Part 5

But what say such as from existence' brink Ventured but drave too swift to sink. The few who rushed in the body to enter hell, And there out-fiending all its fiends and flames With superhuman inhumanities, Long-famous glories, immemorial shames-- And crawling slowly back, have by degrees Regained cool peaceful air in wonder-- Why speak they not of comrades that went under?

The Chances

I mind as 'ow the night afore that show Us five got talking,--we was in the know, "Over the top to-morrer; boys, we're for it, First wave we are, first ruddy wave; that's tore it." "Ah well," says Jimmy,--an' 'e's seen some scrappin'-- "There ain't more nor five things as can 'appen; Ye get knocked out; else wounded--bad or cushy; Scuppered; or nowt except yer feeling mushy."

One of us got the knock-out, blown to chops. T'other was hurt, like, losin' both 'is props. An' one, to use the word of 'ypocrites, 'Ad the misfortoon to be took by Fritz. Now me, I wasn't scratched, praise God Almighty (Though next time please I'll thank 'im for a blighty), But poor young Jim, 'e's livin' an' 'e's not; 'E reckoned 'e'd five chances, an' 'e's 'ad; 'E's wounded, killed, and pris'ner, all the lot-- The ruddy lot all rolled in one. Jim's mad.

S. I. W.

"I will to the King, And offer him consolation in his trouble, For that man there has set his teeth to die, And being one that hates obedience, Discipline, and orderliness of life, I cannot mourn him." W. B. Yeats.

Patting goodbye, doubtless they told the lad He'd always show the Hun a brave man's face; Father would sooner him dead than in disgrace,-- Was proud to see him going, aye, and glad. Perhaps his Mother whimpered how she'd fret Until he got a nice, safe wound to nurse. Sisters would wish girls too could shoot, charge, curse, . . . Brothers--would send his favourite cigarette, Each week, month after month, they wrote the same, Thinking him sheltered in some Y.M. Hut, Where once an hour a bullet missed its aim And misses teased the hunger of his brain. His eyes grew old with wincing, and his hand Reckless with ague. Courage leaked, as sand From the best sandbags after years of rain. But never leave, wound, fever, trench-foot, shock, Untrapped the wretch. And death seemed still withheld For torture of lying machinally shelled, At the pleasure of this world's Powers who'd run amok.

He'd seen men shoot their hands, on night patrol, Their people never knew. Yet they were vile. "Death sooner than dishonour, that's the style!" So Father said.

One dawn, our wire patrol Carried him. This time, Death had not missed. We could do nothing, but wipe his bleeding cough. Could it be accident?--Rifles go off . . . Not sniped? No. (Later they found the English ball.)

It was the reasoned crisis of his soul. Against the fires that would not burn him whole But kept him for death's perjury and scoff And life's half-promising, and both their riling.

With him they buried the muzzle his teeth had kissed, And truthfully wrote the Mother "Tim died smiling."

Futility

Move him into the sun-- Gently its touch awoke him once, At home, whispering of fields unsown. Always it woke him, even in France, Until this morning and this snow. If anything might rouse him now The kind old sun will know.

Think how it wakes the seeds-- Woke, once, the clays of a cold star. Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides Full-nerved,--still warm,--too hard to stir? Was it for this the clay grew tall? --O what made fatuous sunbeams toil To break earth's sleep at all?

Smile, Smile, Smile

Head to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scanned Yesterday's Mail; the casualties (typed small) And (large) Vast Booty from our Latest Haul. Also, they read of Cheap Homes, not yet planned; For, said the paper, "When this war is done The men's first instinct will be making homes. Meanwhile their foremost need is aerodromes, It being certain war has just begun. Peace would do wrong to our undying dead,-- The sons we offered might regret they died If we got nothing lasting in their stead. We must be solidly indemnified. Though all be worthy Victory which all bought, We rulers sitting in this ancient spot Would wrong our very selves if we forgot The greatest glory will be theirs who fought, Who kept this nation in integrity." Nation?--The half-limbed readers did not chafe But smiled at one another curiously Like secret men who know their secret safe. This is the thing they know and never speak, That England one by one had fled to France (Not many elsewhere now save under France). Pictures of these broad smiles appear each week, And people in whose voice real feeling rings Say: How they smile! They're happy now, poor things.

23rd September 1918.

Conscious

His fingers wake, and flutter up the bed. His eyes come open with a pull of will, Helped by the yellow may-flowers by his head. A blind-cord drawls across the window-sill . . . How smooth the floor of the ward is! what a rug! And who's that talking, somewhere out of sight? Why are they laughing? What's inside that jug? "Nurse! Doctor!" "Yes; all right, all right."

But sudden dusk bewilders all the air-- There seems no time to want a drink of water. Nurse looks so far away. And everywhere Music and roses burnt through crimson slaughter. Cold; cold; he's cold; and yet so hot: And there's no light to see the voices by-- No time to dream, and ask--he knows not what.

A Terre

(Being the philosophy of many Soldiers.)

Sit on the bed; I'm blind, and three parts shell, Be careful; can't shake hands now; never shall. Both arms have mutinied against me--brutes. My fingers fidget like ten idle brats.

I tried to peg out soldierly--no use! One dies of war like any old disease. This bandage feels like pennies on my eyes. I have my medals?--Discs to make eyes close. My glorious ribbons?--Ripped from my own back In scarlet shreds. (That's for your poetry book.)

A short life and a merry one, my brick! We used to say we'd hate to live dead old,-- Yet now . . . I'd willingly be puffy, bald, And patriotic. Buffers catch from boys At least the jokes hurled at them. I suppose Little I'd ever teach a son, but hitting, Shooting, war, hunting, all the arts of hurting. Well, that's what I learnt,--that, and making money. Your fifty years ahead seem none too many? Tell me how long I've got? God! For one year To help myself to nothing more than air! One Spring! Is one too good to spare, too long? Spring wind would work its own way to my lung, And grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots. My servant's lamed, but listen how he shouts! When I'm lugged out, he'll still be good for that. Here in this mummy-case, you know, I've thought How well I might have swept his floors for ever, I'd ask no night off when the bustle's over, Enjoying so the dirt. Who's prejudiced Against a grimed hand when his own's quite dust, Less live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn, Less warm than dust that mixes with arms' tan? I'd love to be a sweep, now, black as Town, Yes, or a muckman. Must I be his load?

O Life, Life, let me breathe,--a dug-out rat! Not worse than ours the existences rats lead-- Nosing along at night down some safe vat, They find a shell-proof home before they rot. Dead men may envy living mites in cheese, Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys, And subdivide, and never come to death, Certainly flowers have the easiest time on earth. "I shall be one with nature, herb, and stone." Shelley would tell me. Shelley would be stunned; The dullest Tommy hugs that fancy now. "Pushing up daisies," is their creed, you know. To grain, then, go my fat, to buds my sap, For all the usefulness there is in soap. D'you think the Boche will ever stew man-soup? Some day, no doubt, if . . . Friend, be very sure I shall be better off with plants that share More peaceably the meadow and the shower. Soft rains will touch me,--as they could touch once, And nothing but the sun shall make me ware. Your guns may crash around me. I'll not hear; Or, if I wince, I shall not know I wince. Don't take my soul's poor comfort for your jest. Soldiers may grow a soul when turned to fronds, But here the thing's best left at home with friends.

My soul's a little grief, grappling your chest, To climb your throat on sobs; easily chased On other sighs and wiped by fresher winds.

Carry my crying spirit till it's weaned To do without what blood remained these wounds.