Below is a link for the Roll of Honour for the Memorial on The Green giving detailed information, if available, about those who are mentioned on the Memorial - 1914 to 1918, 1939 to 1945. There is also information about the British Korean Veterans Association stone which lies at the base of the Memorial.
Royal British Legion Croxley Green
Roll of Honour
The following poem was written by an unknown soldier on duty in Afghanistan.
Twas the night before Christmas, he lived all alone,
In a one bedroom house made of plaster and stone.
I had come down the chimney, with presents to give,
And to see just who, in this home, did live? I looked all about, a strange sight I did see No tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.
With medals and badges, awards of all kinds
A sober thought, came through my mind.
For this house was different, it was dark and dreary
I found the home of a soldier, once I could see clearly.
The soldier lay sleeping, silent, alone
Curled up on the floor, in this one bedroom home.
The face was so gentle, the room in such disorder,
Not how I pictured a British soldier.
Was this the hero, of whom I'd just read?
Curled up on a poncho, the floor for a bed?
I realized the families, that I saw this night,
Owed their lives to these soldiers, who were willing to fight.
They all enjoyed freedom, each month of the year,
Because of the soldiers like the one lying here.
I couldn't help wonder, how many lay alone,
On a cold Christmas Eve, in a land far from home.
The very thought brought, a tear to my eye,
I dropped to my knees, and started to cry.
The soldier awakened, and I heard a rough voice,
"Santa, don't cry, this life is my choice;
I fight for freedom; I don't ask for more
My life is my God, my country, my corps."
The soldier rolled over, and drifted to sleep,
I couldn't control it, I continued to weep.
I didn't want to leave, on that cold, dark night,
This guardian of honour, so willing to fight.
Then the soldier rolled over, with a voice soft and pure,
Whispered, carry on Santa, its Christmas day, all is secure."
One look at my watch, and I knew he was right.
"Merry Christmas my friend, and to all a good night."
Why do the Poppies Fall
Why do the poppies fall?
In the Royal Albert Hall,
Tumbling down to a carpet of red
Covering everywhere you tread.
Many years have passed
Men and boys left our shores.
They went to fight and save
All of them so young and brave.
No easy Euro-star trip!
Laden down with bags and kit.
Distant land, families missed
Still thinking of the loved ones they kissed.
No holiday fun, only mud and trenches,
The gas, the rats, the stenches.
Bullets flying, bayonets fixed;
Blood, sweat and tears mixed.
Living in underground tunnels – trying to keep spirits high,
Not knowing if it is day or nigh.
The command comes to leave and fight
They rise to find the enemy in sight.
Coats and weapons weigh them down,
In the thick dark mud so many drown.
Bodies buried where they fell,
Oh the bad news they will have to tell!
White head stones in smart rows
Where some of them are no-body knows.
The grave yards are tended with love and care,
Visitors – so many – can only stand and stare.
Some have no final resting place
Families will always remember that face
Bright and clean – a name etched on a wall
That is why the poppies fall.
By Rosanna Billington aged 13 years