| THREE hours ago he blundered up the trench, | |
| Sliding and poising, groping with his boots; | |
| Sometimes he tripped and lurched against the walls | |
| With hands that pawed the sodden bags of chalk. | |
| He couldn’t see the man who walked in front; | 5 |
| Only he heard the drum and rattle of feet | |
| Stepping along barred trench boards, often splashing | |
| Wretchedly where the sludge was ankle-deep. | |
| |
| Voices would grunt ‘Keep to your right—make way!’ | |
| When squeezing past some men from the front-line: | 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; | |
| Now he will never walk that road again: | |
| He must be carried back, a jolting lump | |
| Beyond all need of tenderness and care. | |
| |
| He was a young man with a meagre wife | 30 |
| And two small children in a Midland town; | |
| He showed their photographs to all his mates, | |
| 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; | |
| And as he dropped his head the instant split | |
| His startled life with lead, and all went out. | |
