Ernest's Face

I remember a story from my mother. She had two uncles, Ernest and Harry. Ernest was called up for World War 1, whilst Harry had to stay at home because of his tuberculosis. Ernest, who was a gardener before his conscription, died on his first day in the trenches, his gun unfired. My mother always said that he only knew how to give life to things, not to take it away, and that's why he died. Harry died a few years after the war, having been sent endless white feathers (for assumed cowardice) - it broke his spirit thoroughly. Two or three years ago, my mother finally had enough money to afford a trip to France to visit Uncle Ernest's grave - the first time in 74 years. She laid poppies on his grave and cried. A circle closed.

All he knew,
Was how to make the flowers grow.
But Kitchener called him,
Put a rifle in those honest hands,
And sent him off to the front.

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And they pointed Ernest's face,
Towards No Man's Land.
Told him that the enemy lay over there.
But a man so used to life,
Couldn't kill.

Harry stayed.
Fever burning up his lungs,
Post brought feathers pale,
And yearned so much to go,
To join his brother at the front.

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Deep in mud,
So proud to serve his country well.
His gun stayed silent,
Whilst the heavy cannons roared,
Ernest died, never fired a shot.

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Harry lived.
Through all those hollow TB years,
Never lived to see,
The Godforsaken place where Ernest fell,
I think my mother was the first.

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