They told the boys the flags were gold,
That honour waited at the front,
With drums that beat of noble deeds
And victory yet to come.

They marched through cheers on crowded streets,
Young hearts alive with borrowed pride,
Too young to know what waited there
Beyond the smoke where thousands died.

Then came the orders: “Forward! Move!”
No pause to count the men who fell,
One line advanced, another broke,
And still the officers would yell.

“Keep moving! Keep your heads held down!”
Across the wire, through smoke and flame,
Where yesterday stood twenty men,
Today remained perhaps a name.

The mud could swallow boots and men,
The rain came cold through coat and skin,
It filled the trenches, soaked their beds,
And turned the battlefield to sin.

For days the clouds refused to break,
The cold crept deep through flesh and bone,
While men stood shivering through the night,
Though rarely were they left alone.

The rats were everywhere they looked,
Across the boards, beneath the sack,
Fat creatures feeding where men fell,
Then disappearing through the black.

And somewhere out beyond the wire,
The wounded called throughout the night,
For stretcher bearers, God, and home,
For someone just to bring them light. —

Some cried for mothers through the dark,
Their voices trembling, weak and small,
Until the battlefield became
A haunted choir beyond the wall.

“Mother! Mother!” someone called,
Then slowly faded with the rain,
While those who listened clenched their teeth,
For morning brought the guns again.

The trenches taught a different truth,
Of poison skies and shattered cries,
Where courage bled through mud and fear
Beneath the cold indifferent night.

Then sometimes winter disappeared,
And summer burned the shattered ground,
The sun beat down on helmets hard,
While flies and gunfire swarmed around.

The sweat ran salty down their backs,
Their uniforms clung thick with grime,
No shade, no breeze, no blessed rain,
Just waiting for the next attack in time.

And still the same command would come:
“Stand ready, lads. Prepare to go.”
As though the men lost yesterday
Were numbers no one need to know.

Yet life survived in little things,
A steaming mug passed hand to hand,
Hot tea that tasted almost sweet
Within that broken foreign land.

And if a hot meal reached the line,
They gathered round as though a feast,
A spoon of stew, some bread, some warmth —
For half an hour the war had ceased.

A cigarette beneath the stars,
A match cupped safely from the wind,
A joke about the Sergeant Major,
And for a while they almost grinned.

Some passed a bottle down the trench,
Bootleg whisky, rum or gin,
Not for pleasure, not for cheer,
But just to dull the fear within.

A burning throat, a moment’s warmth,
Enough to quiet shaking hands,
Before the whistle called once more
And sent them towards no-man’s-land.

They learned to sleep beside the guns,
To eat while shells tore up the sky,
To laugh at things no man should laugh at,
Because the other choice was cry.

They learned that courage could be fear
Still moving when the legs said stay,
That bravery sometimes simply meant
Surviving one more bloody day.

And every morning names were read,
Or sometimes names were never known,
For some were buried where they fell,
And some left nothing to bring home.

Perhaps a photograph remained,
A letter folded in a coat,
A sweetheart’s name upon a page,
A mother’s words the soldier wrote.

And those who lived returned as ghosts,
Still hearing war in every breath,
Knowing no glory crowns the grave —
Only silence follows death.

Please tell me where the sweetness lies
In shattered bone and choking breath,
In boys who called their mothers’ names
While sinking slowly into death.

Tell me where the honour hides
Beneath the mud, the blood, the cries,
In empty chairs beside the fire
And mothers asking, “Why? Oh, why?”

What is so sweet and honourable
In sending youth where cannons roar? —
What noble glory waits for those
Who never walk back through the door?

Perhaps the honour lies instead
Within the men who stood as one,
Who carried wounded comrades’ home
When every instinct screamed to run.

But do not dress their sacrifice
In ribbons bright and speeches fine,
Nor hide the truth behind a flag
When blood still darkens every line.

Remember them for what they were —
Young men who feared, endured and died,
Not figures carved upon a stone,
But sons once standing at our side.

And when we speak of glorious war,
Of noble death and sacrifice,
Remember what the trenches taught:

“The old lie always has a price.

Paul Baldry

Inspired by the ancient declaration that “It is sweet and honourable to die for one’s country,” and by Wilfred Owen’s famous condemnation of those words as “The old Lie,” Paul Baldry’s The Old Lie looks beyond the patriotic speeches and banners to the reality experienced by those sent into battle.

Its trenches may evoke the First World War, but its story belongs to no single battlefield or generation.

Mud and rain may become dust and burning heat. Rifles and artillery may change. Uniforms, nations and causes may differ. Yet fear, exhaustion, loss, comradeship and the cries of the wounded remain hauntingly familiar.

There are times when battles must unfortunately be fought—when people defend their country, protect others or stand against aggression. The poem does not diminish that courage or sacrifice.

Instead, it asks us to separate the bravery of those who fight from the glorification of war itself.

For beneath every medal, every order to advance and every declaration of victory lie ordinary human beings: frightened young soldiers, grieving mothers, lost friends and lives permanently altered.

Battles may sometimes be necessary.

But no battlefield is glorious.