people hurry past my place,
Some never even see my face.
They see the coat, the sleeping bag,
But not the veteran who wore the flag.

They do not see those distant nights,
The roadside checks, the warning lights;
The friends whose voices sometimes come
When midnight streets are cold and numb.

I’ve medals somewhere in a box,
With photographs and other thoughts
Of days when once I stood up tall,
Before somehow, I lost it all.

A cardboard mattress, pavement bed,
A folded jacket for my head.
The flag I carried, proud and true,
Now shields me when the cold winds blow.

No bugle sounds to wake me here,
No mate to whisper, “Morning, mate.”
Just footsteps passing through the rain,
And memories marching back again.

I do not ask you for your praise,
Or pity for my better days.
Just look at me and understand—
I once stood proud to serve this land.

For underneath these worn-out clothes,
A soldier’s heart still beats and knows
The oath, the friendships and the pride
Of those who once stood by my side.

When you see someone on the street,
With battered boots and weary feet,
Don’t only see where they are now—
Remember once they made a vow.

They wore the uniform with pride,
With fellow soldiers by their side.
Yet somewhere on the road back home,
They found themselves marching alone.

Yesterday, a soldier—standing tall.
Today, a shadow by a wall.
Still British. Still a veteran. Still me.
Just hoping someone stops to see.

My flag was once upon my sleeve.
Tonight, it’s where I sleep.

An image I saw on the Army Chefs Banter Facebook Page got me thinking and inspired me to write My Flag Is Now My Bed. I wrote it for those British veterans whose battle did not end when they left the Forces. Some struggle with civilian life and, sadly, find themselves homeless on the streets of the country they once served. Behind every sleeping bag may be a story of service, comradeship, sacrifice and pride. Look beyond the homelessness and see the person—and the soldier who may still live within.

#BritishVeterans, #VeteranHomelessness, #MyFlagIsNowMyBed, #LestWeForget, #SoldiersPastAndPresent, #PaulBaldry