The fields of Flanders, not the Flinders Ranges

The fields of France
were an easy place to lose someone
or lose your life

you stepped up and out
of the lice-ridden trenches and
onto the scarred landscape
which was the chessboard of the generals.
It was not a configuration of 64 squares
but a terrestrial hell cluttered with arms, legs
and things that resembled your mates

This was bad enough, but the scariest thing of all
was that there was nowhere to hide

The land was so flat
that you couldn't help getting lost
your bush skills were useless
as you sunk slowly in the mud.
Your memories of golden beaches,
the dusty heat of the Flinders
and other antipodean reaches of the Empire
severed by another German bullet,
slowly crushed by the cold driving rain.

Weeks later, while sitting in the searing heat
of a South Australian Summer afternoon
your relatives were lost for words
and they could not hide their disbelief

Aussie boys didn't die face down,
bodies twitching in French muck
they drowned in an attempted rescue
or got trampled by cattle

None of them understood as you did
that the War was not a football match
but more like a lottery rigged by Death
and only the lucky survived the battle