Snipers

When I was kneehigh to a tabletop,

Uncle Ted came home from Burma.

He was the youngest of seven brothers

so the street borrowed extra bunting

and whitewashed him a welcome.

All the relations made the pilgrimage,

including us, laughed, sang, made a fuss.

He was as brown as a chairleg,

drank tea out of a white mug the size of my head,

and said next to nowt.

But every few minutes he would scan

the ceiling nervously, hands begin to shake.

‘For snipers,’ everyone later agreed,

‘A difficult habit to break.’

Sometimes when the two of us were alone,

he’d have a snooze after dinner

and I’d keep an eye open for Japs.

Of course, he didn’t know this

and the tanner he’d give me before I went

was for keeping quiet,

but I liked to think it was money well spent.

Being Uncle Ted’s secret bodyguard

had its advantages, the pay was good

and the hours were short, but even so,

the novelty soon wore off, and instead,

I started school and became an infant.

Later, I learned that he was in a mental home.

‘Needn’t tell anybody… Nothing serious

... Delayed shock… Usual sort of thing

... Completely cured now the doctors say.’

The snipers came down from the ceiling

but they didn’t go away.

Over the next five years they picked off

three of his brothers; one of whom was my father.

No glory, no citations,

Bang! straight through the heart.

Uncle Ted’s married now, with a family.

He doesn’t say much, but each night after tea,

he still dozes fitfully in his favourite armchair.

He keeps out of the sun, and listens now and then

for the tramp tramp tramp of the Colonel Bogeymen.

He knows damn well he’s still at war,

just that the snipers aren’t Japs any more.