Forest Brothers

In honour of the fallen

As today is Armistice Day, I thought I would drop in a small essay i wrote in memory of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers and their battle of Mametz Wood in the First World War. My uncle was RWF and he fell in Pascendaele, the ripples of his loss were felt in my family even when I was a boy. i hope you enjoy this and give thought for those who fell and suffered, on and off the field of battle on this of all days.


Men, we were, of passion and honour, courage and fear. We did what we were told and were derided for it. Yet still, we did what was asked again and more, so much more. We were boys of the valleys and boys of the town. Country boys and townies. We didn’t care, we welcomed all without prejudice, for in the end, we were a family. We looked out for ourselves; it was so natural, so obvious. Watch their back and they watch yours. Protect your own, your brothers.

  Many of us were not from the Land.  Stafford and Manchester, Oxford, the Emerald Isle, they all provided us with their sons and we embraced them like our own, for they were part of us in the end. They sang our songs, they played, they laughed and they stood proud with us. They never disgraced us, nor we them. We taught them the hwyl and they embraced it like the men they were.

Welsh, they called us and for sure we bathed in the fire of the red dragon. We sang the hymns of our forefathers and listened to the minister, fresh from chapel.  We spoke the tongue, the hiraeth burning in our hearts. The longing for our homeland was strong, but together we were stronger and we had power.

 Policemen, we were and farmers. Lawyers and dockers. Men of rugby, men of books, poets and Pals. We laughed and cried, ate and smoked together. For that was our lot. Thrown into the ruined land and told to make our people proud and that is what we did. We made sure they will never forget us and they will not. They will sing our praises for a hundred years and more. For they will know that we were men and our mettle could never be quenched.

  When the call came and we knew it was our time, we did not flinch or turn away. We sang our hymns, we said our prayers and we waited  to show our worth. the moment when we could show all the doubters what we were. Good, honest men.

  As the smoke lay across the valley and the whistles blew, we rose to a man and climbed out of our haven, to walk towards the trees. Nobody flinched and no-one turned, though the path was hard and our way was blocked. We did what we were asked again and again and again. ‘Lloyd George’s little Welsh Army’ they sneered, yet we cared not. We kept walking through the hail of bullets in the mist and we fought until we could fight no more.

 Many lived to sing in joy and return to their loved ones in the land of their birth. Many laid down to sleep, their work done. Sons and husbands, fathers and brothers, we all did our best and saw the job through until the end, until the dragon reigned over that land.

 Four thousand of our brothers gave their lives in honour and glory to lie down for evermore in those 8 days of July 1916. In Mametz Wood. Remember them

By Geraint Roberts

Stuck in a limbo and desperate to do something meaningful, what to do? That is where writing began for me. A creative way of expressing myself and a chance to harness my wondering imagination. I close my eyes and I'm there. Wish I'd picked 'there' as a warm sunny day on a sandy beach, with the waves gently lapping on the shore...but I have to let the story load in my mind, then watch it unfold, wherever it may be. Currently I'm on a windy bridge, or a Devon beach, or a Cornish ti mine, or a submarine, or looking towards a Hebridean port...

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