'I don't know if you've ever heard
Of the Great Charge.'
Said one to me.
I smiled
And thought of those
Shouted onwards by He on the Hill.

I had heard of it,
I had heard they bled
When they were shot while they were led.
Who'd have thought?
I frowned.
And thought of those
Shouted onwards by He on the Hill.

'Funny.' he said
'His Hill was so much higher
Than all the cannon fire, but
They say he still cried out
With each muzzle's shout.'
I nodded.
And thought of those
Let down by He on the Hill.

'Yes.' I said
'In fact they all cried
Together when they died
And realised what they're worth, that
His Hill was only earth
And they were only bones.'
I walked away
And thought of those
Made to realise they were nothing
By me on the hill.

Slivers of hope remained.
Though scarce, it was enough to push on.
Then
The Call.
Hushed movements
The glimmer of faith,
A diminishing wick,
Cruelly snuffed out by the pinch of confirmation.
The waiting.
The weight of the words
A peripheral flash
Preceding a perpetual storm.
Lamenting
Sorrowful
Groans
Muffled by cupped and shaking hands.
Bowed heads and silence.
Fallen tears of volunteers.
Distorted and stricken faces
Consolidating.
Searching for other faces
Wishing they were home.