My Cricket

Began with watching war-stricken soldiers play
At a military hospital where I-if you please!-
Was a guinea-pig patient having his blood replaced
As a possible cure for childhood allergies.
On a makeshift wicket in the grounds, on a calm day
Of collateral sunshine, Wilson faced
Deliveries from Todd, with Baxter his runner ready
-And blocked ball after ball. Down in the book
Went platoons of diagonal pen-strokes, filling 
Neat box after box-until that sudden hook,
Wilson's only stroke, dispatched his steady
Partner with bat thrust forward, willing
His own lame leg to win them a safe run.
When he'd reached the crease, Wilson would join him there,
Hobbling slowly down to wait for his next chance,
Which would come without warning as soon as one 
Loose ball in about four overs provided a fair
Opportunity for scoring. From his grim trance
Of concentration, Wilson would suddenly
Emerge, open his shoulders-and eight-nine-ten
Came up in slammed singles made when he'd seen a gap
In the legside field, Baxter judging exactly when
He should start to lurch forward doggedly
Down the uneven pitch. Those two could wrap
A game up one run at a time, achieving
Through sheer persistence what other men would try
To accomplish by risk and daring and get nowhere.
Sixty-six years on I remember them, and lie
Awake in the blacked-out ward, with bombers leaving
Overhead for Cologne, and still can't bear
To imagine their futures. I myself left half-cured
Of my ailments by rigorous exercise with their drill-
Sergeant in the gym, which I had to attend
For my own rehabilitation. Did their firm will
Mean they recovered strength enough to be assured 
Of more horrors, in desert or jungle? Or in the end,
Did they simply limp away, declared exempt
From extra bloodshed, to die in saner places?
I've tried in vain to work out how some can let
Life's harsh deliveries hurtle towards their faces,
And either ignore them, or clobber them with contempt.

Some things you never learn but can't forget.