| |
| WHEN consciousness came back, he found he lay | |
| Between the opposing fires, but could not tell | |
| On which hand were his friends; and either way | |
| For him to turn was chancy—bullet and shell | |
| Whistling and shrieking over him, as the glare | 5 |
| Of searchlights scoured the darkness to blind day. | |
| He scrambled to his hands and knees ascare, | |
| Dragging his wounded foot through puddled clay, | |
| And tumbled in a hole a shell had scooped | |
| At random in a turnip-field between | 10 |
| The unseen trenches where the foes lay cooped | |
| Through that unending battle of unseen, | |
| Dead-locked, league-stretching armies; and quite spent | |
| He rolled upon his back within the pit, | |
| And lay secure, thinking of all it meant— | 15 |
| His lying in that little hole, sore hit, | |
| But living, while across the starry sky | |
| Shrapnel and shell went screeching overhead— | |
| Of all it meant that he, Tom Dodd, should lie | |
| Among the Belgian turnips, while his bed … | 20 |
| If it were he, indeed, who’d climbed each night, | |
| Fagged with the day’s work, up the narrow stair, | |
| And slipt his clothes off in the candle-light, | |
| Too tired to fold them neatly in a chair | |
| The way his mother’d taught him—too dog-tired | 25 |
| After the long day’s serving in the shop, | |
| Inquiring what each customer required, | |
| Politely talking weather, fit to drop … | |
| |
| And now for fourteen days and nights, at least, | |
| He had n’t had his clothes off, and had lain | 30 |
| In muddy trenches, napping like a beast | |
| With one eye open, under sun and rain | |
| And that unceasing hell-fire … | |
| It was strange | |
| How things turned out—the chances! You’d just got | 35 |
| To take your luck in life, you could n’t change | |
| Your luck. | |
| And so here he was lying shot | |
| Who just six months ago had thought to spend | |
| His days behind a counter. Still, perhaps … | 40 |
| And now, God only knew how he would end! | |
| |
| He’d like to know how many of the chaps | |
| Had won back to the trench alive, when he | |
| Had fallen wounded and been left for dead, | |
| If any!… | 45 |
| This was different, certainly, | |
| From selling knots of tape and reels of thread | |
| And knots of tape and reels of thread and knots | |
| Of tape and reels of thread and knots of tape, | |
| Day in, day out, and answering “Have you got”’s | 50 |
| And “Do you keep”’s till there seemed no escape | |
| From everlasting serving in a shop, | |
| Inquiring what each customer required, | |
| Politely talking weather, fit to drop, | |
| With swollen ankles, tired … | 55 |
| But he was tired | |
| Now. Every bone was aching, and had ached | |
| For fourteen days and nights in that wet trench— | |
| Just duller when he slept than when he waked— | |
| Crouching for shelter from the steady drench | 60 |
| Of shell and shrapnel … | |
| That old trench, it seemed | |
| Almost like home to him. He’d slept and fed | |
| And sung and smoked in it, while shrapnel screamed | |
| And shells went whining harmless overhead— | 65 |
| Harmless, at least, as far as he … | |
| But Dick— | |
| Dick had n’t found them harmless yesterday, | |
| At breakfast, when he’d said he could n’t stick | |
| Eating dry bread, and crawled out the back way, | 70 |
| And brought them butter in a lordly dish— | |
| Butter enough for all, and held it high, | |
| Yellow and fresh and clean as you would wish— | |
| When plump upon the plate from out the sky | |
| A shell fell bursting … Where the butter went, | 75 |
| God only knew!… | |
| And Dick … He dared not think | |
| Of what had come to Dick … or what it meant— | |
| The shrieking and the whistling and the stink | |
| He’d lived in fourteen days and nights. ’T was luck | 80 |
| That he still lived … And queer how little then | |
| He seemed to care that Dick … perhaps ’t was pluck | |
| That hardened him—a man among the men— | |
| Perhaps … Yet, only think things out a bit, | |
| And he was rabbit-livered, blue with funk! | 85 |
| And he’d liked Dick … and yet when Dick was hit, | |
| He had n’t turned a hair. The meanest skunk | |
| He should have thought would feel it when his mate | |
| Was blown to smithereens—Dick, proud as punch, | |
| Grinning like sin, and holding up the plate— | 90 |
| But he had gone on munching his dry hunch, | |
| Unwinking, till he swallowed the last crumb. | |
| Perhaps ’t was just because he dared not let | |
| His mind run upon Dick, who’d been his chum. | |
| He dared not now, though he could not forget. | 95 |
| |
| Dick took his luck. And, life or death, ’t was luck | |
| From first to last; and you’d just got to trust | |
| Your luck and grin. It was n’t so much pluck | |
| As knowing that you’d got to, when needs must, | |
| And better to die grinning … | 100 |
| Quiet now | |
| Had fallen on the night. On either hand | |
| The guns were quiet. Cool upon his brow | |
| The quiet darkness brooded, as he scanned | |
| The starry sky. He’d never seen before | 105 |
| So many stars. Although, of course, he’d known | |
| That there were stars, somehow before the war | |
| He’d never realised them—so thick-sown, | |
| Millions and millions. Serving in the shop, | |
| Stars did n’t count for much; and then at nights | 110 |
| Strolling the pavements, dull and fit to drop, | |
| You did n’t see much but the city lights. | |
| He’d never in his life seen so much sky | |
| As he’d seen this last fortnight. It was queer | |
| The things war taught you. He’d a mind to try | 115 |
| To count the stars—they shone so bright and clear. | |
| |
| One, two, three, four … Ah, God, but he was tired … | |
| Five, six, seven, eight … | |
| Yes, it was number eight. | |
| And what was the next thing that she required? | 120 |
| (Too bad of customers to come so late, | |
| At closing time!) Again within the shop | |
| He handled knots of tape and reels of thread, | |
| Politely talking weather, fit to drop … | |
| |
| When once again the whole sky overhead | 125 |
| Flared blind with searchlights, and the shriek of shell | |
| And scream of shrapnel roused him. Drowsily | |
| He stared about him, wondering. Then he fell | |
Into deep dreamless slumber.
. . . . . . | |
| He could see | 130 |
| Two dark eyes peeping at him, ere he knew | |
| He was awake, and it again was day— | |
| An August morning, burning to clear blue. | |
| The frightened rabbit scuttled … | |
| Far away, | 135 |
| A sound of firing … Up there, in the sky | |
| Big dragon-flies hung hovering … Snowballs burst | |
| About them … Flies and snowballs. With a cry | |
| He crouched to watch the airmen pass—the first | |
| That he’d seen under fire. Lord, that was pluck— | 140 |
| Shells bursting all about them—and what nerve! | |
| They took their chance, and trusted to their luck. | |
| At such a dizzy height to dip and swerve, | |
| Dodging the shell-fire … | |
| Hell! but one was hit, | 145 |
| And tumbling like a pigeon, plump … | |
| Thank Heaven, | |
| It righted, and then turned; and after it | |
| The whole flock followed safe—four, five, six, seven, | |
| Yes, they were all there safe. He hoped they’d win | 150 |
| Back to their lines in safety. They deserved, | |
| Even if they were Germans … ’T was no sin | |
| To wish them luck. Think how that beggar swerved | |
| Just in the nick of time! | |
| He, too, must try | 155 |
| To win back to the lines, though, likely as not, | |
| He’d take the wrong turn: but he could n’t lie | |
| Forever in that hungry hole and rot, | |
| He’d got to take his luck, to take his chance | |
| Of being sniped by foes or friends. He’d be | 160 |
| With any luck in Germany or France | |
| Or Kingdom-come, next morning … | |
| Drearily | |
| The blazing day burnt over him, shot and shell | |
| Whistling and whining ceaselessly. But light | 165 |
| Faded at last, and as the darkness fell | |
| He rose, and crawled away into the night. | |
| |
