Birkdale 6th Form student Molly has the privilege of attending the British and Irish Remembrance exhibition and events in Dublin this year. She was asked to write and perform a poem by the Irish President for the main event which is to take place today, Monday 11 November. On this day of reflection and remembrance we would like to share Molly’s wonderful poem about her Great-Great Uncle, Gunner Patrick Meleady with you:

Gunner Patrick Meleady – Service Number- 656798

An idealistic young man, who is still in his teens, has dreams of a self-determined Ireland

Whilst others join the volunteers, he is enraptured by Redmond’s promise of Home Rule

His Mammy, Ellen, at 32c Great Clarence Street, is baking bread, for his home coming

Not knowing he’s ingested the recruitment call, busy, she lays the table to Angelus bells

Wanting more for her youngest child, than him digging out coal boats on the Dublin docks

Her sacrifices wasted, no college education for him, in despair, she hears, his, ‘good news’

 

He is handed his khaki uniform, together with button-stick, holdall. spurs and burnisher,

Now in the Royal Field Artillery, vaccinated, marched to cavalry barracks, gun drills begin

Horses are more important than men at 6 am reveille, the horses have to be tended first

Three months to train an infantryman, twelve months to train a gunner, training cut short

This young Dubliner, assigned to France, is waved off by his crying mother, father, siblings

 

Arriving at the Front, the adventure turns to constant calls for action, enemy fire and gas

Working around the clock, a ‘shift ‘ system, 24 hrs on/24 hrs off, or longer, becomes his life

18-pounders, red-hot barrels, beech blocks jamming, that he forcibly opens with a pickaxe

Firing two to four shells, twenty-two pounds per round, fuses he sets with his shaking hand

Gas mask blocking his vision, smoke from the guns, bombardments, a suffocating living hell

His face, stained ebony with oil, staring sore-eyed, whilst mechanically slamming out shells

 

Rotten dirty and crawling with lice, has trench foot and clothing stinking of cordite, gas and mud

Desperately tired, haggard with fear, wizened from seeing things no young lad should ever see

His shaking is increasing from being under incessant shell fire, amongst rats he fretfully sleeps

Back on duty, ground hog day, with pals dying in droves, he prays to return home to his Dublin

While sending letters, filled with jokes and hope, a boy saving his mother and father from reality

Fighting, inch by inch, his wage of 1s. 2½d. a day, means nothing, for his fight is for Home Rule

 

Once schoolboy hands, now grip and manipulate, machine guns, inflicting appalling casualties

Expert in the British Vicker, Hotchkiss and Lewis gun, able to fire around 450 rounds per minute

Killing other mother’s sons, whilst he himself is in one of the suicide squads, death is on his shoulder

A once altar boy, is tasked with taking life, a terrible torture of the soul, driven by political promises

Whilst his family pray the Rosary every night, that God’s grace, forgiveness and safety be upon him

This Gunner, is razored down by an opposing German death dealer, wounded, he is taken as a POW

 

Travelling, in agony, to Magdeburg Camp, he is thankful to be away from horrors on the battlefields

Grateful he’s wounded and maimed, so he, no longer wounds and maims, frightened of what’s ahead

A harsh regime awaits him, as he is ‘patched up’ and allocated meagre rations, in freezing conditions

Just getting by, his wounds get infested, others talk of liberation, the ‘Great War’ is coming to its end

The Pandemic hits when the Amnesty is announced, and in camps, the sick and frail drop like flies

Then, repatriation, what’s left is shifted out, his fragile health, vastly failing, he, crosses land and sea

 

Not in Dublin, he’s taken by ambulance, and registered with hundreds, in St George’s Military Hospital

In pain, spirit ebbing away, a life of 20 summers, hoping, he’s done enough for a self-determined Ireland

He is amongst others like him, diseased, broken, praying to go home, whilst cared for by English voices

His father Bernard, leaving the North Wall, to bring his boy home, is promising Ellen, that all will be well

Arriving, 15th Jan 1919, too late to hold his boy one last time, he breaks down amongst kind strangers

Gunner Patrick Meleady, in a coffin, is buried, by his poor mother, in Glasnevin, St Patricks JL 266.5

 

Molly (age 16)

Great- Great Niece of Gunner Patrick Meleady