The Filigree Cross

Cross of silver, filigree
clutched in hand,
seeking mercy
in the hour of his death.
Wounded, captured
at Litani’s crossing,
Legionnaire lies now
beside the dusty,
bloodied road.

Morning’s fighting’s done,
having pushed Vichy forces back
Anzac forward troops move on ahead,
battalion headquarters now passes by.
Sombre pass they
this dying Foreign Legionnaire
hear not in his agony
cry out for water -
till one soldier stops in pity,
lifts up the wounded head
and gives him drink .

Mere humans calling truce
each has lost their fill of friends that day,
and yet they meet as equals -
enemies no more in the midst of battle.
Nationality unspoken,
Legionnaire removes
his silver crucifix and hands it over -
gift of a dying man
as memento to the Anzac’s kindness.

This Aussie soldier –
no soft gentleman he,
but rough miner
and mechanic
before the war –
holds the hand of this
his nameless enemy
till death takes final breath
and shuts the eyes.
Then takes his pack
and rifle up again,
moves on
towards the battle at Damour.

My sons,
who love to fossick on the Internet,
know now the regiment of
that Foreign Legionnaire,
by day and date and place.
Someday, perchance we’ll know
his name and mourn
for him more befittingly.

But since her father’s passing,
and with great respect,
my wife wears that silver crucifix -
for faith, and not for jewellery;
and we four are thus reminded well
that good character,
mercy and compassion
are far greater gifts to her
than all his medals on the wall.


By James Gagiikwe © 2007