POEM: Reflections of a World War II soldier on the eve of heading to battle
A poignant poem about a soldier's day of fishing before heading to the battlefields of Europe at the start of the Second World War has been submitted to the Strathy for publication.
The Trout was penned by Grantown-born Niall S. Hunter (77), who now resides in Mains House Care Home in Newtonmore, in his younger days.
His younger sister Una Cochrane, who lived in Newtonmore for many years but is now based in Edinburgh, submitted the poem on Niall's behalf.
Niall S. Hunter is the elder son of Kingussie-born Cath (nee Cumming) Hunter who passed away in 2004.
He worked in bank branches in Kingussie and Newtonmore in the early 1960s before continuing his career in the sector in London.
He was also a talented drummer performing for local band The Planets as well as also playing the trombone and guitar.
Mr Hunter went on to serve two tours of Vietnam with the US Marines.
Mrs Cochrane said: "The Trout deals with the thoughts of a soldier having a last quiet moment of reflection whilst fishing before departing for war.
"The prose may surprise those who knew him prior to the cruel impacts of Vascular Dementia which led to his current residency in Mains House Care Home.
"His Kingussie born mother of Badenoch Cumming and Macpherson bloodlines was a talented musician and wordsmith who considered such skills as the norm in her era and area, but skills worth encouraging and sharing.
"Consequently her lively piano accompaniment to her singing, along with naturally occurring ceilidhs in her home, were enjoyed by her children and her wide circle of friends.
"Her elder son Niall's modesty about his Bardic talent with words has awaited sharing, although his musical ease with many instruments first found public expression in a group called The Planets while he was resident in Kingussie.
"His flow of thoughts in The Trout is a good example of the latent Bardic ability that very probably exists in many Badenoch families and awaits sharing."
THE TROUT
by Niall S Hunter
A ripple formed, the line was taut.
The line was slightly arched.
Then faintly in the distance came
the noise of men who marched.
The soldier who had leave that day
whose thoughts were far away -
that peaceful river bank was where
he yearned that he could stay.
Beneath the waters, unaware of
mankind's pending fate,
the trout so used to feeding free
struck at the tempting bait.
While darting round it swam upstream
its journey rudely thwarted -
it reached the limit of the line
and had its route aborted.
The soldier drowsed quite unaware
this drama was unfolding,
even though his sleepy hand
the base of rod was holding.
His mind was with those darkest
clouds on humans which do form
when men will take up weapons,
and each day becomes a storm.
The year was nineteen thirty-nine
and war had been declared.
Our soldier was the first for call
to train and be prepared
to answer to his country's call
for strength against the foe.
A day from now it was his turn,
to combat he would go.
The time he had been granted
before the parting date
relieved his soul, though quietly
from whatever was his fate.
Quite near the camp, but hid by woods,
there coursed the moving waters;
a noise downstream observed
by him and made by playful otters.
A clearing underneath a larch
was where he casted out.
It was not catching any fish
that this was all about.
He settled by the grassy bank
with what thoughts he had left
amid such times of tragedy
and future hopes bereft.
Then visions of his sweetheart's smile
that day he had to leave
encouraged him to feel content,
not be forlorn or grieve.
If spared he would return that smile
when they at last unite.
His war torn mind she would
restore so gently from his fright.
His thoughts flowing in such blissful state
protected by his dreams,
shrouded from reality and battles' piercing screams
when by a sudden tug he woke, pulled from his memory
the fish was bending rod and line
demanding to be free.
He stood up then, both hands
at work to play the fish in close.
This was the time to savour, now
before he fights his foes.
Life then seemed rarer than
before, and not for him to take
this trout who by its innocence
had made its dread mistake.
Beset by guilt he landed it
close-by to all the reeds
near its familiar feeding ground
between the water weeds.
He took it firmly in his hand
and then removed the hook -
a second later it was gone
and swimming in the brook.
He gathered rod and
headed back, then gave a backwards
glance wishing in this life he lived he
had a second chance. . . . .
and then he heard the splashes
as it leapt up for a fly.
He knew it was the fish's way
of wishing him 'goodbye'.
