“Kipling or Tennyson?”, the question rang out,

“I know that it’s one or the other”

“Or maybe it’s both and a bit of Lord Byron

read to you as a lad by your mother.”

I looked up to the eyes of the old Colour Sergeant

His words had cut through my mild trance.

“Correspondent?”, he asked, and I nodded my head,

“And you’re going to watch the Great Dance?”

His words were all true, so transparent was I.

He had seen what I was right away.

Just a wet-nosed reporter on the way to a war.

But I’d write The Great Novel some day!

Should I answer his query? Was he having me on?

His gaze was a mystery to me.

But before I could answer, he spoke up again

“Were you eyein’ me ribbons?”, asked he.

I admitted I had been, and that I was impressed

And he laughed with his mouth, not his eyes.

“They call these things medals, but I calls ‘em scars”

He said softly then, to my surprise.

“Each one is a memory of a terrible place

and some good mates who cashed in their chips.

Brave lads every one. I will drink to their souls”.

And his glass slowly raised to his lips.

Then he put on his cap and started to rise

as I reached barely touching his sleeve.

And I said, “Please indulge me. I’ve just one small question

If you wouldn’t mind before you leave”

“Go ahead Son”, he said after staring at me

“One question – one answer seems fair”

And he smiled that strange smile, and he took off his cap.

Ran his hand through his thin, graying hair.

“Why do you do it, put yourself in harms way.

You could rest now with honour”, said I.

And he gazed for a moment and then just turned to leave

with that far away look in his eye.

Then he stopped before going and dug out his pipe.

Then a light, and he turned back to me.

“Why do I do it?”, he asked soft and low.

“Well I’ll tell you but I’m not sure you’ll see.”

“It’s a Hell of a life, this one that I’ve chose.

Had to do things that most wouldn’t do”

But sometimes you see Lad, when the wolf’s at the door,

someone just has to Stand To”.

And with that he was gone out into the night

and I turned to the man at the bar.

Do you know that old sergeant, the one I spoke to?

The one with the chest full of  “scars”?

And he looked at me oddly. “Lad, you’ve been all alone.

Spoken barely a word here all night”.

The room seemed to cool. Guess my face lost it’s color.

Says the barman, “Lad, are you alright?”

I just paid what I owed and walked out in the night

and the evening air cleared my head soon.

But the words of the sergeant echoed soft in my ear

as I gazed through the fog at the moon.

Later on with the troops, I watched the Great Dance.

And I wrote of the things that I saw.

The horror, the courage the blood and the pain

and the men who faced war’s bloody maw.

Many times I returned to that small London pub

and searched for that sergeant in vain.

But he’s never appeared to my eyes since that night.

Yet, I still feel his words and his pain.

And my novel’s unfinished, put away for just now.

I’ve changed the plot one time or two.

When it finally gets written, it will be about “wolves”

And the brave men who dare to Stand To.

Stand To!

©2010

R.F. De Groff