The War Poems of Siegfried Sassoon Part 1

The War Poems of Siegfried Sa.s.soon.

by Siegfried Sa.s.soon.

I

PRELUDE: THE TROOPS

Dim, gradual thinning of the shapeless gloom Shudders to drizzling daybreak that reveals Disconsolate men who stamp their sodden boots And turn dulled, sunken faces to the sky Haggard and hopeless. They, who have beaten down The stale despair of night, must now renew Their desolation in the truce of dawn, Murdering the livid hours that grope for peace.

Yet these, who cling to life with stubborn hands, Can grin through storms of death and find a gap In the clawed, cruel tangles of his defence.

They march from safety, and the bird-sung joy Of gra.s.s-green thickets, to the land where all Is ruin, and nothing blossoms but the sky That hastens over them where they endure Sad, smoking, flat horizons, reeking woods, And foundered trench-lines volleying doom for doom.

O my brave brown companions, when your souls Flock silently away, and the eyeless dead, Shame the wild beast of battle on the ridge, Death will stand grieving in that field of war Since your unvanquished hardihood is spent.

And through some mooned Valhalla there will pa.s.s Battalions and battalions, scarred from h.e.l.l; The unreturning army that was youth; The legions who have suffered and are dust.

DREAMERS

Soldiers are citizens of death's gray land, Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.

In the great hour of destiny they stand, Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.

Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives.

Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin They think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives.

I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats, And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain, Dreaming of things they did with b.a.l.l.s and bats, And mocked by hopeless longing to regain Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats, And going to the office in the train.

THE REDEEMER

Darkness: the rain sluiced down; the mire was deep; It was past twelve on a mid-winter night, When peaceful folk in beds lay snug asleep: There, with much work to do before the light, We lugged our clay-sucked boots as best we might Along the trench; sometimes a bullet sang, And droning sh.e.l.ls burst with a hollow bang; We were soaked, chilled and wretched, every one.

Darkness: the distant wink of a huge gun.

I turned in the black ditch, loathing the storm; A rocket fizzed and burned with blanching flare, And lit the face of what had been a form Floundering in mirk. He stood before me there; I say that he was Christ; stiff in the glare, And leaning forward from his burdening task, Both arms supporting it; his eyes on mine Stared from the woeful head that seemed a mask Of mortal pain in h.e.l.l's unholy shine.

No th.o.r.n.y crown, only a woollen cap He wore--an English soldier, white and strong, Who loved his time like any simple chap, Good days of work and sport and homely song; Now he has learned that nights are very long, And dawn a watching of the windowed sky.

But to the end, unjudging, he'll endure Horror and pain, not uncontent to die That Lancaster on Lune may stand secure.

He faced me, reeling in his weariness, Shouldering his load of planks, so hard to bear.

I say that he was Christ, who wrought to bless All groping things with freedom bright as air, And with His mercy washed and made them fair.

Then the flame sank, and all grew black as pitch, While we began to struggle along the ditch; And some one flung his burden in the muck, Mumbling: "O Christ Almighty, now I'm stuck!"

TRENCH DUTY

Shaken from sleep, and numbed and scarce awake, Out in the trench with three hours' watch to take, I blunder through the splashing mirk; and then Hear the gruff muttering voices of the men Crouching in cabins candle-c.h.i.n.ked with light.

Hark! There's the big bombardment on our right Rumbling and b.u.mping; and the dark's a glare Of flickering horror in the sectors where We raid the Boche; men waiting, stiff and chilled, Or crawling on their bellies through the wire.

"What? Stretcher-bearers wanted? Some one killed?"

Five minutes ago I heard a sniper fire: Why did he do it?... Starlight overhead-- Blank stars. I'm wide-awake; and some chap's dead.

WIRERS

"Pa.s.s it along, the wiring party's going out"-- And yawning sentries mumble, "Wirers going out."

Unravelling; twisting; hammering stakes with m.u.f.fled thud, They toil with stealthy haste and anger in their blood.

The Boche sends up a flare. Black forms stand rigid there, Stock-still like posts; then darkness, and the clumsy ghosts Stride hither and thither, whispering, tripped by clutching snare Of snags and tangles.

Ghastly dawn with vaporous coasts Gleams desolate along the sky, night's misery ended.

Young Hughes was badly hit; I heard him carried away, Moaning at every lurch; no doubt he'll die to-day.

But _we_ can say the front-line wire's been safely mended.

BREAK OF DAY

There seemed a smell of autumn in the air At the bleak end of night; he shivered there In a dank, musty dug-out where he lay, Legs wrapped in sand-bags,--lumps of chalk and clay Spattering his face. Dry-mouthed, he thought, "To-day We start the d.a.m.ned attack; and, Lord knows why, Zero's at nine; how b.l.o.o.d.y if I'm done in Under the freedom of that morning sky!"

And then he coughed and dozed, cursing the din.

Was it the ghost of autumn in that smell Of underground, or G.o.d's blank heart grown kind, That sent a happy dream to him in h.e.l.l?-- Where men are crushed like clods, and crawl to find Some crater for their wretchedness; who lie In outcast immolation, doomed to die Far from clean things or any hope of cheer, Cowed anger in their eyes, till darkness brims And roars into their heads, and they can hear Old childish talk, and tags of foolish hymns.

He sniffs the chilly air; (his dreaming starts).

He's riding in a dusty Suss.e.x lane In quiet September; slowly night departs; And he's a living soul, absolved from pain.

Beyond the brambled fences where he goes Are glimmering fields with harvest piled in sheaves, And tree-tops dark against the stars grown pale; Then, clear and shrill, a distant farm-c.o.c.k crows; And there's a wall of mist along the vale Where willows shake their watery-sounding leaves.

He gazes on it all, and scarce believes That earth is telling its old peaceful tale; He thanks the blessed world that he was born....

Then, far away, a lonely note of the horn.

They're drawing the Big Wood! Unlatch the gate, And set Golumpus going on the gra.s.s: _He_ knows the corner where it's best to wait And hear the crashing woodland chorus pa.s.s; The corner where old foxes make their track To the Long Spinney; that's the place to be.

The bracken shakes below an ivied tree, And then a cub looks out; and "Tally-o-back!"

He bawls, and swings his thong with volleying crack,-- All the clean thrill of autumn in his blood, And hunting surging through him like a flood In joyous welcome from the untroubled past; While the war drifts away, forgotten at last.

Now a red, sleepy sun above the rim Of twilight stares along the quiet weald, And the kind, simple country shines revealed In solitudes of peace, no longer dim.

The old horse lifts his face and thanks the light, Then stretches down his head to crop the green.

All things that he has loved are in his sight; The places where his happiness has been Are in his eyes, his heart, and they are good.

Hark! there's the horn: they're drawing the Big Wood.

A WORKING PARTY

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 the trench-boards,--often splashing Wretchedly where the sludge was ankle-deep.

Voices would grunt, "Keep to your right,--make way!"

When squeezing past the men from the front-line: White faces peered, puffing a point of red; Candles and braziers glinted through the c.h.i.n.ks 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 sh.e.l.ls came calmly through the drizzling air To burst with hollow bang below the hill.