The papers speak of glory.
The speeches speak of honour.
The posters speak of heroes.

The trench speaks only the truth.
Mud knows no rank.
Rain chooses no man.
Shells cannot read
the badges on our sleeves.

We came here with different reasons.

Some for King.
Some for Country.

Most because everyone else was going.

Those reasons were buried long ago.
Now I fight for the man sharing my trench;
the one who splits his last biscuit,
who passes a cigarette without asking,
who laughs when laughter
is all we have left.

He knows my wife’s name.
He has seen the photograph of my children.
He knows where home is,
and I know where his is.

If I fall,
he will remember.
If he falls,
I will carry his story home.

When the whistle blows,
we climb together.

Not because we believe
we cannot die,
but because neither of us
will leave the other
to face it alone.

History may remember
the battles,
the medals,
the generals.

I will remember
the muddy hand that pulled me from the wire,
the voice that whispered,

“Keep moving, mate.”

The shoulders that carried
more than rifles.

For in this place,
where death walks every trench,
a soldier’s world becomes very small.

Not King.
Not Country.
Just the man beside me.

Paul Baldry

This poem was inspired by a sentiment found in the letters of an anonymous British Tommy during the Great War: “We don’t fight for King or Country. We fight for the chap beside us.” Repeated across countless trench letters, these words reveal a truth shared by many front-line soldiers. My poem reflects the thoughts they may have carried into battle, where loyalty was measured not by flags, but by the men standing shoulder to shoulder beside them.

#GreatWar, #WorldWarOne, #WarPoetry, #Tommy, #Remembrance, #MilitaryHistory,