Last August was the hundredth anniversary of the outbreak of the First World War and have been writing a collection of poems dealing with that awful conflict. This piece deals with the scandal of underage conscripts and the great responsibility the the 'White Feather' leagues must bear for this

Young Pretender

Some middle class harpy

stuck an envelope in his

childish, grubby hand.

A big boy for his age

but still only thirteen.

He opened it in

the whining tram, A love-letter ?

No! More a hate-letter.

A single white feather

with a terse and spiky note.

"Why aren't you at the Front?

Are you a girl ? A coward ?

He dared not look up, avoided

the other passenger's eyes

until the woman was long gone.

Next day, playing truant

for the last time, he signed

his young life away.

No-one noticed he had aged

five years in one cruel night.

But his uniform fitted.

What more do you bloody want ?

His rifle was bigger than

he was, but men were often

shorter then. He didn't shave.

The men tried to look

after him. They knew the

score. But you can't protect

a beardless boy from a sniper.

Who couldn't have known that

this one was out of season.

John S Curtis

Moreton-in-Marsh