We were registered as a form, and for the first day
Left unsupervised alone in a distant room
With empty desks to organise our own war.
Using books and inkwells was the easy way
Of creating bombardments — conkers and apple-cores came
In useful also, and in the master’s drawer
There were sheets of exercise-paper which would acquire,
When neatly folded, the speed of darts to fly
Sharply across to send warnings of attack.
All the heads on the side of the classroom under fire
Dipped for cover under desk-lids when this weaponry
Rained down on them — to be picked up and fired back —
Though I don’t recall any sort of hurt or harm
Resulting from this conflict, which was allowed
To go on uninterrupted, lasting throughout
Our entire first day of secondary term.
I remember each voice calling, on either side,
Its urgent orders, in a shrill treble shout:
‘Fire!’ or ‘Take shelter — Get down, everyone!’
I can still see Tim Hodgkiss lowering his face
Below his wooden shield, with no blood on it,
And there behind him — with all his limbs — Rex Dunn
Shooting darts and missiles from his usual place
In the back row out of sight, and the First Form wit,
Clive Pardew, in one piece, not in the sack thrown
Down elsewhere for collecting him. The real war
Was still young enough to have ended, like our own,
Except it didn’t. — ‘Fire!’? — ‘Get down, everyone’?
I can’t hear treble voices any more —
They’ve changed, into an uncalled-for baritone.

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