A Treasury of War Poetry Part 29

Under our curtain of fire, Over the clotted clods, We charged, to be withered, to reel And despairingly wheel When the bugles bade us retire From the terrible odds.

As we ebbed with the battle-tide, Fingers of red-hot steel Suddenly closed on my side.

I fell, and began to pray.

I crawled on my hands and lay Where a shallow crater yawned wide; Then,--I swooned....

When I woke, it was yet day.

Fierce was the pain of my wound, But I saw it was death to stir, For fifty paces away Their trenches were.

In torture I prayed for the dark And the stealthy step of my friend Who, staunch to the very end, Would creep to the danger zone And offer his life as a mark To save my own.

Night fell. I heard his tread, Not stealthy, but firm and serene, As if my comrade's head Were lifted far from that scene Of pa.s.sion and pain and dread; As if my comrade's heart In carnage took no part; As if my comrade's feet Were set on some radiant street Such as no darkness might haunt; As if my comrade's eyes, No deluge of flame could surprise, No death and destruction daunt, No red-beaked bird dismay, Nor sight of decay.

Then in the bursting sh.e.l.ls' dim light I saw he was clad in white.

For a moment I thought that I saw the smock Of a shepherd in search of his flock.

Alert were the enemy, too, And their bullets flew Straight at a mark no bullet could fail; For the seeker was tall and his robe was bright; But he did not flee nor quail.

Instead, with unhurrying stride He came, And gathering my tall frame, Like a child, in his arms....

Again I swooned, And awoke From a blissful dream In a cave by a stream.

My silent comrade had bound my side.

No pain now was mine, but a wish that I spoke,-- A mastering wish to serve this man Who had ventured through h.e.l.l my doom to revoke, As only the truest of comrades can.

I begged him to tell me how best I might aid him, And urgently prayed him Never to leave me, whatever betide; When I saw he was hurt-- Shot through the hands that were clasped in prayer!

Then, as the dark drops gathered there And fell in the dirt, The wounds of my friend Seemed to me such as no man might bear.

Those bullet-holes in the patient hands Seemed to transcend All horrors that ever these war-drenched lands Had known or would know till the mad world's end.

Then suddenly I was aware That his feet had been wounded, too; And, dimming the white of his side, A dull stain grew.

"You are hurt, White Comrade!" I cried.

His words I already foreknew: "These are old wounds," said he, "But of late they have troubled me."

_Robert Haven Schauffler_

FLEURETTE

THE WOUNDED CANADIAN SPEAKS: My leg? It's off at the knee.

Do I miss it? Well, some. You see I've had it since I was born; And lately a devilish corn.

(I rather chuckle with glee To think how I've fooled that corn.)

But I'll hobble around all right.

It isn't that, it's my face.

Oh, I know I'm a hideous sight, Hardly a thing in place.

Sort of gargoyle, you'd say.

Nurse won't give me a gla.s.s, But I see the folks as they pa.s.s Shudder and turn away; Turn away in distress....

Mirror enough, I guess.

I'm gay! You bet I _am_ gay, But I wasn't a while ago.

If you'd seen me even to-day, The darnedest picture of woe, With this Caliban mug of mine, So ravaged and raw and red, Turned to the wall--in fine Wishing that I was dead....

What has happened since then, Since I lay with my face to the wall, The most despairing of men!

Listen! I'll tell you all.

That _poilu_ across the way, With the shrapnel wound on his head, Has a sister: she came to-day To sit awhile by his bed.

All morning I heard him fret: "Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?"

Then sudden, a joyous cry; The tripping of little feet; The softest, tenderest sigh; A voice so fresh and sweet; Clear as a silver bell, Fresh as the morning dews: "_C'est toi, c'est toi, Marcel!

Mon frere, comme je suis heureuse!_"

So over the blanket's rim I raised my terrible face, And I saw--how I envied him!

A girl of such delicate grace; Sixteen, all laughter and love; As gay as a linnet, and yet As tenderly sweet as a dove; Half woman, half child--Fleurette.

Then I turned to the wall again.

(I was awfully blue, you see,) And I thought with a bitter pain: "Such visions are not for me."

So there like a log I lay, All hidden, I thought, from view, When sudden I heard her say: "Ah! Who is that _malheureux_?"

Then briefly I heard him tell (However he came to know) How I'd smothered a bomb that fell Into the trench, and so None of my men were hit, Though it busted me up a bit.

Well, I didn't quiver an eye, And he chattered and there she sat; And I fancied I heard her sigh-- But I wouldn't just swear to that.

And maybe she wasn't so bright, Though she talked in a merry strain, And I closed my eyes ever so tight, Yet I saw her ever so plain: Her dear little tilted nose, Her delicate, dimpled chin, Her mouth like a budding rose, And the glistening pearls within; Her eyes like the violet: Such a rare little queen--Fleurette.

And at last when she rose to go, The light was a little dim, And I ventured to peep, and so I saw her, graceful and slim, And she kissed him and kissed him, and oh How I envied and envied him!

So when she was gone I said In rather a dreary voice To him of the opposite bed: "Ah, friend, how you must rejoice!

But me, I'm a thing of dread.

For me nevermore the bliss, The thrill of a woman's kiss."

Then I stopped, for lo! she was there, And a great light shone in her eyes.

And me! I could only stare, I was taken so by surprise, When gently she bent her head: "_May I kiss you, sergeant?_" she said.

Then she kissed my burning lips, With her mouth like a scented flower, And I thrilled to the finger-tips, And I hadn't even the power To say: "G.o.d bless you, dear!"

And I felt such a precious tear Pall on my withered cheek, And darn it! I couldn't speak.

And so she went sadly away, And I know that my eyes were wet.

Ah, not to my dying day Will I forget, forget!

Can you wonder now I am gay?

G.o.d bless her, that little Fleurette!

_Robert W. Service_

NOT TO KEEP

They sent him back to her. The letter came Saying ... and she could have him. And before She could be sure there was no hidden ill Under the formal writing, he was in her sight-- Living.--They gave him back to her alive-- How else? They are not known to send the dead-- And not disfigured visibly. His face?-- His hands? She had to look--to ask, "What was it, dear?" And she had given all And still she had all--_they_ had--they the lucky!

Wasn't she glad now? Everything seemed won, And all the rest for them permissible ease.

She had to ask, "What was it, dear?"

"Enough, Yet not enough. A bullet through and through, High in the breast. Nothing but what good care And medicine and rest--and you a week, Can cure me of to go again." The same Grim giving to do over for them both.

She dared no more than ask him with her eyes How was it with him for a second trial.

And with his eyes he asked her not to ask.

They had given him back to her, but not to keep.