You never really know a hill
until you’ve dragged a gun up it —
rope biting your palms,
sweat stinging your eyes,
and some lad behind you muttering
that this was never in the brochure.
The mules had more sense than we did,
planting their hooves
like they were arguing with the mountain.
But we coaxed them on,
one curse, one pat, one promise at a time.
Up there, the air thins
and the world goes quiet,
as if waiting to see
whether you’ve got the grit
to finish what you started.
And when the gun finally settles
on the ridge like a stubborn old king,
you feel it —
that small, private pride
that no medal ever captures.
Because it wasn’t glory
that got the gun up there.
It was lads with aching backs,
bad jokes,
and the simple belief
that the job needed doing
and we were the poor sods to do it.
May 16
May 16, 2026 at 4:54 AM UTC
You never really know a hill
until you’ve dragged a gun up it —
rope biting your palms,
sweat stinging your eyes,
and some lad behind you muttering
that this was never in the brochure.
The mules had more sense than we did,
planting their hooves
like they were arguing with the mountain.
But we coaxed them on,
one curse, one pat, one promise at a time.
Up there, the air thins
and the world goes quiet,
as if waiting to see
whether you’ve got the grit
to finish what you started.
And when the gun finally settles
on the ridge like a stubborn old king,
you feel it —
that small, private pride
that no medal ever captures.
Because it wasn’t glory
that got the gun up there.
It was lads with aching backs,
bad jokes,
and the simple belief
that the job needed doing
and we were the poor sods to do it.
This poem is about the unseen side of soldiering — the graft, the exhaustion, the banter, and the quiet pride that never makes the headlines. Not glory or medals, just ordinary lads hauling guns up impossible hills because the job had to be done. The Regiment’s Whispers remembers those moments.
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