Alf and Phil

Alf and Phil,
Both small men, both East-End boys,
Growing up in that Thirties world
Of black-and-white films, crowded pubs, street corners,
Women in pinafores, men in caps.

Phil: skinny, fast-talking, irreverent,
A cockney joker, and no mistake,
Whose tales of authority upset and pomposity confounded
Would dissolve into helpless chortling.

Alf: neat, grave, dignified,
A measured raconteur, who’d fix you with a steady eye
And end his tale with a solemn, ‘Oh yes,’
Before flooring you with a dazzling smile.

Alf was Artillery, Phil a Rifleman.
Retreating through Albania in ’41,
While Alf’s mob were heading south,
Destroying their guns as they went,
The Germans on their tail,
They met Phil’s mob,
Digging slit trenches in the road
Then lying in them, their guns ready,
Facing the other way.

That’s who they were, and I am grateful
To have known them as my friends.