Military Poems.

This is my page for my military related poetry.

Ex Tenebris Lux.

This poem is dedicated to the crew of HMS Glowworm, sunk off Norway April 8^th 1940 following action against the German Battlecruiser “Admiral Hipper”. Having been badly damaged by shells, the Glowworm rammed the Admiral Hipper causing extensive damage to the battleship. Sadly, the Glowworm sank with 109 men lost and 60 survivors who were picked up by the crew of the Hipper. The German Captain Helmuth Heye recommended the British Captain of the Glowworm be awarded the Victoria Cross and this was awarded posthumously as Commander Broadmead Roope was drowned after the ship sank. One of the crew members that died was my Uncle, Stoker 1^st class Wilfred James Findon, aged 22. My father carried his brother’s picture with him all his life.

Out of darkness light,

With lantern black and silver rays,

A Glowworm on the northern ocean,

In those dark and heavy days,

A Maelstrom to ride,

Man, overboard to be found,

Breakaway from the flotilla,

Onward Norway bound,

But danger lurks in the storm.

Bigger fish there are by three,

A clash of David versus Goliath,

On that tumultuous black grey sea,

Torpedoes fired miss their target,

A smoke screen now laid,

Four-inch salvo’s hit home,

And a terrible price is paid,

Men inside their duty done,

The engine room hit hard,

And of his brother killed,

Carried his photo card,

Orders from the bridge,

Standby to ram!

Damage done abaft the anchor,

We don’t give a damn,

Loss of life of many tars,

The Captain tried to save,

And with his David broken in two,

Vanished under a wave,

A common bond between foe’s,

Survivors pulled from the sea,

A Commanders courage duly noted,

Victoria Cross posthumously,

A ship now lies in its grave,

Named to those that fell.

Upon the Southsea memorial,

With time for us to dwell.

James Findon © May 2026.

The Hurdle Maker’s Son.

This poem I have written is in memory of my wife’s great uncle, Joseph Harold Dyer, born Stretton-on-Fosse, Warwickshire, 1895. Son of Joseph and Emily Dyer (nee Cook), of Stretton-on-Fosse, Warwickshire. Joseph senior was a hurdle maker. Joseph Harold was called up to join the Army in 1916 and was sent to fight in France. Both Joseph and his best friend, a Mr D Humphries had made a pact between them, that whomever was killed, the other would send a letter to their respective parents informing them of their loss and before they could receive official government notification. Ironically the day after Joseph’s family received D Humphreys letter, my wife’s Grandfather Alfred George received his call up papers for the Army. This resulted in Joseph senior suffering a heart attack from which he recovered. It would appear that the anguish of losing one son then the government asking him to send another was too much to bear. The other tragedy that unfolded from this story is that Joseph Harold was engaged to a young lady (possibly named Emma) who later died during the Spanish flu outbreak circa 1919.

Private Joseph Harold Dyer, 16368, 2nd Battalion, Royal Warwickshire Regiment was killed in action, July 14th 1916 at the Battle of Bazentin, Somme, France. Remembered with honour on the Stretton on Fosse war memorial, St Peter’s Church and the Thiepval memorial, Somme, France.

The veins of those anew,

Have the blood that courses through,

With a tragic loss of one,

The hurdle maker’s son,

Upon the Gallic field,

For a uniform to shield,

Failed to protect him still,

Bullet or shell to kill,

As to Evesham did go,

Orders now to flow,

Over La Manche to the Somme,

Loved by all who saw him from,

The shire where he bloomed,

Of the youth who were doomed,

His friends cut terrible by his loss,

With a letter sent across,

From his best pal with whom he served,

A pact between them preserved,

To send that note but not to lie,

About how he was to die,

Who thought he was still coming on,

His friend the hurdle maker’s son,

He died painless it’s said,

I doubt it his blood spilt red,

No grave for those that care,

On Lutyens memorial to share,

Grief the same for every man,

Lament the dead at Bazentin,

God is going to call us when and how,

Not caring if I go under now,

Bare your deep sorrow,

Bravely for their tomorrow,

Another son they can send there,

For the white dot on the black square,

His beloved waits for news,

But it’s not what she would choose,

The loss too much to take,

Purple death to create heartache,

Now they’re united in God’s grace,

This tragedy both families to face,

Two medals and a dead man’s penny,

Sent by post indeed too many,

Gone now their beloved one,

To grieve for the hurdle maker’s son.

Under the Autumn Sky.

Remembering on this day, Lt Ralph Shaw DSO, 11^th Battalion Royal Warwickshire Regiment, Son of W W E & Lucy Shaw of Handsworth, Birmingham. Killed in Action 28^th April 1917 Battle of Arras.

A young man’s call to arms,

From the midland urban sprawl,

Full of life and youthful charms,

Leading men into battle one and all,

In his uniform made to measure,

Khaki and Sam Browne,

The Antelope to treasure,

Onward as his men fall down,

Facing death upon this land,

Come on boys, lets advance,

I have a Webley in my hand,

And lead a merry dance,

Push on towards the prize,

A shiny bronze death plaque,

To what now do we surmise,

Of the bravery we do not lack,

Buried beneath some foreign sod,

Now in an unmarked grave,

Known only unto our God,

His life they could not save,

And under the Autumn sky,

A memorial to all those lost,

They who returned march by,

Having to count the cost.

James Findon © March 2026.

Army, Air Corps and Navy Blue.

_{Saturday May 16th 2026 is Armed forces day in the United States. This poem I have written is dedicated to all those from the US that served and passed through England during WW2.}

_{To the west of Cambridge is a unique plot of land, donated to the United States to bury its wartime dead. With 30.5 acres of ground it contains some 3,812 burials with 3,732 crosses and 81 stars of David. A wall to 5,127 missing runs East to West on the South side parallel to three reflecting pools with Old Glory at its West and a Memorial Chapel to the East. A fitting tribute to honour those that served in this country and made the ultimate sacrifice. Many of those buried here and on the wall of the missing are from the 3 US air divisions that were based around East Anglia. The American Battle Monuments Commission runs the site which was donated after WW2 by the University of Cambridge and dedicated July 16 1956. There are also some post war burials here}.

Two of those listed on the wall of the missing include Major Alton Glenn Miller and Lt Joseph P Kennedy Jr, elder brother of President John F Kennedy.

With white crosses row upon row,

A sweeping vista there to show,

In Olmsteads landscape true,

Many dead from World War Two,

The land gifted by local scholars,

Not paid for with any dollars,

And a wall for the missing standing tall,

Some famous people we recall,

A band leader and a first-born son,

Of an ambassador for a presidency won,

Rosettes now for those discovered,

Once lost their remains recovered,

Names reflected in the pond,

Brothers in arms with a bond,

Ties all those that lie here,

A moment now to shed a tear,

Above the wild blue yonder sky,

Beneath Old Glory flying high,

And the Oak groves standing there,

Near the chapel mourning Angels stare,

For the combat missions near and far,

Purple Heart and Silver Star,

And the stories they dare not tell,

What it was like in that hell,

Passed through these shores and overland,

Onto the Norman blood red sand,

Some to return and be buried so,

Madingley’s epitaphs there to show,

Upon the gravestones now to read,

Names we know for those that need,

Solace and comfort for the loss,

Of many buried here under a cross,

The Star of David there as well,

Reminding us of those that dwell,

Beneath English soil from where they flew,

Army, Air Corps and Navy Blue.

https://www.abmc.gov/

A different kind of Tiger (for the Slapton dead).

Had a weekend in Torcross Spring of 2025 but had visited there in 1974 with the Castle Bromwich youth club where we did some canoeing in the sea. Although we found out about the history of the D Day rehearsals had no idea, we were possibly canoeing over a Sherman Duplex tank. Some years later I read Ken Smalls account of its recovery and now have a signed copy of his book “The Forgotten dead”. Thoroughly enjoyed our weekend away and staying next to “The Start Inn” certainly had its benefits.

Walk along the road between lake and sea,

Over the long-pebbled beach,

With some eighty years past,

History there is to teach,

Fed by the stream and river,

For the preservation of Slapton Lay,

A saltwater breach there beckons,

flooding in from the bay,

Strapwort, fungi and lichen,

Found with the Bitten and Bunting,

Across the reedbeds blowing,

Otters and dormice hunting,

Fishermen cast their nets off the coast,

Trawl until they’re caught,

On a rusting hulk beneath the surface,

Remains inside its thought,

Dragged from the sea its tracks still moving,

Mud and silt to decant,

After Forty years none swimming,

A Sherman bought for a Grant,

Now preserved at Torcross,

A memorial to the dead,

Ken Smalls obsession standing,

For the seven hundred and forty-nine its said,

Further up the beach,

A plaque to those evicted,

For Exercise Tiger,

So men could be conflicted,

Homes destroyed by allied shells,

Bodies washed upon the shore,

Misery caused by the E boats,

For those that practice war.

The buildings once ruined,

In peaceful times still stand,

The road destroyed by storms,

As well as the Slapton sand,

With the situation fluid,

The three seven nine, time saves,

To go about your daily business,

Witness of the unmarked graves.

The Forgotten Dead, The True Story of Exercise Tiger, the Disastrous Rehearsal for D-Day.

Ken Small and Mark Rogerson. Bloomsbury Publishing 1989.

UPDATE: 09/02/26: Following the recent storms we have experienced in the UK, the Torcross storm defences and the A379 have unfortunately suffered major damage with the road impassable between Torcross to Strete and beyond. It appears this will not be a quick fix if any? The future of this road hangs in the balance. The one saving grace could be that Slapton Ley is a SSSI and is a designated site of special scientific interest. Legally this area is governed by the Wildlife & Countryside Act 1981 so hopefully this will work in its favour with regards to protecting the Ley from the sea.

My Fab Four (a poets lament).

Having never been to war and hope not to, I have served alongside the military as a civilian. I wanted to pay homage to the war poets from WW1 and chose my fab 4 not from Liverpool but some of whom were lost during that supposedly Great War. What was great about it, I have no idea. In November every year we remember those that served our country in war, some to return and some not.

We were robbed by an organised death,

so many destined to die,

that generation so young,

ask the question “Why”.

Lost now to the historian’s notes,

and great it was this mechanized war,

playwrights, storytellers and poets,

a better life they wanted more.

With the reciprocation of artillery shells,

the repetition of Maxim’s machine,

hung upon the barbed wire fence,

exposed by the bright flare Green.

Their blood sold for balance,

beauty in words as a future gone,

they had so much to offer,

now we have none.

A different kind of the earth,

against the salt the Romans knew,

lost on an industrial scale,

limestone graves to view.

The memories fade away,

of the four, three were gone,

let us lament this tragic loss,

one survivor to carry on.

This land they all longed for,

poets they were, dreamers as well,

lives that should have been spared,

not to die in that hell.

To the Welshmen and Englishmen two,

this homage to you three and one,

Rupert, Wilfred, Edward,

and Seigfried, I’ll see you anon.

(In Memoriam: Edward Thomas (1917), Wilfred Owen (1918), Rupert Brooke (1915) and Seigfried Sassoon (1967).

Not gone under the Plough.

In March 2024 we went on holiday to Suffolk to visit the coast and to visit some of the American airfields dotted around the area. One in particular was Rattlesden where I had written an article on the Broadsword military forum about two B17s that had collided over the village of Kettlebaston with the loss of 17 men in October 1944. This poem is dedicated to the memory of those that died and all those that served in the 447th bomb group at Station 126 at Rattlesden. Parts of the airfield are still intact and one runway is still active as used by the local glider club. The control tower still remains unlike a lot of the airfields dotted around the counties of Norfolk, Suffolk and Essex which were returned to agricultural use following the end of World War 2 and the 8th Air forces departure from the UK. We will remember them.

Upon the concrete runway once more,

these wings now made to fly and soar,

in silence they rise on a wire,

training pilots to aspire,

and years past the roar of engines four,

taxi out for another tour,

to deliver their payload on foreign land,

some not to return cap in hand,

Boeing’s might that flew from here,

no longer have the sound of fear,

but now a gliders wing cuts through,

in the air above so blue,

below empty buildings once at their best,

some for storage some for rest,

and did Major Miller once play his tunes,

in the T2 hanger one assumes,

to young men destined for history,

with the local girls a mystery,

to those who stayed at Rattlesden,

from across the pond now and then,

with good intent from their shore,

they came to fight a noble war,

a “Great Crusade” a General said,

now these words understood and read,

for those poor souls M I A,

we still remember to this day,

may God bless these men who came to serve,

with honor, glory and no reserve,

and for they that didn’t achieve their task,

there are no questions we should ask,

of their untimely misfortune,

that took their lives far too soon,

by the memorials that stand so tall,

near to the perimeter gather us all,

of people who can say a prayer,

memories and grief to share,

these times gone by as the control tower stands,

a testament to many hands,

that worked this field and did their best,

to save us all from a dictator’s quest,

with a lot of words written and said,

of the Four Forty Seventh and their dead,

let’s not forget those that returned,

to a homeland for which they yearned,

and remember when it was all over now,

an airfield… not gone under the plough.

The poppies hung upon the tree.

This is the first poem I have written since i left school some 40 odd years ago. While looking for subject matter remembered this story of a Wellington bomber that crashed at Tidmington, Nr Shipston on Stour, Warwickshire UK on the night of 7th/8th December whilst undertaking night time flight training. All 3 crew perished in the crash. They were:
412070 Sjt L A McGuire. RAAF.
1219728 Sjt V T Drew RAVR.
1332125 Sjt C E Raggett RAVR.

There were several stories going around about how a local farmer thought German paratroopers had landed. Land army girls recall the dead being carried away on 5 bar gates and some years later a local farmer while repairing his tractor saw a ghost of one of the airman at the exact spot the plane crashed and each year around the time of the crash i visit the spot to place a small wooden cross on one of the 2 oaks trees near to the site and recently someone has been putting 3 poppies on the tree.

Lest we forget.

On that stormy winter night,

overshot the training flight.

From Moreton on-to Tidmington,

two Poms and an Australian.

Over the farmhouse into the field,

down to earth that would not yield.

That brave and oh so gallant crew,

of Sergeants Raggett, McGuire and Drew.

With their families far far away,

unaware of that fateful day.

And a local family sought help that night,

thoughts of paratroopers gave them fright.

Alas this was not the case,

of a tragedy the people would face.

Land Army girls witness of their fate,

carried away on a five-bar gate.

Decades gone and, in a field, nearby,

a tractor repair for some to try.

Staring at that sight in fear,

stood upright in his flying gear,

turned to head North so its said,

an apparition of one long dead.

So we salute the brave lads of twenty one OTU,

who flew from that airfield in Forty Two,

By the two Oak trees standing proud,

within that field we pray aloud.

For these three souls that ceased to be,

with the Poppies hung upon the tree.

OTU stands for Operational Training Unit of which 21 OTU was based at RAF Moreton In Marsh, Gloucestershire, which is now home to the National Fire Brigade Training centre. There are a number of war dead buried in the local cemetery from the UK, Canada, Australia and New Zealand, one of whom is 412070 Sjt L A McGuire. RAAF.

Who can be against us.

This doesn’t surprise me especially where we are in Britain at this moment in time, when the old service men complain about the state of our country and question whether their service was in vain. 100 year old WW2 Navy veteran Alec Penstones TV interview comes to mind.

(Update: Alec William George Penstone, born 23 April 1925 died 28 May 2026. 101 Years old).

This poem I have written especially for Armistice Day, I would like to dedicate to my maternal Grandfather L/Cpl Ernest Henry Brough 138242. 62^nd Machine Gun Corp who survived the first world war and was able to return home.

Can you hear that noise,

It’s the old soldier turning in his grave,

Now someone’s made him angry,

Fought for a country to save,

No wonder he’s not happy,

This situation is a joke,

Surrender of their youth,

With all that blood to soak,

Down into the earth,

On some foreign soil,

I do hope people appreciate,

The British soldiers toil,

If “Gott mit uns”,

For a soldier named Schmidt,

Why can’t God stop this,

Is it beyond his remit?

Some seek the “Romance” of war,

To re-enact the battle sound,

But when the real bullets return,

Their bodies pressed to the ground,

As my grandfather told me,

“We mowed them down like grass”,

In his own words exactly,

Memories fade but not to pass,

We wouldn’t accept this today,

To destroy a young generation,

With the art of modern warfare,

For a Cenotaph adoration.

Politicians can say what they like,

With all the ties they bring,

No one wants to die for them,

Just for their Country and King,

The commercialisation of the Poppy,

Funds for a legion to raise,

The people’s parade on the Sunday,

A church service full of praise,

For the boys that go off to war,

Only to be killed as men,

A sacrifice on the altar,

Over and over and over……again.

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