Regimental Sergeant Major, can ye hear me?

A Remembrance Day poem from reader Jeanne Alexander who wrote about her great uncle Regimental Sergeant Major James Watchman, who died in the First World War. I looked up his record in the Canadian Virtual War Museum. 

Watchman was born in Stevenston, Ayrshire, Scotland in 1878 and enlisted in the military in Regina on December 19, 1915.

He died in Paeschendaele on Nov. 11 1917 at the age of 39. He was the son of John and Catherine Watchman of Avonlea, Saskatchewan.

Also, if you missed it last year, check out Flatlander reader Darell Horn’s open letter to his great uncle on Remembrance Day, 

Regimental Sergeant Major James Watchman
Service #426088
Veteran of the Second Boer War
Regina, Sask.
10th Battalion Expeditionary Force Recipient: Distinguished Conduct Medal Vimy Ridge April 1917 – the highest honour
an enlisted man could receive.
Victory Medal
British War Medal
Enlisted in Canadian Forces December 19, 1915
Died Paeschendaele, November 11, 1917, Age 39
Grave #24-28-30 Mennen, Belgium

is the spirit of the men who follow, and of the man
who leads that gain victory.”

Anonymous

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LEFT, LEFT, LEFT RIGHT LEFT
LEFT, LEFT, LEFT RIGHT LEFT
LEFT, LEFT, LEFT RIGHT LEFT

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Regimental Sergeant Major, can ye hear me?

Are ye heeding?
Cut yer military teeth.
Fighting heathen Zulus, at age 20
On the southern tip of darkest Africa
Did that teach you to bear the gree?
Regimental Sergeant Major, WWI 10th Battalion.

Ye an yer chaps set the record.
The record, for the most decorations

in any one battle.

Many of yer boys, raw recruits, lads really.
The 10th Batallion dubbed the White Gurkhas
Trained to be ruthless warriors
Famed for stealth, quicksilver action
Face-to-face, hand-to-hand combat
Skindoos red with trickles of jugular blood
Let so readily from enemy throats.

One quick slash,
The element of surprise.
Great battle tactic, that.
A career soldier, a feisty adversary,

Ye were in all.

After yer British Military Career,
Ye immigrated to Canada.
Why? T’was it the appeal of land
Reputed to be flowing with milk and honey
Streets rumoured to be paved with gold?

Were ye yearning to be near yer auld Da,
Yer sister, her bairns, three of yer brothers?
Worked at the Regina jail, you did.
Yer superiors called you, “Ramrod Jimmy”.
Filed your homestead claim
Amid the hills and dales
As rolling and as green
As the hills of home,
Ayreshire, Scotland.

Ye, a land owner, a homestead farmer
Ready to put down roots
Into the black prairie soil
Where the grasses ripple like
Rills atop the ocean
Where the wings of the wind
Keep the tempo of life.
Jimmy lad, are ye wi’me?
Why’d ye answer the call?
Did the skirl o’ the piper
Rile yer blood?

Did ye no believe the war would last
So long or be so hard?
Did ye flush wi’ the lust for battle?
Were ye secretly afeared?

Of a lifetime of staidness by the hearth and fire?

Was it your last hurrah?
Were you of a mind?

That the beleaguered British
Needed your stout Scot’s blood,
Warrior red as that of yer forefathers?
Were ye all military-minded,
Military bravado, military might?
Were ye givin’ yourself for the greater good?
Stomach clawing adventure
Had taken ye the world o’er.
Was it that insatiable thirst
Which ye, boy soldier, veteran,
One of 10 boys
So often enticed
By the lure of adventure?
Born a child of superstitious seafarers
From the Isle of Man.

Tales of adventure listened to at yer Da’s knee.

Yer Da, a merchant seaman
Reputed to’ve been saved by fate.
Stopped from going to sea
On ships that were lost
Not once but seven times.
Did ye think ye’d a charmed life?
A June birth, a Gemini
A dual personality,

Unpredictable, impetuous, strong-willed

What was it for?

You’d no need to sign your life away

Work aplenty fer a man o’yer experience.
More than enough put by
To pay for your pre-emption.
Yer slice of Heaven,
In God’s country,
Yer just reward,
Yer future hope, yer own home,
Perhaps a wee wife
Why, ye’d done yer duty.
Did ye actually believe the war mongers?
The “bletherskite politicians?”
Was it, “One for the Gipper”?
Was patriotism the hook?
All for God, King, and Country
For whom, for what?
All set for a quiet pastoral life,
Why’d ye join up
In that, “war to end all wars”?
Were ye figuring,
Them, wet behind the ears
Rough-hewn plough jockeys,
Fodder for the cannon
Were needing ye?

Needing you to give them a backbone,
To make men out o’ milk toast mama’s boys.
Were they needing ye to teach them
To stay alive, to die like a man?

Ye military heart, your military courage

Passed on to
Those poor Mam’s laddies,
Still tied to Mam’s apron strings
Stern-faced, straight back, shoulders squared
Barking orders on the parade square.

Did ye do yer best

To make them into embittered war-horses

Did ye shame those boys
Doing yer best to have em’ obey
Obey, without question
To, “look sharp”
Fight for God n Glory.
Sinewy, agile, quick as a snake’s tongue
Did ye brandish yer baton?
Did ye bully, harangue,
Exhort them,

“Step smartly ye bloody miscreants,
Ye sons o’ beealzabub”.
Did ye do it all,

To give those panty-waisted buggars

A wee chance,
A wee hope in hell?
Why’d ye go?

Quite the bobby dazzler ye were,
A dashing man in his prime,
Ye cut a fine figure

Marching through Regina streets
Yer tunic-clad chest puffed out.
That soldier’s strut,
That fanny swagger
would make yer kilt
Swish to and fro.
Ladies of the night
Under the gas lights
Leering come-hither looks
Lewdly calling,
“Oy Bonney Laddie, Ach Aye
Hae u got a wee somethin’ fer us?
Coyly batting their eyelashes,
Grinning provocatively.
Eyes front, a slight flush on yer cheeks

Ye’d no break pace,
Nor doff yer cap.
Striding forward
Paying them no mind
Tell me, Gentleman Jim, why’d ye go?
Paeschendaele Nov 10, 1917
Hades on Earth, no respite, no lethe
No forgetfulness, no haven of oblivion
In this No Man’s Land
Ye were advisor to the chief of staff
Two years of endless battles,
Mud, ooze, blood,

Burrowing through miles of minotaur mazes
Tunnels into a World of Devastation
Mustard gas, bullets, debris, disease
What took you down?
How long did you lay in the mire?
In the bone-chilling cold
Awash with the remnants of bodies
Roiling in the mud.
How much did ye ken?

Waiting for the gates of Eternity to open?

November 11, 1917
Rising on the wings of Seraphim
Did your spirit waft
Across the waters
To your sister’s prairie home
To visit your namesake,
The spitting image of you?
The lad who’d inherited, “The Gift”,
The boy whose mind’s eye
Saw and heard what others did not.
Did you stand proudly
At the threshold of his doorway
In full dress regalia
Your white helmet gleaming,
Buttons polished to a shimmer
White spats sparkling.

Ghostly, pristine, in the silvery prairie moonlight?

Did ye reveal yersel’ to his mind?
His complex mind,
Often fraught with confusion
Perplexed betwixt
The real and the imagined
Seeing and knowing
What others did not.
Worrisome thoughts
About being daft.
Being called a foolish git.
He’d the dubious honor
Of sensing,

What’s in folks’ minds and hearts?

Harbouring

The sureity, the foreboding, the kenning

of what’s to come.
Did ye whisper comfortingly?
As in days gone by,
“Hush yer weist, tis is as should be.”
Did ye murmur in your lowland Scott’s burr
“Tis I who’ll no part from ye.
Tis I who’ll be near ye always
In the blue of the sky
In the breath of the wind.
D’nae fash yersel’ ”
Yer wee leather-bound Bible,
Yer source of succor.

Wee Jimmy carried wi’ him
Wherever he travelled
Those scriptures,
Part of yer kit
Part of yer temporal life
Part of yer spiritual life
His, to keep, to cherish
Ancient words in that well-worn text,
Housed within the yellowed
Earmarked pages,
Gave ye peace,
Brought ye solace,

Affirmed yer belief in that which is greater.
Did it teach ye how to live?
Did it arm ye to die a noble death?

Did those words

Provide ye with strength and courage
To slog through mud
Strewn with human remains
As ye faced an endless barrage
Of Hell on Earth
Running through
The cover of dirt, dust, and smoke

Hit the ground,
Wait, Count,
One one thousand
Two one thousand

Three one thousand
Wait for friendly fire.
Repeat, repeat, repeat
Oi, Mustang Jimmy
Pete-bound feet,
clad in caked remnants of leather
Foot rot, cold, ague, sweat
Was that the glory of war?
Where be those medals now?
Tarnished, forgotten, desecrated
In some unknown place?
With some unknown person?
Pawned, sold as trinkets
By those who cannot fathom their worth.
Grave #24-28-30 Mennen, Belgium
Where Mother Earth has swaddled
Ye and the bones of countless others.
Bringing forth bright red poppies.
Poppies from the essence of ye.
Today, at eventide
Traffic stops,
Buglers arrive.

The Last Post and Reveille sound
Played in observance and gratitude.
A tribute to lost lives
The lost generation.
Do ye still feel the swell of pride?

Do yer ears tune
To the drones and wheedles
O’ the pipes,

Played by the Ladies from Hell.
Do you remember
Them leading ye into the fray?
Do ye remember the dread?
Can ye fathom the grief,
The despair yer auld Da felt.
For his laddie buck,
His pride, his joy,
His bonney wee prince,
His brae brave lad
Who’d come to the new world
To work, to live near him,
At the last
Only to receive
The dreaded official news.
He’d known beforehand,
But refused to believe
The horrific dream
When ye’d come to him
To bid him a final farewell.
Grief-stricken, maddened with sorrow,
He walked eighty-five miles to Regina,
Yer 75-year old Da, inconsolable
To offer his services to the King.

To take action, to enlist, to avenge.
To assuage the guilt,
A father should die afore his bairns.
Tell me, Regimental Sergeant Major,
What would ye give to be
In the land o’the livin’
Brandishing yer bayonet
Shouting yer epithets

Exhorting, “Look alive ye devil’s spawn.
C’mon ye dirty buggars;
We’ll show ‘em whose boss!”
Does the nighty tribute
Enacted within earshot,
That tribute to courage,
To sacrifice,

Does it help to defray the price?
Regimental Sergeant Major James Watchman,
Mortally wounded November 10, 1917
Died November 11, 1917
Was it worth the coin?