He called for me from his hospital bed,
He needed a priest, and soon,
The old man lay in his disarray
In the cool of the afternoon,
I started to read the Viaticum,
His face was turned to the wall,
But then he stirred, and muttered one word
From the depths of his troubled soul.
‘Mons’, he muttered, and I was still
While he raised his gaze to mine,
I saw the struggle he fought within
Then I noticed his eyes a-shine,
‘I was an Old Contemptible,’
He said with a trembling voice,
‘I’ve been to the shores of Hell, old son,
If you thought you could give me a choice.’
‘Now, I’ve never spoken of this before,
War is a terrible thing,
The Devil rides in the enemies eyes
While the bullets just rattle and zing.
I’ve walked through rivers of blood,’ he said,
‘I’ve lain in acres of pain,
At Mons, outnumbered by three to one
In the mist and the cleansing rain.’
‘I killed so many, I must confess,
A rifleman born and bred
Full fifteen rounds each minute I loosed
At the sight of a bobbing head
Their field grey uniforms swarmed across,
We cut them off at the feet,
But then their artillery started up
And we knew we’d have to retreat.’
‘Death was having a field day, son,
Taking us, one by one,
I didn’t believe I was going to live
No more than my mates had done,
They lay in pools on the muddy ground
Their eyes a-stare, amazed,
The bullets that took them arrived unsung,
To herald an early grave.’
I patted his hand to quieten him,
I saw that the end was near,
The war he spoke of was over and done
But for him it was crystal clear,
I tried absolving his early sin
I held his trembling hands,
‘I need to tell you the rest,’ he croaked,
‘The awe-ful Angel of Mons.’
‘The Germans had us, the end was nigh,
We turned to defend at the last,
When up above us a shape was formed
With wings that glowed like glass,
A glowing angel with luminous wings
And it turned to the enemy,
The guns were silenced, the air was still
And the Germans turned to flee.’
Sweat broke out on the old man’s brow,
He shivered and let out a sigh,
He’d told no-one of the things he’d seen
At Mons, in that August sky,
The lights were suddenly dimmed in there
Like a shadow of former wrongs,
And graceful wings folded over his head
As he died… the Angel of Mons.
David Lewis Paget
