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;
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:
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.
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
And buffeting at the 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.
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 needs of tenderness and care.
He was a young man with a meagre wife
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
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.
He thought of getting back by half-past twelve,
And a 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,
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.
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From guest janet (contact)
its a beautiful peace of poetry. Its basically covers the mans whole life such as his family, working arrangements, a bit of his personality and suddenly it all comes to an end. And we are reminded of all the things that could have benn but now are lost. -
Sassoon manages to convey the almost factory like qualities of life in the trenches. Dull, rourine jobs carried out with only half of ones attention.
The ending when the soldier is shot whilst just sticking his head up tp look around emphasises the randomness of chance and almost inevitability over who will live and who will die in such a situation.
Jim S -
A great poem, very sad and expressed with such sorrow. I liked the way that he wrote this with subtlety and a sense of gentility but also aqknowledged (can't spell) the harshness of this man's death. I feel that the use of colloquial language made this poem more personal and shows the humanity of this man which makes the poem even sadder.
Pozo
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Sigh. I don't know what to say. The plight of soldiers in war and their Loved ones waiting and desperately hoping for the best and agonizing with the deep-seeded fear of the worst.....always gets to me. To the deepest parts of me, honestly. I just don't know what to say.
It's an extraordinarily well worded piece of poetry. Beauty out of destruction.....
~ ~ Sincerely, Janet ~ ~
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I wondered at first why no rhyming scheme, but after reading this poem out loud I could see why.
I feel that he wanted no 'romanticism' in this poem, he wanted it to sound harsh and deliberately chose his words to emphasise this effect.
He was I believe trying to convey that no matter who these men were or where they were from, the bullets didn't care.
A profoundly truthful and universal poem.
Vonnie
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