Siegfried Sasson
Siegfried Sasson
| 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 glinting 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 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 the road again: |
| He must be carried back, a jolting lump |
| Beyond all need of tenderness and care. |
| He was a young man with 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 sloe time went, stamping his feet |
| And blowing on his fingers, pinched with cold. |
| 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, |
| 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 lead and all went out. |
|
Siegfried Sasson |
Lest we forget
Lest we forget
