Last August was the hundredth anniversary of the outbreak of the First World War and have been writing a collection of poems dealing with that awful conflict. This piece deals with the scandal of underage conscripts and the great responsibility the the 'White Feather' leagues must bear for this
Young Pretender
Some middle class harpy
stuck an envelope in his
childish, grubby hand.
A big boy for his age
but still only thirteen.
He opened it in
the whining tram, A love-letter ?
No! More a hate-letter.
A single white feather
with a terse and spiky note.
"Why aren't you at the Front?
Are you a girl ? A coward ?
He dared not look up, avoided
the other passenger's eyes
until the woman was long gone.
Next day, playing truant
for the last time, he signed
his young life away.
No-one noticed he had aged
five years in one cruel night.
But his uniform fitted.
What more do you bloody want ?
His rifle was bigger than
he was, but men were often
shorter then. He didn't shave.
The men tried to look
after him. They knew the
score. But you can't protect
a beardless boy from a sniper.
Who couldn't have known that
this one was out of season.
John S Curtis
Moreton-in-Marsh
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