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Following the publication of a poem which I composed on memories of Yeovil in the early 1950's Harry Wilmott, an ex Westland Apprentice phoned me from Santa Barbara, California to say how much he enjoyed reading a copy forwarded to him. Since then we have been in regular touch over the internet, sharing interests and memories.
He later sent me a poem, which he had treasured since wartime days, and which, I feel, richly deserves recording in the WW2 archive. I have asked him to write an account of his accquisition of the poem, and his reasons for preserving it for all these years, and the following is his reply :-

'As a young boy I was fascinated with railway trains and spent many hours at our local Yeovil Town station awaiting their arrival. There came a day for which I was unprepared. The station was bustling with people from all walks of life including nurses and other service workers.
The arriving train pulled to a stop and the waiting people rushed to open the carriage doors, not to board, but to tend to the passengers. The carriages were crammed with soldiers who were so tired and weary they could barely stir. Their uniforms were torn and dirty, and many were in a state of undress. Some had no footwear and many were bandaged and filthy. Food and tea was being handed out but some of the soldiers hadn’t the strength to eat or drink.
At eleven years of age, and even though England was at war, I wasn’t cognizant of much change in my life until this haunting day. It was difficult for me to comprehend what I was seeing, or to fully understand the horror these men had faced in defense of our country. That was 64 years ago but it was a seminal moment in my life.
I began to read the newspapers and to otherwise search for information about the war. While I can’t remember whether it was days, weeks, or month’s later I read a poem attributed to an unknown soldier who died at Dunkirk. To the best of my knowledge it has never been claimed.
It profoundly affected me and is a treasured possession to which I often refer.
My home is in California, but I will always remember the WWII years in Yeovil and starting my apprenticeship with Westland Aircraft Company at age 14 in 1943. My wife Phyllis is from Yeovil and we are approaching our 54th wedding anniversary. She still has family in the town and many friends. In this age of electronic communication, Desmond Quick of Yeovil and I maintain an interesting dialogue, mostly about poetry and writing. He suggested that the poem be offered to the ÃÛÑ¿´«Ã½ website of WWII memories. I wholeheartedly agree, and it would be a fitting tribute to the brave soldier who wrote it under circumstances too appalling for most of us to contemplate.'
Harry Wilmott
Santa Barbara.

The poem was untitled, and I have given it the title of 'Echoes of War'.
Desmond Quick
Yeovil.

Stay with me God, the night is dark!
The night is cold, my little spark
Of courage dims, the night is long -
Be with me God and make me strong.

I love a game, I love a fight,
I hate the dark, I love light!
I love my child, I love my wife -
I am no coward, I love life.

Life with its change of mood and shade,
I want to live - I’m not afraid
But me and mine are hard to part -
Oh’ Unknown God, lift up my heart.

You stilled the waters at Dunkirk
And saved your servants, all your work
Is wonderful dear God; you strode
Before us down that dreadful road.

We were alone and hope had fled,
We loved our country and our dead
And could not shame them, so we stayed
The course, and we were not much afraid.

Dear God, that nightmare road! And then
That sea - we got there, we were men!
My eyes were blind, my feet were torn,
My soul sang like a bird at dawn!

I know that death is but a door -
I knew what we were fighting for -
Peace for our kids, our brothers freed,
A kinder world, a cleaner breed.

I’m but the son my mother bore,
A simple man, and nothing more,
But, God of strength and gentleness,
Be pleased to make me nothing less.

Help me again when death is near,
To mock the haggard face of fear -
That when I fall, if fall I must,
My soul may triumph in the dust.