Perry Hall Sports Pitches & World War One Duckboards…
A vast area, dull green.
Dark mud
Seemingly constant.
Damp, rutted and soft.
A turn-over for ankles
And after rain, pools appeared,
Which covered boots
To shimmering sheen.
A vast acreage, dire still.
Dingy huts,
Surely condemned.
Damp, shuttered and draughty.
A hell-hole for protagonists
And after rain, puddles appeared,
Which dampened clothes
To shivering chill.
A vast arena, draconian cage.
Dim light,
Scathingly corrupt.
Damp, confined and icy.
A hiding-place for influenza
And after rain, leaks appeared,
Which splattered kit
To communal rage.
Yet from the unique sound
Of studs on wood
When a team was in line
I certainly understood
That I was part
Of a uniformed group
Awaiting the call,
Like an army troop…
A glow of pride
Rifled through my chest,
As I moved in unison
With the rest…
Maybe that was what
Conscripts might feel,
Whilst marching where
Death’s bell would peal…
A belonging, a need
To be with others,
Where THEY go YOU go,
Into hell with your brothers…
That unique sound
Of boots on mud:
A target in line
For a rifle’s thud…
Pete Ray
18th May 2022
Sunday morning football at Perry Hall playing fields,
Birmingham.
It was always seemingly wet and dismal there.
The changing rooms were disgraceful but there was something sociable about running out onto one of the far-flung pitches, often 200-300 metres from the shed in which we changed…
The sound and feeling of walking in soccer boots from our changing cage on a wooden floor always put me in mind of WW1 soldiers in boots on duckboards, moving along trenches into hell…
I have always wondered whether mental traumas could be passed down from ancestors to later generations, rather like susceptibility to physical illnesses can be.
If so, then maybe my feelings about walking those changing-room duckboards had something to do with both grandfathers walking WW1 duckboards and their feelings at the time…
THE ORIGINAL PERRY HALL...
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