No Glory in the Trenches

No Glory in the Trenches

Mud to their knees and worse inside,

they crouched beneath a gunmetal sky.

Rats knew their names. They came at night,

same as the shells, without a cry.

The sergeant’s boots were torn and red,

he walked like men who’ve danced with death.

He never flinched when someone fell,

just muttered, counted under breath.

No grand parades, no bugle calls,

just tea gone cold and letters torn.

They dreamed of beds and Sunday roast,

not medals, not a hero’s form.

The stench of blood, of trench and smoke,

clung to their coats, their skin, their bones.

They joked too loud, they drank too fast,

they carved their names on sticks and stones.

The boy from Leeds was barely grown.

He passed the salt, then said his prayers.

He died before his stew was cold,

still clutching dogtags, full of airs.

They talk of war like honour’s prize,

as if the cost was worth the line.

Walk through these pits, then say again

how noble is the counting line.

They fought because they had to fight.

They marched, they crawled, they didn’t choose.

They came back ghosts, or didn’t come.

There is no glory when you lose.

My mam was lucky, her brothers all came home.

God bless the ones who didn’t.