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Last night I spoke with Caesar's ghost.
We'd quaffed a glass or two of wine.
But then the ******* made a boast,
How his blokes would be beating mine.

Now, a General I have never been.
I'm saying that reluctantly,
I could not argue what he'd seen.
Thus had to think most carefully.
 
Therefore I spoke of contact drills,
Of duty weeks and other thrills.
And of the things that I have seen
Tales of what I once had been.
 
But carefully, not beating breast,
For after all He was the best.
Recounting only what I saw,
Not saying much about my war.
 
But why not talk of where I've been?
Am I ashamed of what I've seen?
Or, I'm asking, is it wrong
To beat one's chest, to sing one's song?
 
That man of Caesar's who jumped ship
With Eagle held in calloused grip.
Inspiring witnesses to roar,
Then wade with him to Britain's shore.
 
Is he so different? Or, might I say
To Caesar, oiy come have a look
At all these men so brave today.
Would you have put them in your book?
 
No, really what I'd meant to say
To Caesar was, that on that day
He'd launched his men through thick and thin
Because he meant those men to win.
 
Whereas in our bold day and age
No matter who might shout and rage
We don't do that any more.
We'll fight, but not to win the war.
 
Which is why I left the swine,
Came back to Earth, peered at my wine.
He knew, thus his boasting leers.
I knew he knew, thus my shame and these my tears.
Michael Shave Jun 26
Part one
Caesar cries. An anguish riven home
By news that through the city has been spread
Of Varus and his legions who now lie dead
In far off Gaul. Those men they stare
With sightless eyes. Yearning souls bereft of home.
Poor, ****** souls; yet once the pride of Rome.

How, might you ask, those eagles lost and on that mound
In sacrifice laid out before the sacred Oak?
There, where Wotan took the spear and spoke
Foretelling and demanding ****** slaughter.
Who was it listened, then with cruel, deliberate treachery found
‘Midst Teutorburg, that frenzied, ****** killing ground?

Where Ash and Oak, where Beech and Thorn
Loom from the mist which lingers there.
Where shadowed places, dark and cold
Hide sphagnum bog; the wolf, the bear
Which pad and snuffle through the threatening gloom.
Fool Varus listening to advice
Gave up his men for sacrifice.

Arminius, the Roman name they gave him.
Taken hostage when a child.
Taught Roman ways, imbued the culture.
Disciplined life, not growing wild,
Why though was it no one saw
His worship still of Wotan, Lord of Frenzy, and of War.

This the man who Varus sponsored,
This the man, his friend, his guide.
He knew the tribesmen, spoke their language,
Cherusci by birth, by pride.
Arminius, whom the Romans fostered.
Arminius, he was why they died.

—————

Teutorburger Wald
(Part Two)

Now that Oak, that shattered Oak;
Lightning struck, it ancient stands
With branches blood stained, ground now littered;
Iron rusted that once glittered,
Lethal weapons cast aside,
And bones, bleached bones, of those who died.

From Vetera, march away,
Not thinking of their fate that day.
Proud columns, eagles high, they leave;
(Unseen the loom the Parcae weave.)
The Seventeenth, Eighteenth, Nineteenth, all
Destined by spear and axe to fall.

They march ‘neath Ash and ‘neath the Oak,
‘Neath Beech, through tangled Thorn.
And splash a muddied, puddled trail,
A trail that’s not been worn.
By chanted cadence they keep step
These men all Roman sworn.

For Varus has received the news
Of tribal rebels to his North.
Arminius, questioned for his views,
Suggests a detour, then to sally forth.
And so, with Cherusci their guide
The legions march. Not knowing that their friend has lied.

—————

Teutorburger Wald
(Part Three)

Nighttime now doth through darkening woodland creep.
The bear and wolf unsheathe sharp claw.
While those in ambush take their turn to sleep
And from cruel sky the unrelenting rain doth pour.
The Romans, unaware, in camp they curse and try
To keep their slingshots and their bowstrings dry.

This while Varus tosses, uneasy in the night,
Kept awake by screaming echoes from his past?
Does Arminius going missing mean there’s going to be a fight?
And will the coming morning be his last?
Who knows the fate of man, or men.
Have omina been ignored? If so why, and when.

And now ‘tween wood and bog marsh, over heathland
March those legions, eagles high;
Cadence calling, stumbling, splashing,
Rain, it pours from lowering sky.
Heavens rumble, lightning flickers.
Spears are launched, and thus men die.

Closely formed, penned in tight,
No room to ******, no room to fight.
The writhing wounded, *****, blood;
Trampled entrails and the mud.
Thor’s rumbling thunder, drenching rain;
Lightning flashing then the pain.

Beneath locked shields they curse, the dying;
Contorted, Romans, screaming, crying.
Hurtling spears, the butcher’s list
Writ large in terror, Wotan’s fist.
And Mjolnir, loved, caressed by Thor,
Beloved of Aesir, God of War.

Deprived of bow, the use of sling;
Constrained twixt hillside and a marshy bog;
Unfocused and unable thus to bring
To bear their usual clarity of pressure, it’s just fog - a fog
Of mindless terror; which is why they scream.
And for Arminius this, a culmination of his dream.

And so in frenzied lust it ends, the killing;
Vengeful hatred why they fought.
The tribes involved - Arminius willing -,
Cherusci, Chatti, Marsi, they all sought
From ambush and by spear and axe
To end the hated Roman’s rule, the hated Roman’s tax.

—————
Teutorburger Wald
(Part four) German vengeance

And thus in Wotan’s sacred grove
In wicker baskets freshly wove,
Sullen, proud but anguished men
Are jeered at, taunted, howled at, then
Disbelieving of the savage ire
Die shrieking, screaming, in the fire.

This while warriors roar their boast;
To Odin, Frey and Njord make toast;
And those surrendered by their chiefs:
Now naked, Kneeling, dull of eye;
Rank on rank, axes swinging;
Rank on rank the legions die.

Then, Varus has been found, the cry.
His severed head, it’s held up high.
The tribesmen gloat, they gather round
The spot where Varus, dead, was found.
The body though, to rot  it’s kicked aside,
Deceived, defeated, fated thus his suicide?

—————

Now green grasses grow there where the slain
Once, muddied, bloodied, lay forlorn.
Whispers soft the gentle rain
On Ash, on Beech on Oak on Thorn.
Three legions once stood side by side,
This tranquil glade was where they died.
Quintili Vare, legiones redde!  9 AD. Three legions, each of roughly 5000 men, were en-route to their winter camp.
Michael Shave Jun 25
Part one
Long ago in Macedon
Beneath the burning Sun
While busy bees played midst the Thyme
And butterflies made flutter,
When savage Ares thought to stir
And sleepy gods to mutter.

Philip brought his bride back home
To Sun scorched Pella, full of grace.
Alexander then, the son she bore,
Strong in body, fair of face.
God loved; his mother - and Zeus, she swore,
Had made her son destined for war.

Beyond all that expressed and those
Symbolic sacraments whose right
Olympias endorsed and with her child
Against the king made with to fight:
The savage dancing and the wine;
Dionysus her Mystery, and the snake divine.

But, to baulk her Gods the King stood fast;
The boy his lessons made to do:
Stern duties, Leonidas taught;
Culture, from Euripides.
Logic, reasoning, Aristotle;
Riding, hunting, fighting too;

As well he took Eurydice,
Of Macedonia, nobly born.
The niece of one called Attalus,
A General - now to Philip sworn.
But of children would he dare?
Was Alexander not the rightful heir.

He, known to all, a son of Zeus;
(as indeed Dionysus;)
Thus which Oracle would say
That his was not the rightful way?
The furies tore their hair, they said
His mother - she would see them dead.

First a girl child then a son.
That questioned Alexander’s right.
Its threatening presence, that’s the one
Olympias swore she’d go to fight.
She, with Megaera, Tisiphone, Alecto; those
Jealous, angry, vengeful, daughters of the night.

Intentions though can wait for years,
And so Olympias, exiled, bode her time.
While Philip with his oldest son
Defeated  Athens, Thebes, the Sacred Band.
And thus with Nike, hand in hand
Unaware of plot, of Delos, do they stand

Now with the might of all things Greek,
Of Persian conquests set to seek.
Who knows what Philip might have been
Did not his Moirai intervene
When Pausanias with frenzied, savage, vicious knife
Cut down the King to end his life.

Treachery, ******; why do they shriek
And spit their venom to depose.
What moves the fates do you suppose?
Poor Pella - standing now so cold, so bleak.
Olympias - of her twas said,
Enough, she cried, I want him dead.

Thus Alexander born of love because of hate,
While dying Philip trembled, shivering in the dust,
He, who history would remember as the Great
Assumed his place because of fate - and not because of lust;
Whereas Olympias, mother, regicide, Clotho’s *****,
Ensured because of murderous fright,
Despised she’d be for ever more.

——————

Part two:

And Power it cloaks the young man’s shoulders,
He who sits now on the throne.
The hills resound, fierce acclamations,
(Beaten shields and upraised spears.)
From the lowland raucous cheers;
And thus the Phalanx starts its slow march.
While on Pella, Kratos leers.

For despite the cloying, nursery care,
His father rarely being there,
He’d sacked a city, then elsewhere
(Harsh matters in the harshest school)
The boy had ‘gainst the Maedi, proved the rule.
So, when his generals came they saw
A man, the fighter fit for war.

And at the meeting, his first greeting
Of the generals as their king:
Eumenes, Leonnatus, Demaratus bold;
Erigyius, Hephaestion, all friends, and friends of old;
He takes each hand, gives each the stare
Then puts it bluntly will they dare
With Macedonian might - to Persia would they go and fight?

Bucephalus, in his stable, snorts then lifts his head.
Flames flare, fierce burns the fire, but now the bull is dead.
Killed as sacred hymns are sung and ancient prayers said.

———————-

Part three:

And on the plain drawn up in ranks,
Do Alexander’s men give thanks.
Shield locked with shield, dressed by the right,
Thirty thousand men to fight.
The black Dooms gather, grim-eyed, glare
Towards the east, at Darius where
With Memnon - he of Rhodes who seeks to meet
With Nike’s favour, but with Macedon incurs defeat.

And those, all those, who roar that day
Seek for glory, fight for pay;
Well trained; well drilled; but no one saw
Such bold adventure, ****** war.
Just feed us; pay us; give us arms
They cry, and then we’ll fight - as Philip taught;
For, Alexander, at this point of time
Still in your father’s image are you wrought.

And though the phalanx, Philip’s joy,
And Alexander had its value, as a boy
He’d sought for ways to better it and - of course
He did that by the use of horse - and lance.
Thus those who called him merely Philip’s son
Were wrong. For Granicus proved him to be one
Of those that through their own estate
Are by history called the Great.

So - the Granicus river, fast and wide but never deep;
It’s muddy banks in places sloped and steep;
Preventing Phalanx and the use of spear;
But Alexander, his General’s words chose not to hear,
In fierce and ****** fighting proved Parmenion wrong,
That Alexander’s Tyche, his Macedonia, was too strong.
With Rhoesaces and bold Spithridates dead
The Persians turned and from the battle fled.

But Memnon’s Greeks,
They who’d hefted shield and sword,
And stood their ground - in seeking quarter they
were slaughtered almost to a man.
Survivors, they were sent to Greece, enslaved.
When questioned why,
Alexander said - because I can.
Michael Shave Jun 25
An Acrostic to do With Minor Tactics
(and some advice)

Fighting needs a certain care,
Its conduct ruled by those in place - but
Righteous talk by those not there
Embroil our men who then lose face.

And we ask, should our young men
(Never sure of why they must.)
Defend themselves against the pen?

Make sure you task your fighting man
On those you really want to beat.
View your reasons twice and then
Ensure those reasons reach the street.
Mean what you say, do what you mean,
Enabling yours to win your war;
Never cease supporting him
Today, tomorrow, ever more.
Michael Shave Jun 23
A man remembered, Peter Bunn.
In those days vigorous, full of fun.
While we ‘The Company’ gain in skill
(Training hard we learn to ****)
Peter treats sore feet and sprains,
As we do, so does he - he trains.

As Infantry we must be fit,
No reason to be wealthy.
And Peter’s role, that’s his remit,
Was thus to keep us healthy.
A simple task would you agree,
Corporal Medic - Infantry?

Excepting, we were sent to war.
To fight of course, and what is more
All that blood and all that pain,
All that stress and all that strain,
Collectively on eighty men.
We needed Peter - now and then.

But all I see when looking back
Is Peter kneeling on a track
Before a man (It’s what I saw.)
Who lies there bleeding (**** this War.).
Who shivered, trembled, then who died.
And that’s the time when Peter cried.
Michael Shave Jun 23
'Twas a bitter, November morning,
With wind, icy hale, and some snow.
And one's fingers too cold to do buttons up.
If you served at Carlisle, you would know.

And I was recruit in the Army,
We were formed up for morning parade.
I thought my World had gone barmy
As I listened to Sergeant’s tirade.

He was going on about rifles,
That working parts had to be clean.
So that we would **** all the enemy.
I thought he were just being mean.

But then he asked for my weapon.
Never call it a gun.
It is cardinal sin in the Army,
Even to say it in fun.

Now, I know I had started to clean it.
But pull-through had, sort of, got stuck.
When corporal had told me to get outside room
To pick up yesterday's muck.

Before breakfast our mornings were bedlam,
And I was always in trouble,
For corporal kept bellowing orders to room,
Wanting everything done at the double.

So, pull-through remained in my rifle.
'T’were there when we fell in for drill.
And when sergeant asked for to look at it
I suddenly felt terribly ill.

He took it and grasped it by muzzle and stock,
There was no need to pull back the slide,
For I had to leave all the working parts out
'Cos. there ‘weren't’ room with pull-through inside.

When sergeant saw this, he just looked at me.
Through me 't’were better it said.
Then suddenly: 'Cheshire', he screamed, 'Who gave me you?'
And: 'Why do I wish you were dead?'

There was nowt I could say back to sergeant,
Upset, as he was, standing there.
Useless explaining my pull-through,
And more than I ever would dare.

I knew it was going to happen.
There was nowt I could say in the snow.
For as sergeant gave back my rifle, he snarled
'To the guard room, double, now go.'

I was warned about joining Army,
I was told that it would not be fun,
But nobody told me the trouble I'd have
With that pull-through stuck in my gun.
Michael Shave Jun 23
Were they really the good old days?

I used to bicycle to school when I was young and on the go.
And in Wintertime I mind it was not nice.
We kids would ride our bikes
Through slush, and often through the snow.
On surfaces made treacherous by ice.

My bike was put together with parts filched from ******* pit.
Parts garnered here and there and taken to my home.
I washed them first in kerosene, then soaked in oil each bit.
Once assembled, then the World was mine to roam.

Although it looked quite battered and it rattled every ride,
And the wheels, they wobbled, and it had a squeak.
That bike was mine, all mine, and if you classify by pride
I reckon RollsRoyce would not stand a chance, well, so's to speak.

But the brakes on that bike they never worked.
And its metal handlebars were bare.
And in Winter it was scary stuff,
Because of brakes, and ice on roads,
And never having gloves to wear.

At school (with bike stowed in racks) I would join the queue.
My runny nose and hurting ears,
Numbed hands and fingertips quite blue.
Shivering, cold before the classroom door,
Waiting for my turn at taps and running water,
And for my hands to thaw.
Childhood in memoriam. Edited by the passage of time. Hmmm!
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