My Dublin Fusilier

This is the actual report (copy), posted by the relevant officer, on the night of 10th February 1917. It documents the death of a granduncle; John Barrett: 10bt. Royal Dublin Fusiliers. The poem following is my unworthy tribute to him. I found his medal among some personal effects of his neice, (his brother’s daughter) my mother-in-law. R.I.P.

'10 Feb Beaucourt Sector front line Hostile artillery fairly active, especially about 8.45pm. Miraumont Alley and Puisieux Trance were heavily shelled with 5.9s and whizzbangs. Enemy were observed strolling about in front of our right company as if they wanted to surrender. The usual patrols and listening posts were out during the night.

Casualties Killed in action
Records show death of 26518 Private John Barrett, born Glencastle, CO. Mayo. Residence Blaydon-On-Tyne. Enlisted Ballina, Mayo.'

Dublin Fusilier

Here, in oozing, fusing mud,
rivered red with stagnant blood,
lays entrenched, amidst the flood,
an Irish lad, I fear.
Across the years, within a nap,
I travelled, dream-bound, history’s map
to share a trench with one young chap;
a Dublin Fusilier.

The night was dark with pledge of rain
and though it may well sound insane,
I do so long to be again,
there with the volunteer.
For, though I have not seen his face,
dreams provide no hiding place
I watched him smile at my embrace,
this Dublin Fusilier.

He welcomed me, as family might,
on that cold, damp and misty night.
‘My word but you’re a welcome sight,
You’re more than welcome here.
I hope you bring me all the news’,
he did most eagerly enthuse.
I’ve been so long away’, he mused,
my Dublin Fusilier.

I told him of my wife and child,
‘His name is John..’ at that, he smiled
and I could tell he was beguiled,
though blinked away a tear.
‘Love the boy and guard him well,
and keep him safe from gun and shell,
for he should never know this hell’
said Dublin Fusilier

He asked, were his ‘Glencastle’ hills
suffused in yellow daffodils,
that dance sublime, as nature wills,
while skylarks bend your ear?
Was the bay a sparkling blue
and did sweet Mary Donoghue,
still love him and remain true to
her Dublin Fusilier?

But then he smiled and kissed my brow
and said, ‘I must be going now.
You honour me – you know not how
but just by coming here…
You’ve given this poor soul release
and - with your memory - a peace.
The guns, for one, can truly cease;
this Dublin Fusilier.

I visit often, in my dreams,
the place equated once with screams.
Now however, it all seems
so peaceful, still and clear.
I see him yet, from time to time,
that young man, fit and in his prime.
I’ve tried to laud him, with this rhyme,
my Dublin Fusilier.

Chris Birrane © 2012