Chapter 2

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!"

SUICIDE IN THE TRENCHES

I knew a simple soldier boy Who grinned at life in empty joy, Slept soundly through the lonesome dark, And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum, With crumps and lice and lack of rum, He put a bullet through his brain. No one spoke of him again. * * * * * You snug-faced crowds with kindling eye Who cheer when soldier lads march by, Sneak home and pray you'll never know The hell where youth and laughter go.

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 shells. 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 hell'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.

THE HAWTHORN TREE

Not much to me is yonder lane Where I go every day; But when there's been a shower of rain And hedge-birds whistle gay, I know my lad that's out in France With fearsome things to see Would give his eyes for just one glance At our white hawthorn tree. * * * * * Not much to me is yonder lane Where _he_ so longs to tread; But when there's been a shower of rain I think I'll never weep again Until I've heard he's dead.

THE INVESTITURE

God with a Roll of Honour in His hand Sits welcoming the heroes who have died, While sorrowless angels ranked on either side Stand easy in Elysium's meadow-land. Then _you_ come shyly through the garden gate, Wearing a blood-soaked bandage on your head; And God says something kind because you're dead, And homesick, discontented with your fate.

If I were there we'd snowball Death with skulls; Or ride away to hunt in Devil's Wood With ghosts of puppies that we walked of old. But you're alone; and solitude annuls Our earthly jokes; and strangely wise and good You roam forlorn along the streets of gold.

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-chinked with light. Hark! There's the big bombardment on our right Rumbling and bumping; 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.

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 damned attack; and, Lord knows why, Zero's at nine; how bloody 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 God's blank heart grown kind, That sent a happy dream to him in hell?-- 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 Sussex 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-cock 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 grass: _He_ knows the corner where it's best to wait And hear the crashing woodland chorus pass; 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.

TO ANY DEAD OFFICER

Well, how are things in Heaven? I wish you'd say, Because I'd like to know that you're all right. Tell me, have you found everlasting day, Or been sucked in by everlasting night? For when I shut my eyes your face shows pain; I hear you make some cheery old remark-- I can rebuild you in my brain, Though you've gone out patrolling in the dark.

You hated tours of trenches; you were proud Of nothing more than having good years to spend; Longed to get home and join the careless crowd Of chaps who work in peace with Time for friend. That's all washed out now. You're beyond the wire: No earthly chance can send you crawling back; You've finished with machine-gun fire-- Knocked over in a hopeless dud-attack.

Somehow I always thought you'd get done in, Because you were so desperate keen to live: You were all out to try and save your skin, Well knowing how much the world had got to give. You joked at shells and talked the usual "shop," Stuck to your dirty job and did it fine: With "Jesus Christ! when _will_ it stop? Three years... It's hell unless we break their line."

So when they told me you'd been left for dead I wouldn't believe them, feeling it _must_ be true. Next week the bloody Roll of Honour said "Wounded and missing"--(That's the thing to do When lads are left in shell-holes dying slow, With nothing but blank sky and wounds that ache, Moaning for water till they know It's night, and then it's not worth while to wake!)

* * * * *

Good-bye, old lad! Remember me to God, And tell Him that our Politicians swear They won't give in till Prussian Rule's been trod Under the Heel of England... Are you there? ... Yes ... and the War won't end for at least two years; But we've got stacks of men... I'm blind with tears, Staring into the dark. Cheero! I wish they'd killed you in a decent show.

SICK LEAVE

When I'm asleep, dreaming and lulled and warm,-- They come, the homeless ones, the noiseless dead. While the dim charging breakers of the storm Bellow and drone and rumble overhead, Out of the gloom they gather about my bed. They whisper to my heart; their thoughts are mine. "Why are you here with all your watches ended? From Ypres to Frise we sought you in the Line." In bitter safety I awake, unfriended; And while the dawn begins with slashing rain I think of the Battalion in the mud. "When are you going out to them again? Are they not still your brothers through our blood?"

BANISHMENT

I am banished from the patient men who fight. They smote my heart to pity, built my pride. Shoulder to aching shoulder, side by side, They trudged away from life's broad wealds of light. Their wrongs were mine; and ever in my sight They went arrayed in honour. But they died,-- Not one by one: and mutinous I cried To those who sent them out into the night.

The darkness tells how vainly I have striven To free them from the pit where they must dwell In outcast gloom convulsed and jagged and riven By grappling guns. Love drove me to rebel. Love drives me back to grope with them through hell; And in their tortured eyes I stand forgiven.

SONG-BOOKS OF THE WAR

In fifty years, when peace outshines Remembrance of the battle lines, Adventurous lads will sigh and cast Proud looks upon the plundered past. On summer morn or winter's night, Their hearts will kindle for the fight, Reading a snatch of soldier-song, Savage and jaunty, fierce and strong; And through the angry marching rhymes Of blind regret and haggard mirth, They'll envy us the dazzling times When sacrifice absolved our earth.

Some ancient man with silver locks Will lift his weary face to say: "War was a fiend who stopped our clocks Although we met him grim and gay." And then he'll speak of Haig's last drive, Marvelling that any came alive Out of the shambles that men built And smashed, to cleanse the world of guilt. But the boys, with grin and sidelong glance, Will think, "Poor grandad's day is done." And dream of those who fought in France And lived in time to share the fun.

THRUSHES

Tossed on the glittering air they soar and skim, Whose voices make the emptiness of light A windy palace. Quavering from the brim Of dawn, and bold with song at edge of night, They clutch their leafy pinnacles and sing Scornful of man, and from his toils aloof Whose heart's a haunted woodland whispering; Whose thoughts return on tempest-baffled wing; Who hears the cry of God in everything, And storms the gate of nothingness for proof.

AUTUMN

October's bellowing anger breaks and cleaves The bronzed battalions of the stricken wood In whose lament I hear a voice that grieves For battle's fruitless harvest, and the feud Of outraged men. Their lives are like the leaves Scattered in flocks of ruin, tossed and blown Along the westering furnace flaring red. O martyred youth and manhood overthrown, The burden of your wrongs is on my head.

INVOCATION

Come down from heaven to meet me when my breath Chokes, and through drumming shafts of stifling death I stumble toward escape, to find the door Opening on morn where I may breathe once more Clear cock-crow airs across some valley dim With whispering trees. While dawn along the rim Of night's horizon flows in lakes of fire, Come down from heaven's bright hill, my song's desire.

Belov'd and faithful, teach my soul to wake In glades deep-ranked with flowers that gleam and shake And flock your paths with wonder. In your gaze Show me the vanquished vigil of my days. Mute in that golden silence hung with green, Come down from heaven and bring me in your eyes Remembrance of all beauty that has been, And stillness from the pools of Paradise.

REPRESSION OF WAR EXPERIENCE

Now light the candles; one; two; there's a moth; What silly beggars they are to blunder in And scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame-- No, no, not that,--it's bad to think of war, When thoughts you've gagged all day come back to scare you; And it's been proved that soldiers don't go mad Unless they lose control of ugly thoughts That drive them out to jabber among the trees.

Now light your pipe; look, what a steady hand, Draw a deep breath; stop thinking, count fifteen, And you're as right as rain... Why won't it rain? ... I wish there'd be a thunder-storm to-night, With bucketsful of water to sluice the dark, And make the roses hang their dripping heads.

Books; what a jolly company they are, Standing so quiet and patient on their shelves, Dressed in dim brown, and black, and white, and green, And every kind of colour. Which will you read? Come on; O _do_ read something; they're so wise. I tell you all the wisdom of the world Is waiting for you on those shelves; and yet You sit and gnaw your nails, and let your pipe out, And listen to the silence: on the ceiling There's one big, dizzy moth that bumps and flutters; And in the breathless air outside the house The garden waits for something that delays. There must be crowds of ghosts among the trees,-- Not people killed in battle,--they're in France,-- But horrible shapes in shrouds--old men who died Slow, natural deaths,--old men with ugly souls, Who wore their bodies out with nasty sins. * * * * * You're quiet and peaceful, summering safe at home; You'd never think there was a bloody war on! ... O yes, you would ... why, you can hear the guns. Hark! Thud, thud, thud,--quite soft ... they never cease-- Those whispering guns--O Christ, I want to go out And screech at them to stop--I'm going crazy; I'm going stark, staring mad because of the guns.

THE TRIUMPH

When life was a cobweb of stars for Beauty who came In the whisper of leaves or a bird's lone cry in the glen, On dawn-lit hills and horizons girdled with flame I sought for the triumph that troubles the faces of men.

With death in the terrible flickering gloom of the fight I was cruel and fierce with despair; I was naked and bound; was stricken: and Beauty returned through the shambles of night; In the faces of men she returned; and their triumph I found.

SURVIVORS

No doubt they'll soon get well; the shock and strain Have caused their stammering, disconnected talk. Of course they're "longing to go out again,"-- These boys with old, scared faces, learning to walk, They'll soon forget their haunted nights; their cowed Subjection to the ghosts of friends who died,-- Their dreams that drip with murder; and they'll be proud Of glorious war that shatter'd all their pride ... Men who went out to battle, grim and glad; Children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad.

CRAIGLOCKART, Oct. 1917.

JOY-BELLS

Ring your sweet bells; but let them be farewells To the green-vista'd gladness of the past That changed us into soldiers; swing your bells To a joyful chime; but let it be the last.

What means this metal in windy belfries hung When guns are all our need? Dissolve these bells Whose tones are tuned for peace: with martial tongue Let them cry doom and storm the sun with shells.

Bells are like fierce-browed prelates who proclaim That "if our Lord returned He'd fight for _us_." So let our bells and bishops do the same, Shoulder to shoulder with the motor bus.

REMORSE

Lost in the swamp and welter of the pit, He flounders off the duck-boards; only he knows Each flash, and spouting crash,--each instant lit When gloom reveals the streaming rain. He goes Heavily, blindly on. And, while he blunders, "Could anything be worse than this!"--he wonders, Remembering how he saw those Germans run, Screaming for mercy among the stumps of trees: Green-faced, they dodged and darted: there was one Livid with terror, clutching at his knees... Our chaps were sticking 'em like pigs... "O hell!" He thought--"there's things in war one dare not tell Poor father sitting safe at home, who reads Of dying heroes and their deathless deeds."

DEAD MUSICIANS

I

From you, Beethoven, Bach, Mozart, The substance of my dreams took fire. You built cathedrals in my heart, And lit my pinnacled desire. You were the ardour and the bright Procession of my thoughts toward prayer. You were the wrath of storm, the light On distant citadels aflare.

II

Great names, I cannot find you now In these loud years of youth that strives Through doom toward peace: upon my brow I wear a wreath of banished lives. You have no part with lads who fought And laughed and suffered at my side. Your fugues and symphonies have brought No memory of my friends who died.

III

For when my brain is on their track, In slangy speech I call them back. With fox-trot tunes their ghosts I charm. _"Another little drink won't do us any harm." I think of rag-time; a bit of rag-time; And see their faces crowding round To the sound of the syncopated beat. They've got such jolly things to tell, Home from hell with a Blighty wound so neat..._ * * * * * And so the song breaks off; and I'm alone. They're dead... For God's sake stop that gramophone.

THE DREAM

I

Moonlight and dew-drenched blossom, and the scent Of summer gardens; these can bring you all Those dreams that in the starlit silence fall: Sweet songs are full of odours. While I went Last night in drizzling dusk along a lane, I passed a squalid farm; from byre and midden Came the rank smell that brought me once again A dream of war that in the past was hidden.

II

Up a disconsolate straggling village street I saw the tired troops trudge: I heard their feet. The cheery Q.M.S. was there to meet And guide our Company in ... I watched them stumble Into some crazy hovel, too beat to grumble; Saw them file inward, slipping from their backs Rifles, equipment, packs. On filthy straw they sit in the gloom, each face Bowed to patched, sodden boots they must unlace, While the wind chills their sweat through chinks and cracks.

III

I'm looking at their blistered feet; young Jones Stares up at me, mud-splashed and white and jaded; Out of his eyes the morning light has faded. Old soldiers with three winters in their bones Puff their damp Woodbines, whistle, stretch their toes: _They_ can still grin at me, for each of 'em knows That I'm as tired as they are ... Can they guess The secret burden that is always mine?-- Pride in their courage; pity for their distress; And burning bitterness That I must take them to the accursèd Line.

IV

I cannot hear their voices, but I see Dim candles in the barn: they gulp their tea, And soon they'll sleep like logs. Ten miles away The battle winks and thuds in blundering strife. And I must lead them nearer, day by day, To the foul beast of war that bludgeons life.

IN BARRACKS

The barrack-square, washed clean with rain, Shines wet and wintry-grey and cold. Young Fusiliers, strong-legged and bold, March and wheel and march again. The sun looks over the barrack gate, Warm and white with glaring shine, To watch the soldiers of the Line That life has hired to fight with fate.

Fall out: the long parades are done. Up comes the dark; down goes the sun. The square is walled with windowed light. Sleep well, you lusty Fusiliers; Shut your brave eyes on sense and sight, And banish from your dreamless ears The bugle's lying notes that say, "Another night; another day."

TOGETHER

Splashing along the boggy woods all day, And over brambled hedge and holding clay, I shall not think of him: But when the watery fields grow brown and dim, And hounds have lost their fox, and horses tire, I know that he'll be with me on my way Home through the darkness to the evening fire.

He's jumped each stile along the glistening lanes; His hand will be upon the mud-soaked reins; Hearing the saddle creak, He'll wonder if the frost will come next week. I shall forget him in the morning light; And while we gallop on he will not speak: But at the stable-door he'll say good-night.