THREE hours ago he blundered up the trench,
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Sliding and poising, groping
with his boots;
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Sometimes he tripped and lurched
against the walls
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With hands that pawed the sodden
bags of chalk.
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He couldn’t see the man who
walked in front;
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5
|
Only he heard the drum and
rattle of feet
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|
Stepping along barred trench
boards, often splashing
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Wretchedly where the sludge was
ankle-deep.
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|
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Voices would grunt ‘Keep to your
right—make way!’
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|
When squeezing past some men
from the front-line:
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10
|
White faces peered, puffing a
point of red;
|
|
Candles and braziers glinted
through the chinks
|
|
And curtain-flaps of dug-outs;
then the gloom
|
|
Swallowed his sense of sight; he
stooped and swore
|
|
Because a sagging wire had
caught his neck.
|
15
|
|
|
A flare went up; the shining
whiteness spread
|
|
And flickered upward, showing
nimble rats
|
|
And mounds of glimmering
sand-bags, bleached with rain;
|
|
Then the slow silver moment died
in dark.
|
|
The wind came posting by with
chilly gusts
|
20
|
And buffeting at corners, piping
thin.
|
|
And dreary through the crannies;
rifle-shots
|
|
Would split and crack and sing
along the night,
|
|
And shells came calmly through
the drizzling air
|
|
To burst with hollow bang below
the hill.
|
25
|
|
|
Three hours ago he stumbled up
the trench;
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|
Now he will never walk that road
again:
|
|
He must be carried back, a
jolting lump
|
|
Beyond all need of tenderness
and care.
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|
|
|
He was a young man with a meagre wife
|
30
|
And two small children in a
Midland town;
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|
He showed their photographs to
all his mates,
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|
And they considered him a decent
chap
|
|
Who did his work and hadn’t much
to say,
|
|
And always laughed at other
people’s jokes
|
35
|
Because he hadn’t any of his
own.
|
|
|
|
That night when he was busy at
his job
|
|
Of piling bags along the
parapet,
|
|
He thought how slow time went,
stamping his feet
|
|
And blowing on his fingers,
pinched with cold.
|
40
|
He thought of getting back by
half-past twelve,
|
|
And tot of rum to send him warm
to sleep
|
|
In draughty dug-out frowsty with the fumes
|
|
Of coke, and full of snoring
weary men.
|
|
|
|
He pushed another bag along the
top,
|
45
|
Craning his body outward; then a
flare
|
|
Gave one white glimpse of No Man’s
Land and wire;
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|
And as he dropped his head the
instant split
|
|
His startled life with lead, and
all went out.
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