This is a photo of my great uncle Joe, he left Silverwood pit and joined up aged 18 to fight for his country in 'The Great War'. He was injured and came home from France to recuperate. Then they told him he was not fit to fight again but he insisted and went back to the front line as a stretcher bearer. He went out with his mate to get an injured comrade and was blown apart by a grenade.
They put what they could find of him in his greatcoat and he is buried just inside the Menin Gate war cemetery at Ypres in Flanders.
He was nineteen years and four months old when he died
My Grandmother never got over it and cried till the day she died. I was taken every year to the Cenotaph on Remembrance Sunday by my Grandad and was told of the sacrifices made so this country could never be overrun with foreigners and could practice its religion, culture and way of life in freedom.
How they have been betrayed all those young lads!
I have written this poem to explain how I feel
Joseph Houghton, died at nineteen years and four months, never had a girlfriend, never got drunk, a beautiful Lancashire lad.
He died out of loyalty and love for his country. In memory of this ultimate sacrifice and for the future of my seven grandchildren I fight on for my country in its hour of need.
A country led by traitors who want to give away what this lad and countless others suffered and died for.
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