At the Eleventh hour, of the Eleventh Month of 1977. I stood for the last time with my adopted father and great friend, William Oscar Williams at the Cenotaph in Wombourne.
Born on the 14th of October 1893, he survived five years as a dispatch rider in the great war only to lose a leg later in a road accident.
A sad morning in September 1978, when Bill passed away, ended for me a wonderful fifteen-year friendship with a man I never once heard complain, although he suffered greatly throughout his 84 years.
Besides my own father, Bill Williams was certainly the most easy to like, and the most contented man I ever knew.
I will always recall Bill on this sad anniversary.
A Tribute to Bill and his fellow comrades
A Soldiers Poem
We didn’t go for glory,
we didn’t go for fameWe went to be with our mates,
when the country called our nameWe had to do what we were told,
and attack that nameless hillMy mates, they fell around me,
I remember each one stillAnd now I’m climbing this last hill,
I quietly speak each nameWe didn’t go for glory,
we didn’t go for fameSo when I finally reach the top,
older and slightly lameI think I’m very lucky,
that people don’t read my name
R.I.P. OLD FRIEND
