The Western Front

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Draped over the trench, a bloated and sickening corpse Staring down from above with its leering vacant eyes Its mouth slightly ajar, perhaps in a mocking smirk Its skin seems alive with a hundred flies For a while the war is forgotten As I ponder this ghastly sight Am I accustomed to this horror? Should it still cause me to fright? His uniform is German, my rifle sights have spotted many Not for want has my bolt hit home, my trigger squeezed asunder They are no personal enemy of mine, the German Private soldier I've shared a beer with one back home in simpler times Down Under So i feel I must write to the parents of this Soldier Give him a proper funeral, for his honour as well as mine Tell them I knew him not but felt sad for this grinning corpse And mark a map where he was buried within the Australian lines

Submitted by NecroGod — Apr 25, 2025

Not often will you hear the tale of damned Fromelles A battle tried forgotten where great sorrow dwells The worst twenty four hours in our history of Australia An unnecessary battle and a complete bloody failure Orchestrated by a British Corp. Commander This bloke is the subject of cruel yet just slander For he had learnt nothing from his past planned disasters So Australians fell thick and fast on dead foreign pastures A feint to draw the Germans away from the Somme Started with a seven hour barrage of bombs But the Germans from their high ground could see That a feint was all it was going to be It was the first major battle by Australians in France Welcome to the Western Front, they stood not a chance Cut down by a weapon underrated at Haig In shell holes and graves countless Australians were laid

Submitted by BloodShrine — Apr 25, 2025

My surroundings are bleak Stretcher bearers do I seek A wasteland of churned earth Bearing pain for all I'm worth For hours under French sun I've lain wounded from Hun gun In a damn shallow shell hole From which to rid is my goal No more water at my hip A dead foes water do I sip A healable wound but in this sun Is worse than injury by gun Of a sudden movement I see Believing I shall soon be free But coming closer now to see They are Germans numbering three They are kind, they dress my wound Tell me Australians are coming soon Fill my bottle, shade my face Then they leave without a trace

Submitted by Immortal — Apr 25, 2025

These beasts of steel seemed injured With their squealing unwholesome sounds Its awkward movements seems so painful Mastery over no-mans land though found Its visibility was useless Their hides surprisingly weak Its bulk screamed Industrial age Forever crawling, This iron cage Lurching, crawling, terrifying Overheating, understeering, stalling Cursing, sobbing, heartbreaking Thrown into battle untried Hoping to over run, cause mass panic and outflank But hopeless was the maiden outing of the Mark I Tank

Submitted by Dahmers Fridge — Apr 25, 2025

An endless bog A sea of mud A foul smelling mire Of blood and guts A wasteland of soggy brown No other colour to be found In this both men and mule drown Was this really once a town? The shells keep on coming Is this place not miserable enough? Can't keep dry, can't keep safe Oh boy are we doing it tough And the rain keeps on falling And the War will not stop We are told to fix bayonets Over sandbags we must hop But our artillery is useless Not enough guns made it to the front So in the bog we get torn to pieces Because our heavy artillery had sunk Damn this war Damn the weather Damn the generals to the rear Damn the bullets Damn the shrapnel Damn this Passchendaele Ridge

Submitted by The Void — Apr 25, 2025

From the field kitchen he did troop With two canisters filled with soup His feet felt old and his aching limbs felt numb He had promised his mates with soup he'd come So alone he continued through trenches and raped earth Concentrating on not spilling soup for all he was worth But the way it was long and the burden was great Stray bombs landed near, was he now tempting fate Reasonably quiet on the front but he knew snipers well Though the land seemed dead still they would dwell Before the war he was a wanderer, a swagman if you will Humping his drum through valleys, plains and over hill His Billy on his swag had now popped into his head For similar was the containers that now weighed him down like lead A stray shell landed near and his mind returned to the job He quickened his awkward walk as his heart began to throb When a shell landed nearer and a container was rent asunder He stared in disbelief then his cursed raped the air like thunder He sat the last one down and took a little rest The freight it had knocked the wind from his chest He rubbed his eyes and it seemed rather strange to him That his usually faultless vision was now going dim He was now confused at where he was, why was he sitting down? Why was he dressed in khaki, what's this red fluid on the ground? He had not felt the shrapnel that had torn a hole in his side In the mud of a ruined trench he closed his eyes and died

Submitted by Finntroll — Apr 25, 2025

Harry Chauvel was running out of time, he needed Beersheba now Infantry would take too long so the question now was how A charge he though, yes that would do, they would not expect that His mind was set so he called forward his men for a little chat In sight of the Turks, they lined up in three rows Hoping this untried tactic would deliver the fatal blow They were eager for the fight and eager for the charge The dust stirred up by the horses left most blokes parched Then the talk suddenly stopped and the dust began to settle Formation of troops now complete, the sound of feet on stirrup metal The Light Horse men looked at each other and glanced across the plain A look of steely determination as the stroked their horse's manes Under thigh they could feel the tension of their horses That the beasts needed water their masters felt remorse Well they stroked their horses heads and whispered in their ears That the wells of Beersheba were tantalizingly near The signal came and Brigadier Grant did lead The Lighthorsemen towards valiant deed The trot turned to gallop in no time at all Gallop to charge when the shrapnel began to fall Their rifles slung over shoulder, their bayonets came to hand They cursed the Turkish Arabs as they sped across their land The Turkish artillery had started and a few fine soldiers fell But still they charged towards their goal, the famed Beersheba's Wells The clouds of dust, distant roar and flashing bayonets in the setting sun Dread the cause for Turks to forget to change the sights on their guns Machine guns poured lead and rifle fire did the same But again the guns sights was the reason for lousy aim Of a sudden they were upon them, diving from horse to ground Whilst other rode ahead to harass others to be found They hacked down upon the heads of Turks with bayonet and fist And headed back to the front trenches for others they had missed Turks surrounded in droves whilst others fought in groups Harshly they were dealt with by the mounted infantry troops Within an hour the battle was won and their horses drunk their fill For the risk involved against great odds, small was the butchers bill

Submitted by Dahmers Fridge — Apr 25, 2025