Ted Griffin
On the Shooting Ranges - 1950s
Shells fall with a sort of crump
Very like the sound of the sea;
We could hear them ranging regularly
As we waited to aim at the gold
And the man in our butts
Was hit with a ricochet, as happened.
We could hear him screaming
Quite clearly. The shells adding
That touch of reality, not quite real.
But the sergeant, not believing his hearing,
Said ‘Shoot’, and we shot.
I could imagine the blood and the pain
As I scored an inner;
(He’d wrecked my aim I think);
And his partner, now frantic, panicking,
Seeking help up the butts
As the screaming went on ....
And then died as the perpetrator fainted,
And the order came to cease fire,
And the bell of the ambulance sounded,
And the shells fell with a sort of crump
Like the sound of the seventh wave hitting the shore.
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