- Contributed by
- People in story:
- Doril MacMunn Gilbert
- Location of story:
- Monte Cassino
- Background to story:
- Article ID:
- Contributed on:
- 10 December 2004
Commemorating Pilgrimage to Italy II London Area
The Royal Regiment of Fusiliers Association 8 - 22 May 1994
Silent now the beaches lie
Merged in one with sea and sky.
Expectant 'neath the thundery grey
Where the thunder of another day
Meant guns and all of battle's noise
And in the midst our valiant boys
With lack of training and their fears;
Undaunted Royal Fusiliers.
Salerno, Anzio and then
Rock fortress v the flesh of men,
Cassino, famous monastery
A mount renowned in history.
Today, some fifty years ahead
We come to honour all our dead
The wounded and the whole, so brave
Who fought, no thought themselves to save.
Where death and horror once have been
Feel, in this quiet and tranquil scene
A peace profound, a simple prayer
Upon the lips of those who care.
We only knew what the newspapers told us,
Things that we heard and things that we read.
In those days none of us had television
We had to rely on the things that were said.
"Walls had ears" we were sworn to security
Pathe showed pictures in black and white,
Meagre the impact of those that were given
Even when battles were shown at their height. Salerno,
Anzio, Monte Cassino
Although on our lips meant little enough.
The breakthroughs, the captures, the long days of waiting
Gave little idea of the meaning of tough!
Only years after, on seeing the landscape
Walking the ground, discussing the plan.
Could we discover the task so inhuman
The efforts so endless assigned to each man.
Bold words are inscribed on cemetery gateways
They thank the Armed Forces for Italy saved,
Words are inadequate, no way can we thank them
For all their endeavours, the horrors they braved.
Row upon row in cemetery gardens
Names are remembered with care and with flowers
But only the heart shall recall the real meaning
Of love for these brave ones, these men that were ours.
The watered grass so fresh' and green
Submits a backcloth to the scene
Of rows and rows of gravestones neat
With flowers massed around their feet.
The blue of heaven over all,
Through the trees the buglers' call
In practice for the time ahead
When they play tribute to our dead.
Then stand we all, without a sound,
Motionless in honour bound
Remembering the wartime years
We bite our lips, to staunch our tears.
Cars go by upon the hill
Heeding not the crowds so still
That like a coloured carpet spread
In solemn worship for their dead.
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