(9/23/1924 TO 12/11/1997
A BEACH IN FRANCE
Last night I sat and watched a man die,
He wasn't afraid, he seemed in good cheer
Last night I sat and asked myself why
A dying man should feel no fear.
One minute he breathed, a faint smile on his face.
He wasn't afriad, he seemed so at peace.
One minute he was here and then he was gone
An empty shell in a lonely place.
He said "At last I'm old" and then he died.
To many go young, when a thief steals their time,
At lease he was warm, with a friend by his side
No one should die alone.
Last night I sat and watched a man die.
He wasn't afraid, he'd faced death before.
Last night he told me how he'd stolen his time,
On a beach in France in "44".
From youth he had jumped chest high in pink water.
Wading ashore in another World's War.
Random selection in a senseless slaughter,
Praying to his Jesus for a few minutes more.
He killed his first man near that beach in France,
Fifty years later he still prayed for his soul.
He found his God on that beach in France
Crying in terror in a too shallow hole.
BY: Frank Gibbons
(dedicated to the memory of ex-sargent Arthur Walton,
Kings Shropshire Light Infantry, British Army, 1939-1947
I think this poem, represents every soldier that was on that beach in 1944. My father was.
