The War Poems of Siegfried Sassoon Part 4

HOW TO DIE

Dark clouds are smouldering into red While down the craters morning burns.

The dying soldier shifts his head To watch the glory that returns: He lifts his fingers toward the skies Where holy brightness breaks in flame; Radiance reflected in his eyes, And on his lips a whispered name.

You'd think, to hear some people talk, That lads go West with sobs and curses, And sullen faces white as chalk, Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hea.r.s.es.

But they've been taught the way to do it Like Christian soldiers; not with haste And shuddering groans; but pa.s.sing through it With due regard for decent taste.

EDITORIAL IMPRESSION

He seemed so certain "all was going well,"

As he discussed the glorious time he'd had While visiting the trenches.

"One can tell You've gathered big impressions!" grinned the lad Who'd been severely wounded in the back In some wiped-out impossible Attack.

"Impressions? Yes, most vivid! I am writing A little book called _Europe on the Rack_, Based on notes made while witnessing the fighting.

I hope I've caught the feeling of 'the Line,'

And the amazing spirit of the troops.

By Jove, those flying-chaps of ours are fine!

I watched one daring beggar looping loops, Soaring and diving like some bird of prey.

And through it all I felt that splendour shine Which makes us win."

The soldier sipped his wine.

"Ah, yes, but it's the Press that leads the way!"

FIGHT TO A FINISH

The boys came back. Bands played and flags were flying, And Yellow-Pressmen thronged the sunlit street To cheer the soldiers who'd refrained from dying, And hear the music of returning feet.

"Of all the thrills and ardours War has brought, This moment is the finest." (So they thought.)

Snapping their bayonets on to charge the mob, Grim Fusiliers broke ranks with glint of steel.

At last the boys had found a cushy job.

I heard the Yellow-Pressmen grunt and squeal; And with my trusty bombers turned and went To clear those Junkers out of Parliament.

ATROCITIES

You told me, in your drunken-boasting mood, How once you butchered prisoners. That was good!

I'm sure you felt no pity while they stood Patient and cowed and scared, as prisoners should.

How did you do them in? Come, don't be shy: You know I love to hear how Germans die, Downstairs in dug-outs. "Camerad!" they cry; Then squeal like stoats when bombs begin to fly.

And you? I know your record. You went sick When orders looked unwholesome: then, with trick And lie, you w.a.n.gled home. And here you are, Still talking big and boozing in a bar.

THE FATHERS

Snug at the club two fathers sat, Gross, goggle-eyed, and full of chat.

One of them said: "My eldest lad Writes cheery letters from Bagdad.

But Arthur's getting all the fun At Arras with his nine-inch gun."

"Yes," wheezed the other, "that's the luck!

My boy's quite broken-hearted, stuck In England training all this year.

Still, if there's truth in what we hear, The Huns intend to ask for more Before they bolt across the Rhine."

I watched them toddle through the door-- These impotent old friends of mine.

"BLIGHTERS"

The house is crammed: tier beyond tier they grin And cackle at the Show, while prancing ranks Of harlots shrill the chorus, drunk with din; "We're sure the Kaiser loves the dear old Tanks!"

I'd like to see a Tank come down the stalls, Lurching to rag-time tunes, or "Home, sweet Home,"-- And there'd be no more jokes in Music-halls To mock the riddled corpses round Bapaume.

GLORY OF WOMEN

You love us when we're heroes, home on leave, Or wounded in a mentionable place.

You worship decorations; you believe That chivalry redeems the war's disgrace.

You make us sh.e.l.ls. You listen with delight, By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled.

You crown our distant ardours while we fight, And mourn our laurelled memories when we're killed.

You can't believe that British troops "retire"

When h.e.l.l's last horror breaks them, and they run, Trampling the terrible corpses--blind with blood.

_O German mother dreaming by the fire, While you are knitting socks to send your son His face is trodden deeper in the mud._

THEIR FRAILTY

He's got a Blighty wound. He's safe; and then War's fine and bold and bright.

She can forget the doomed and prisoned men Who agonize and fight.

He's back in France. She loathes the listless strain And peril of his plight.

Beseeching Heaven to send him home again, She prays for peace each night.

Husbands and sons and lovers; everywhere They die; War bleeds us white.

Mothers and wives and sweethearts,--they don't care So long as He's all right.

DOES IT MATTER?

Does it matter?--losing your legs?...

For people will always be kind, And you need not show that you mind When the others come in after football To gobble their m.u.f.fins and eggs.

Does it matter?--losing your sight?...

There's such splendid work for the blind; And people will always be kind, As you sit on the terrace remembering And turning your face to the light.