#veteransvoice
We walked where the maps gave up,
where the wind had no manners
and the dust clung to your boots
like it meant to follow you home.
No brass bands, no speeches —
just the quiet nod of lads
who knew the weight of distance
and the price of being needed.
The guns were our heartbeat,
steady as old friends,
loud enough to remind the world
we were still there,
still holding the line
even when the line was thin.
Everywhere they sent us,
we left something behind:
a bootprint in the mud,
a joke whispered in the rain,
a promise kept in the dark.
And though the world forgets
the ones who fire from the shadows,
the guns remember.
They always do.
May 19
May 19, 2026 at 3:30 AM UTC
The road stretched out before us
like it had a grudge to settle —
mile after mile of mud,
rain that couldn’t take a hint,
and boots that swore at you
with every step.
But we walked it anyway,
because that’s what gunners do.
No fuss, no drama,
just a steady plod
and the occasional complaint
to keep morale at the correct level
of cheerful misery.
The gun rattled behind us,
its wheels clattering like an old aunt
who never approved of anything
but insisted on coming along.
We shared the weight,
shared the jokes,
shared the aches that settled in
like unwelcome lodgers.
And somewhere along that endless road,
between the blisters and the banter,
we found a kind of peace —
the simple truth
that you’re never alone
when you’re walking with gunners.
At the end of the day,
when the boots came off
and the brew went on,
we’d look back at the road
and laugh at how far we’d come.
And tomorrow,
we’d do it all again —
because the road never ends,
and neither does the regiment.
May 18
May 18, 2026 at 9:23 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.
May 16
May 16, 2026 at 4:54 AM UTC
We walked where the maps gave up,
where the wind had no manners
and the dust clung to your boots
like it meant to follow you home.
No brass bands, no speeches —
just the quiet nod of lads
who knew the weight of distance
and the price of being needed.
The guns were our heartbeat,
steady as old friends,
loud enough to remind the world
we were still there,
still holding the line
even when the line was thin.
Everywhere they sent us,
we left something behind:
a bootprint in the mud,
a joke whispered in the rain,
a promise kept in the dark.
And though the world forgets
the ones who fire from the shadows,
the guns remember.
They always do.
May 11
May 11, 2026 at 6:07 AM UTC
“If it moves, salute it!
If it doesn’t, paint it!
If it breaks… blame someone else!”
That voice—
it lived in our bones.
Day in, day out,
rain or shine,
square or field,
he was there—
bellowing like thunder
over a troop of lads
still trying to remember
who they were before this place.
On the square—
boots striking in rhythm,
backs straight, eyes front—
someone missed a beat.
“If it moves, salute it!”
he roared, pacing like a storm,
and suddenly everything moved—
arms snapping sharper,
heads turning quicker,
fear and pride tangled together.
Later, in the sheds—
paint thick in the air,
brushes dragging across metal
that hadn’t seen war
but would still be spotless.
“If it doesn’t, paint it!”
again and again—
until green covered everything
and we laughed quietly,
because even the things
that didn’t need painting
somehow got done twice.
Then came the field.
Mud swallowing boots,
rain cutting through kit,
rifles heavy in tired hands—
and something always went wrong.
A misfire.
A slip.
A bit of kit gone missing
where no one would admit it.
And there he was—
like he’d been waiting for it.
“If it breaks…
blame someone else!”
We bit back grins,
shared glances,
because somehow
even in the telling off,
there was a strange kind of truth—
a rough-edged humour
that kept us going.
At the time,
he was just noise,
pressure,
relentless expectation.
But now—
years behind me,
distance softening the edges—
I hear him differently.
Not just shouting…
but shaping.
Each line drilled into us,
not just as orders,
but as lessons in pace,
precision,
and keeping your head
when things didn’t go to plan.
We didn’t thank him.
Didn’t understand him.
Probably cursed him more than once.
But we remembered.
“If it moves, salute it.
If it doesn’t, paint it.
If it breaks… blame someone else.”
Funny thing is—
after all these years,
I still hear his voice
whenever something goes wrong…
…and I still smile.
Apr 11
Apr 11, 2026 at 4:18 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
Part 1
***
The Unexpected Path
Orders lead me on.
Roads I never thought to walk.
Purpose found in dust.
***
Calm Within Chaos
Gunfire fades to breath.
A still mind in the madness.
Calm between heartbeats.
***
Life’s Delicate Balance
Armour on, heart soft.
Strength and fear walk side by side.
Balance forged in fire.
***
Woven Brotherhood
Laughs, loss, silent nods.
Threads of lives stitched into one.
Brothers stand as one.
***
Embrace the Unknown
New ground under boots.
Change comes with each dawn we face.
Step into the dark.
***
Rhythm of the March
Bootsteps drum the earth.
Hearts beat in a steady line.
Marching into fate.
***
Hidden Lessons
Scars beneath the kit.
Lessons learned in silent watch.
Wisdom earned, not told.
***
Turning Deployments
Tours come, tours will end.
Stories carried home within.
Chapters etched in time.
***
Steady in the Storm
Rain, fire, and long nights.
Hold the line through every storm.
Strength stands unbroken.
Mar 28
Mar 28, 2026 at 5:10 AM UTC