The whistles blew on 16th August, 1916.
They ran across no man’s land,
These ordinary men,
Thrown headfirst into the darkness
Because of fools in high places,
The stroke of treaty pens and
The senseless oblivion of normality.
There seemed to be no reason.
Alfred Harley, regimental number 37601,
32 years old,
Taken down by machine gun fire and left
For thirty five hours,
His chest wounded, leaking blood,
His hip and thigh torn apart by
Ceaseless bullets, clutching at
Churned earth as the pain takes hold
Amid the thud of bombs and gun fire,
This ordinary man,
A father, a husband.
Rescued by the hands of his enemies,
Patched up and nursed back to life,
Then held as a prisoner in strange territories,
How life itself must have swirled around him
Confusing and cruel.
How many other lovers, mothers,
Sisters and brothers
Should endure a grief so stifling as to smother
For no reason other
Than the decisions of another?
Alfred Harley, regimental number 37601,
Survived,
And returned home fifteen months later,
No longer an ordinary man,
But still a father, a husband,
And more fortunate than so, so many others.
Yet even now, one hundred years on,
He is remembered and honoured,
Alfred Harley, regimental number 37601,
My great grandfather.
Robert Garnham 