A Treasury of War Poetry Part 28

He swears in a score of languages, and maybe talks in two!

And ... he'll lower a boat in a hurricane to save a drowning crew.

A rough job or a tough job--he's handled two or three-- And what or where he won't much care, nor ask what the risk may be....

For a tight place is the right place when it's wild weather at sea!

_C. Fox Smith_

TO A SOLDIER IN HOSPITAL

Courage came to you with your boyhood's grace Of ardent life and limb.

Each day new dangers steeled you to the test, To ride, to climb, to swim.

Your hot blood taught you carelessness of death With every breath.

So when you went to play another game You could not but be brave: An Empire's team, a rougher football field, The end--perhaps your grave.

What matter? On the winning of a goal You staked your soul.

Yes, you wore courage as you wore your youth With carelessness and joy.

But in what Spartan school of discipline Did you get patience, boy?

How did you learn to bear this long-drawn pain And not complain?

Restless with throbbing hopes, with thwarted aims, Impulsive as a colt, How do you lie here month by weary month Helpless, and not revolt?

What joy can these monotonous days afford Here in a ward?

Yet you are merry as the birds in spring, Or feign the gaiety, Lest those who dress and tend your wound each day Should guess the agony.

Lest they should suffer--this the only fear You let draw near.

Greybeard philosophy has sought in books And argument this truth, That man is greater than his pain, but you Have learnt it in your youth.

You know the wisdom taught by Calvary At twenty-three.

Death would have found you brave, but braver still You face each lagging day, A merry Stoic, patient, chivalrous, Divinely kind and gay.

You bear your knowledge lightly, graduate Of unkind Fate.

Careless philosopher, the first to laugh, The latest to complain.

Unmindful that you teach, you taught me this In your long fight with pain: Since G.o.d made man so good--here stands my creed-- G.o.d's good indeed.

_Winifred M. Letts_

BETWEEN THE LINES

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 sh.e.l.l Whistling and shrieking over him, as the glare 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 sh.e.l.l had scooped At random in a turnip-field between 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-- His lying in that little hole, sore hit, But living, while across the starry sky Shrapnel and sh.e.l.l went screeching overhead-- Of all it meant that he, Tom Dodd, should lie Among the Belgian turnips, while his bed....

If it were he, indeed, who'd climbed each night, f.a.gged 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 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 hadn't had his clothes off, and had lain In muddy trenches, napping like a beast With one eye open, under sun and rain And that unceasing h.e.l.l-fire....

It was strange How things turned out--the chances! You'd just got To take your luck in life, you couldn'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....

And now, G.o.d 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!...

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 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....

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 Of sh.e.l.l 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 sh.e.l.ls went whining harmless overhead-- Harmless, at least, as far as he....

But d.i.c.k-- d.i.c.k hadn't found them harmless yesterday, At breakfast, when he'd said he couldn't stick Eating dry bread, and crawled out the back way, And brought them b.u.t.ter in a lordly dish-- b.u.t.ter 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 sh.e.l.l fell bursting.... Where the b.u.t.ter went, G.o.d only knew!...

And d.i.c.k.... He dared not think Of what had come to d.i.c.k.... or what it meant-- The shrieking and the whistling and the stink He'd lived in fourteen days and nights. 'T was luck That he still lived.... And queer how little then He seemed to care that d.i.c.k.... 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!

And he'd liked d.i.c.k ... and yet when d.i.c.k was. .h.i.t He hadn't turned a hair. The meanest skunk He should have thought would feel it when his mate Was blown to smithereens--d.i.c.k, proud as punch, Grinning like sin, and holding up the plate-- 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 d.i.c.k, who'd been his chum.

He dared not now, though he could not forget.

d.i.c.k 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 wasn't so much pluck As knowing that you'd got to, when needs must, And better to die grinning....

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 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 didn't count for much; and then at nights Strolling the pavements, dull and fit to drop, You didn'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 To count the stars--they shone so bright and clear.

One, two, three, four.... Ah, G.o.d, but he was tired....

Five, six, seven, eight....

Yes, it was number eight.

And what was the next thing that she required?

(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 Flared blind with searchlights, and the shriek of sh.e.l.l And scream of shrapnel roused him. Drowsily He stared about him, wondering. Then he fell Into deep dreamless slumber.

He could see 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, A sound of firing.... Up there, in the sky Big dragon-flies hung hovering.... s...o...b..a.l.l.s burst About them.... Flies and s...o...b..a.l.l.s. With a cry He crouched to watch the airmen pa.s.s--the first That he'd seen under fire. Lord, that was pluck-- Sh.e.l.ls 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 sh.e.l.l-fire....

h.e.l.l! but one was. .h.i.t, 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 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 To win back to the lines, though, likely as not, He'd take the wrong turn: but he couldn'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 With any luck in Germany or France Or Kingdom-come, next morning....

Drearily The blazing day burnt over him, shot and sh.e.l.l Whistling and whining ceaselessly. But light Faded at last, and as the darkness fell He rose, and crawled away into the night.

_Wilfrid Wilson Gibson_

THE WHITE COMRADE

(AFTER W.H. LEATHAM'S _The Comrade in White_)