From fields where silence kissed the grain,
They flew through fog, through fire and rain.
No boast, no blare, no grand parade—
Just duty done, and debts repaid.

The maple leaf was tucked away,
But in their hearts, it led the way.
Each sortie flown with measured grace,
A calm resolve in war’s embrace.

They didn’t shout, they didn’t stall—
They simply flew, and gave their all.

By Paul Baldry (LongJohn)

Author’s Note –

Canadian pilots brought quiet resolve and vast-sky instincts to the RAF. From prairie fields to European battlefronts, they flew with precision and humility. Squadrons like No. 401 and No. 443 became vital cogs in the Allied machine, proving that courage doesn’t need fanfare—it just needs flight.

The sun had baked their flying skin,
But war was cold, and death wore grin.
From Tobruk’s dust to London’s grey,
They flew where mateship lit the way.

Their banter masked the battle’s toll,
Yet every dive took heart and soul.
The kangaroo on fuselage,
A symbol not of boast—but charge.

They flew with grit, they flew with jest,
And laid their ghosts where eagles nest.

By Paul Baldry (LongJohn)

Author’s Note –

The Australians brought desert grit and unshakable mateship to the RAF. From the sands of North Africa to the skies over Europe, they flew with tenacity and humour. No. 450 and No. 467 Squadrons were forged in heat and hardship, proving that distance means nothing when duty calls.

In blood-red paper or enamel mould,
Freshly minted or relics of old,
A heartfelt thanks, I’m worn to relay,
To speak of those who fell that day.

In honour’s cloak, I do not reside,
Nor in the curse of racist pride,
Not in fleeting fashion’s charm,
Once a year worn, then disarmed.

I’m not here for mere display,
Of conflict’s cost or war’s dismay,
Not just a token crafted of paper,
I am more, a silent weeper.

Original Poem in the Voice of a Military Child

I keep your chair beside me
At the table every night,
Though Mum says you won’t need it
Till the end of this long fight.

I draw you little pictures
And I hide them in a box,
So when you finally come home
You’ll see how much I’ve grown.

I wear your woolly jumper
Though it hangs below my knees,
And when the house feels far too big
It helps me feel at ease.

I listen for the front door
When the wind begins to roar,
Pretending it’s your heavy boots
Across the hallway floor.

And though I miss you dearly
In the quiet of each day,
I know you’re doing something brave
So others live their way.

So, I’ll keep your chair beside me
Till you’re safely back again —
My hero, and my favourite,
My dad, my mum, my friend.

Attribution

“Original poem written “Anonymous — written for the families of the fallen and deployed.”

Oh, young soldiers, so brave and true,
We honour your sacrifice, we honour you.
For in your hands, our hopes reside—
Young soldiers, our heroes, side by side.

Remember Them.

Through the darkest nights, they find the light— Defenders of justice, warriors of right.
In the battlefield’s symphony, they play their part— Young soldiers, engraved in every grateful heart.

Each day they rise, with a heart of steel,
Ready to fight, to protect and heal.
With valour and honour, they march in stride— Young soldiers, forever standing by our side.

In their eyes, glimpses of childhood’s bliss,
Burdened with the weight of a world amiss.
Still, they march on, their spirits unbroken—
These young soldiers, their bravery unspoken.

Beneath the moon’s watchful eye, they tread. Through battles unbidden, fearfully led. Yet like stars, they glow with radiant light— Young soldiers, our heroes, they bravely fight.

Their hands may tremble, their voices shake, But in the face of danger, they never break. To defend their homeland, they take the lead— These young soldiers, of valour and creed.

With every step, they carry the weight
Of a nation’s hope and a future’s fate.
Through blood and tears, they fight the fight— Young soldiers brave, shining bright.

Innocence lost, yet courage found,
Young soldiers march on hallowed ground.
Their dreams of youth may fade away,
But their legacy shall forever stay.

A soldier’s face, so unlined and fair,
Seeking peace amidst a world unfair.
Bound by duty, they face the storm—
With bravery and hope, their hearts warm.

In fields of valour, youth stand tall.
War’s deadly duty they do befall.
With hearts untamed and spirits pure,
Young soldiers march, their strength secure.

At nineteen years, stands the average soldier, Short-haired lad, built well, growing older. Half boy, half man, in society’s view,
Not yet dry behind the ears, yet time flew.

Old enough to buy a round of drinks,
Yet for his country, on the brink.
Not keen on hard work, this lad so bold,
Rather be grafting in foreign lands, untold.

Recently left school, an average student,
Rode a motorcycle, time well spent.
The girl he knew, left when he went,
Promised to wait, a sentiment spent.

Moves to rock and roll, Motown’s beat,
Or to the rattle of a machine gun’s feat.
A stone lighter since he left his home,
Working, fighting, from dusk till dawn.

Trouble spelling, letter writing’s a pain,
But a weapon he can strip, in darkness, gain. Every piece of a gun, grenade, launcher, he knows, And use effectively, his prowess shows.

Digs trenches, latrines, no aid of machines,
Provides first aid, like a professional, it seems. Marches until told to stop, stays still to move, Obeys orders instantly, his discipline to prove.

Two sets of uniform, one washed, one worn,
Forgets to clean his teeth, but not his firearm. Shares his water, if you’re thirsty,
Shares his food, if you’re hungry.

His hands, like weapons, he’s learned to use, His weapon, an extension, he’ll never lose. Works twice as long, draws half the pay, Yet finds black humour, in his own way.

Not afraid to Bollock anyone, showing disrespect, To the Regiment’s Colours, or the Anthem, he’ll protect. Yet, in an odd twist, he’ll defend your right,
To be an individual, day or night.

He can take your life, or he can save it,
That’s his job, as a soldier, he’s fit.
Seen more suffering, more death,
Then he should have, in his short breath.

Wept in public, in private, for fallen friends,
Unashamed, his sorrow never ends.
Feels every bugle note of the Last Post,
Vibrating through his body, like a ghost.

Prepared to pay the price for our freedom,
Like generations before him, he’s become.
The latest in a long line of fighting men,
Keeping our country free, again and again.

Asks for nothing, but respect, friendship, understanding, We may not like what he does, it’s demanding. He doesn’t like it either, but he has to do, Just for you, and you, and you.

Remember him always, he’s earned our respect, I know him well, in retrospect.
I was that soldier, long ago, Now an aged Veteran, with nothing to show.

All I ask is please, remember them all,
Especially those that fell, gave their all.

They gather in the morning mist,
Medals pinned, poppies bright.
Not for glory, not for show—
But for the ones who never came home.
A father. A mother. A brother. A friend.
Gone. But never forgotten.

We remember, we remember,
Those who gave and those who grieve.
In the silence, in the sorrow,
They are the ones who never leave.

The child who never knew their dad.
The sister who still sets a place at the table.
The widow who walks alone to the cenotaph.
They carry the weight of remembrance—
Not just today, but every day.

We remember, we remember…

And though the world moves on,
They remain—
Holding the memory,
Living the legacy,
Bearing the cost.

We remember, we remember,
Those who gave and those who grieve.
Their love endures, their courage lingers—
They are the ones who never leave.

A Ballad of Brotherhood

In the dawn of their youth, at the tender age of fifteen, Boys with hearts full of courage, and eyes so keen. They joined the ranks—a brotherhood so tight— Ready to defend, ready to fight.

By seventeen and a half, they’d grown into men. Trained and equipped, with a rifle and a pen. Into man’s service, they bravely strode, Carrying dreams and honour as their load.

Oh, the bonds of comradeship, so strong and so deep—
A promise to each other, a vow to keep.
Through conflicts and wars, through joy and through strife. They trusted each other with each other’s life.

Years passed by; they were discharged with pride. Yet the bond remained—a constant by their side. Rarely seeing each other, as life moved on. But the connection they shared was never gone.

Oh, the bonds of comradeship, so strong and so deep—

A promise to each other, a vow to keep.
Through reunions and funerals, through silence and cheers. Their friendship stood tall, defying the years.

Blogging, liking—a modern twist to their tale. A letter in the ether, a digital trail.
Yet when they met, time seemed to rewind A testament to a friendship so rare to find.

Oh, the bonds of comradeship, so strong and so deep—

A promise to each other, a vow to keep.
True brothers, true friends—in past and today. Their trust in each other will never fray.

In the service of their country, they found a bond so grand— A brotherhood of warriors, the finest in the land. Though time may pass, and life may bend. They remain, forever, each other’s friend.

In the hush between the thunder,
four men crouch in earthen grace—
hands like clockwork, hearts like anchors,
bound by duty, time, and place.

Steel arcs skyward, breath held steady,
each shell a prayer, each aim a vow.
No medals gleam, no speeches echo—
just sweat and silence in the now.

One loads with care, the other watches,
a third prepares the next to fly.
The fourth steps in, boots mud-burdened,
his eyes still scanning sky to sky.

Around them: crates, the shovel’s whisper,
rifles resting, tools well-worn.
A trench becomes a chapel’s chamber
where courage fires and grief is born.

They do not speak of fear or glory,
nor trace the names of those who fell.
But in the mortar’s breathless moment,
they carry all, and carry well.

Let their bravery stand unshaken—
a memory carved in soil and bone.
For every shell that split the silence,
a soldier’s courage made it known.

The sun beat down like judgment,
on sandbags stacked with care—
a fortress carved from silence,
where shirtless gunners dare.

Steel thunder rolled from distance,
the tanks like beasts of war,
their treads tore through the desert,
their cannons begged for more.

But here the Royal gunners stood,
in khaki, grit, and flame—
no medals pinned, no speeches made,
just duty, not for fame.

One man sights the barrel’s arc,
another feeds the shell,
a third wipes sweat from burning brow,
as smoke begins to swell.

The desert cracked with fury,
as fire met fire again—
a German tank ignited,
its blaze a crimson stain.

The sand became a ledger,
each crater marked a name—
of those who held the line that day,
and never sought acclaim.

They, raise the gun, and held the ground,
though heat may steal your breath—
for in the roar of desert war,
they wrote their truth in death.

The sandbags held like broken teeth,
the nest was carved in stone and spite—
a German gun, its mouth relentless,
spat daylight into endless night.

The British line came roaring forward,
through smoke that stung and mud that burned— each man a breath, a vow, a warning, each step a fate already earned.

One raised his arm to rally thunder,
another fell with eyes still wide—
the gunner screamed through muzzle flashes, his soul already cast aside.

A bridge behind, a storm ahead,
the air was thick with grit and flame—
but still they charged, through hell’s own hallway, not for glory, not for name.

The stone post cracked, the silence shattered, a final shell, a final cry—
and in the hush that followed fury,
the brave lay still beneath the sky.

 This place now marked with ash and memory, where courage met its fiercest test and know that in the smoke and shouting,
they reached the bridge, and earned their rest.

They knew the odds before the whistle,
the wire sang its warning tune—
a nest of guns, dug deep and ruthless,
beneath the cold, unyielding dune.

The sky was low, the ground was shaking,
each breath a gamble, each step a dare.
But still they rose, with boots and bayonets,
to meet the fire that split the air.

The German guns spat steel and fury,
a wall of death, precise and fast—
yet through the smoke, the British shadows
pressed on, as if the fear had passed.

One fell with letters in his pocket,
another clutched his brother’s name.
A third still crawled with bloodied knuckles,
his eyes alight, his soul aflame.

They did not shout, they did not falter,
no speeches carved into the sky—
just grit and breath and silent valor,
the kind that lives, though men may die.

And when the guns fell still and broken,
the nest was quiet, scorched and bare—
but in the hush, the earth remembered
the ones who charged and met it there.

We mark the field with poppies crimson,
and let the silence speak their truth—
for courage wore a British helmet,
and walked through hell with steady youth.

They came not with fanfare,
but with salt upon their skin—
green berets beneath the helmets,
and fire burning deep within.

The ramp dropped like a verdict,
the sea surged cold and wide—
each man a blade, a breath, a promise,
with history at his side.

Steel traps littered the shoreline,
and bullets stitched the air—
but still they ran, through smoke and thunder,
with grit too fierce to scare.

One led the charge with sub-gun blazing,
his boots half-lost to sand—
another fell, then rose again,
still clutching rifle in his hand.

The sky was torn with fire and fury,
the beach a grave, a gate, a test—
but through the chaos, British courage
pressed forward, never second-best.

They stormed the bunkers, cleared the trenches,each breath a fight, each step a prayer— and in that hour, the world remembered what it meant to truly dare.

Courage marks the tide with silent honour,
where green berets once carved the way—
and let the surf still whisper stories
of those who rose on D-Day.

They stood not in the trenches deep,
nor charged across the wire—
but on the rise, with eyes to heaven,
they held the line with fire.

The guns were cold, then roared to life,
as sirens split the air—
the Luftwaffe came screaming down,
with vengeance in its glare.

Binoculars caught wings in motion,
a shadow crossed the sun—
and every man at post was ready,
to meet what must be done.

The ground below was thick with brothers,
advancing through the mud—
and overhead, the gunners laboured
to shield them with their blood.

A tracer danced, a shell exploded,
a bomber reeled and fell—
the sky became a battleground,
a thunderous carousel.

They did not march, they did not rally,
no medals pinned that day—
but in the smoke and shattered silence,
they kept the death at bay.

Only the brave stand on the hill with quiet honour,
where steel met sky and flame—
for those who fought with upward fury,
and never sought acclaim.

They came not for glory, nor medals to shine. But for brothers beside them, and duty’s thin line. The hedgerows of France, soaked in morning’s pale breath. Became altar and anvil for courage and death.

Steel sang through the silence, a thunderous hymn. As boots met the meadow—each step worn and grim.
The sky cracked with fury, the soil leapt in flame. Yet onward they pressed, through chaos and shame.

A lad from Leeds fell near a whispering tree,
His hand still outstretched, as if reaching for peace. A sergeant from Dover, with grit in his eye. Held fast to the charge though the world seemed to die.

The fields were not golden, nor gentle, nor kind— But they bore the brave souls who would not stay behind. Each heartbeat a drumbeat, each breath a vow. To stand for the fallen, to finish somehow.

And when the guns quieted, and silence returned. The grasses grew tall where the memories burned. France held their footprints, the blood and the cost—
Of a freedom reclaimed, and the lives that were lost.

They dropped through the silence, like prayers in descent. Red berets blazing where angels were sent. Steel met the skyline, the river ran wide— And Arnhem stood waiting, with no place to hide.

The bridge was a promise, a thread pulled too tight. Held by the few in the furnace of fight. Sandbags and smoke, machine-gun refrain— Each heartbeat a thunder, each breath met with flame.

They fought not for triumph, but time to be bought. For brothers still landing, for battles still fought. A captain lay bleeding, yet barked through the haze.

“Hold fast to the river—this is where we stay.”

And when orders faltered, and rescue grew thin. They faded through gardens, through fire and din. Retreat was no failure—it carved out a creed. To stand, then to vanish, yet never concede.

Those taken in silence, with hands raised in mud. Wore courage like armour, not broken by blood. In camps far from home, they carried the flame— Of Arnhem, of honour, of duty, not shame.

Call it defeat, if you measure by ground—
But the soul of the Paras was never unbound. The bridge may have fallen, the plan torn apart— Yet Arnhem still echoes in Britain’s brave heart.

Silent fields murmur
stories etched in weathered earth
footsteps linger still
their shadows dance with the rain
echoes of the brave remain

By Paul Baldry (LongJohn)

Lost hearts softly breathe
woven through the quiet night
strength in stillness glows
a flicker that will not fade
guiding us through darkest hours

By Paul Baldry (LongJohn)