#soldiersstories
***
Barbed Wire Sunset
By Paul Baldry
Brick dust in the air,
A setting sun, bloodied sky,
Boys behind the wire.
Hope hangs, a tattered flag, torn
By a wind of weary grief.
Petrol Rain
By Paul Baldry
Cobblestones slicked black,
A sudden downpour of rage,
Molotov's fiery kiss.
Faces masked, fear is a shroud,
Whispers lost in siren's wail.
Mothers' Vigil
By Paul Baldry
Empty chairs at home,
While daughters search shadowed streets,
Seeking missing sons.
A rosary, clutched tight, beads
Telling tales of silent loss.
On Patrol
By Paul Baldry
Green hills watch us pass,
Boots heavy on cobbled street,
Eyes scan every face.
A child's glare, a whispered word,
Peace feels a world away now.
Soldier's Silence
By Paul Baldry
Young man, far from home,
Gun held tight, heart full of fear,
Orders must be kept.
A scream echoes in the night,
Silence becomes a burden.
Aftermath
By Paul Baldry
Walls still bear the scars,
Of anger etched deep in stone,
Flags flutter defiant.
The guns are quiet, they say,
But memory still echoes.
Bandit Country
By Paul Baldry
Green hills watch us pass,
Crossmaglen's heart, a silent
Glower in the fog.
Boots heavy on the cold stone,
Whispers follow in the air.
Armoured Patrol
By Paul Baldry
Saracen's rumble,
Cutting through the silent streets,
Eyes search every door.
A child stares, face filled with fear,
Lost innocence in the grey.
Border Patrol
By Paul Baldry
Borderland is tense,
A rifle held, a strained gaze,
Waiting for the blast.
Another day the same fear,
Will peace ever come to stay?
Checkpoint Dusk
By Paul Baldry
Grey stone, shadowed walls,
A checkpoint's cold, watchful eye,
Halts a weary road.
Whispers of the past linger,
Fear hangs heavy in the air.
Border Vigil
By Paul Baldry
Green hills, sliced by line,
A patrol's slow, measured tread,
Each step tense and brief.
The land, a battleground deep,
Peace a fragile, distant hope.
Eyes on the Corner
By Paul Baldry
Stone cottages still,
Eyes watch from behind the lace,
Every move we take.
Suspicion is bred in the soil,
Crossmaglen waits, hushed and dark.
Apr 7
Apr 7, 2026 at 5:49 AM UTC
Ode to the Fallen
***
Seventy’s summer cracked the dawn,
Crossmaglen woke to Troubles drawn.
August eleven—silence broke,
Two officers lost to a hidden stroke.
And from that spark, the shadows grew,
A darker sky the whole town knew.
Seventy-two, July burned through,
A land mine tore the stillness blue.
James and Terence, standing fast,
Names now etched in memory’s cast.
September laid its colder claim,
Edmund Woolsey—another name.
Seventy-three, the air stood still,
Three more lives on that same hill.
A ***** trap, no warning cry,
Another mark where men would die.
Each loss rewrote the road they knew,
In greys of grief and broken blue.
March winds carried a sniper’s breath,
Bedford, James—drawn into death.
August heat on quiet ground,
Dennis, Michael—duty bound.
November pulled the daylight thin,
Windsor, Allen—lost within.
Seventy-five in winter’s grip,
An ambush sealed a fatal script.
Duncan, McDonald, Sampson fell,
Names that history won’t dispel.
December closed with sorrow’s bridge,
Civilians lost at Silverbridge.
Seventy-eight, the long road bends,
Turbitt, McConnell—final ends.
A priest entangled in the fray,
Where right and wrong had blurred to grey.
December winds returned once more,
Duggan, Johnson—gone to war.
Seventy-nine, the pattern stayed,
Hanna, Thompson—lives betrayed.
Cullaville watched, still and wide,
As sacrifice walked side by side.
July again, the silence broke,
Mackin, McMahon—smoke and smoke.
Glassdrumman held its breath that day,
As shadows passed but chose to stay.
Eighty-six brought grief anew,
French, McBride, Smyth—lost from view.
A hidden blast, no time to run,
Another tally, never done.
July returned with the same refrain,
Davies, Bertram—counted again.
The nineties came with a colder aim,
A sniper’s patience, a distant flame.
Reid, Pullin, Blinco fell,
Each name a story history tells.
Crossmaglen still bears the trace,
Of every loss, each haunted place.
Not just numbers, not just war—
But echoes that remain… and more.
By Paul Baldry (LongJohn)
Apr 3
Apr 3, 2026 at 3:07 AM UTC
Poppies of Remembrance
Amidst the bustling street, I found him there,
An old soldier selling poppies with care.
Inquisitive, I sought his story to hear,
About his time in battles, far and near.
"I did my job, lad," the soldier said to me,
Asked where he fought, his response set me free:
"Anywhere they sent me, without a clue,
Just followed the one ahead until we grew few."
"Follow me," always a voice would call out,
No questions asked, only duty devout.
"Did you never wonder where you'd go?"
A fleeting thought that he came to know.
"Don't worry yourself," the soldier explained,
"Just do your job, no need to be pained."
"Did you shoot anyone?" I ventured to pry,
"I just did my job," was his steadfast reply.
"Lost many friends?" I probed with a sigh,
His response pierced through, making me cry.
"I lost fathers, grandfathers, many kin,
Brothers, sisters, mothers, souls akin.
We cried to God in varied tongues,
Fellows from lands with different runs.
Heroes in their sacrifice, pure and strong,
Some returned, but others forever gone.
"Now they continue to do their part?"
With a poppy in hand, he spoke from the heart,
"Proudly I wear, and offer to you,
To remember those whose courage rings true.
Friends, fathers, grandfathers of old,
Mothers, grandmothers, stories untold.
They secured our peace, our freedom they sowed,
For the liberties we now proudly bestowed.
Free because they did their job so grand,
Their spirit and sacrifice will forever stand."
With a tear in his eye and a trembling voice,
He reminded me to cherish and rejoice.
I accepted the poppy, a symbol so bright,
A tribute to those who fought for what's right.
Remember, he whispered, as I walked away,
Their bravery and honour, never to sway.
By Paul Baldry (LongJohn)
Feb 20
Feb 20, 2026 at 12:17 PM UTC