In Felixstowe Camp, waiting to go
Here since the call-up, what do we know
of the war, how’s it all going?
Winning or losing, no way of knowing.
‘But I need to go, to do my bit.’
The war has been running for three long years
Rumours we’re leaving, I prick up my ears.
We train with the signal lamp, morse is our friend
as we trim the wick and learn how to send
signals ‘cross mountains, received in a blink
We travel through Europe by ship and by train
Sun in the valley, snow on the plain.
I list in my diary the places we pass,
more than four days just sat on my arse.
The flowers and vineyards are all new to us.
We’re getting so close, nearing the fighting
‘Will I be up to it, is it exciting?
Will I stand up, as strong as my mates?
Waiting and fearing, what is my fate?
What is to come, how bad will it be?
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