Chapter 1

THE WAR POEMS OF SIEGFRIED SASSOON

1919

LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN

Dans la trêve désolée de cette matinée, ces hommes qui avaient été tenaillés par la fatigue, fouettés par la pluie, bouleversés par toute une nuit de tonnerre, ces rescapés des volcans et de l'inondation entrevoyaient à quel point la guerre, aussi hideuse au moral qu'au physique, non seulement viole le bon sens, avilit les grandes idées, commande tous les crimes--mais ils se rappelaient combien elle avait développé en eux et autour d'eux tous les mauvais instincts sans en excepter un seul; la méchanceté jusqu'au sadisme, l'égoïsme jusqu'à la férocité, le besoin de jouir jusqu'à la folie.

HENRI BARBUSSE.

(_Le Feu._)

NOTE

Of these 64 poems, 12 are now published for the first time. The remainder are selected from two previous volumes.

CONTENTS

I

PRELUDE: THE TROOPS 11

DREAMERS 13

THE REDEEMER 14

TRENCH DUTY 16

WIRERS 17

BREAK OF DAY 18

A WORKING PARTY 21

STAND-TO: GOOD FRIDAY MORNING 24

"IN THE PINK" 25

THE HERO 26

BEFORE THE BATTLE 27

THE ROAD 28

TWO HUNDRED YEARS AFTER 29

THE DREAM 30

AT CARNOY 32

BATTALION RELIEF 33

THE DUG-OUT 35

THE REAR-GUARD 36

I STOOD WITH THE DEAD 38

SUICIDE IN TRENCHES 39

ATTACK 40

COUNTER-ATTACK 41

THE EFFECT 43

REMORSE 44

IN AN UNDERGROUND DRESSING-STATION 45

DIED OF WOUNDS 46

II

"THEY" 47

BASE DETAILS 48

LAMENTATIONS 49

THE GENERAL 50

HOW TO DIE 51

EDITORIAL IMPRESSIONS 52

FIGHT TO A FINISH 53

ATROCITIES 54

THE FATHERS 55

"BLIGHTERS" 56

GLORY OF WOMEN 57

THEIR FRAILTY 58

DOES IT MATTER? 59

SURVIVORS 60

JOY-BELLS 61

ARMS AND THE MAN 62

WHEN I'M AMONG A BLAZE OF LIGHTS 63

THE KISS 64

THE TOMBSTONE-MAKER 65

THE ONE-LEGGED MAN 66

RETURN OF THE HEROES 67

III

TWELVE MONTHS AFTER 68

TO ANY DEAD OFFICER 69

SICK LEAVE 72

BANISHMENT 73

AUTUMN 74

REPRESSION OF WAR EXPERIENCE 75

TOGETHER 77

THE HAWTHORN TREE 78

CONCERT PARTY 79

NIGHT ON THE CONVOY 81

A LETTER HOME 83

RECONCILIATION 87

MEMORIAL TABLET (GREAT WAR) 88

THE DEATH-BED 89

AFTERMATH 91

SONG-BOOKS OF THE WAR 93

EVERYONE SANG 95

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 grass-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 pass Battalions and battalions, scarred from hell; 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 balls 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 shells 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 Hell's unholy shine.

No thorny 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-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.

WIRERS

"Pass it along, the wiring party's going out"-- And yawning sentries mumble, "Wirers going out." Unravelling; twisting; hammering stakes with muffled 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 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.

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 chinks 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 shells came calmly through the drizzling air To burst with hollow bang below the hill.

Three hours ago he stumbled up the trench; Now he will never walk that road again: He must be carried back, a jolting lump Beyond all need of tenderness and care; A nine-stone corpse with nothing more to do.

He was a young man with a meagre wife And two pale children in a Midland town; He showed the photograph to all his mates; And they considered him a decent chap Who did his work and hadn't much to say, And always laughed at other people's jokes Because he hadn't any of his own.

That night, when he was busy at his job Of piling bags along the parapet, He thought how slow time went, stamping his feet, And blowing on his fingers, pinched with cold.

He thought of getting back by half-past twelve, And tot of rum to send him warm to sleep In draughty dug-out frowsty with the fumes Of coke, and full of snoring, weary men.

He pushed another bag along the top, Craning his body outward; then a flare Gave one white glimpse of No Man's Land and wire; And as he dropped his head the instant split His startled life with lead, and all went out.

STAND-TO: GOOD FRIDAY MORNING

I'd been on duty from two till four. I went and stared at the dug-out door. Down in the frowst I heard them snore. "Stand-to!" Somebody grunted and swore. Dawn was misty; the skies were still; Larks were singing, discordant, shrill; _They_ seemed happy; but _I_ felt ill. Deep in water I splashed my way Up the trench to our bogged front line. Rain had fallen the whole damned night. O Jesus, send me a wound to-day, And I'll believe in Your bread and wine, And get my bloody old sins washed white!

"IN THE PINK"

So Davies wrote: "This leaves me in the pink." Then scrawled his name: "Your loving sweetheart, Willie." With crosses for a hug. He'd had a drink Of rum and tea; and, though the barn was chilly, For once his blood ran warm; he had pay to spend. Winter was passing; soon the year would mend.

He couldn't sleep that night. Stiff in the dark He groaned and thought of Sundays at the farm, When he'd go out as cheerful as a lark In his best suit to wander arm-in-arm With brown-eyed Gwen, and whisper in her ear The simple, silly things she liked to hear.

And then he thought: to-morrow night we trudge Up to the trenches, and my boots are rotten. Five miles of stodgy clay and freezing sludge, And everything but wretchedness forgotten. To-night he's in the pink; but soon he'll die. And still the war goes on; _he_ don't know why.

THE HERO

"Jack fell as he'd have wished," the Mother said, And folded up the letter that she'd read. "The Colonel writes so nicely." Something broke In the tired voice that quavered to a choke. She half looked up. "We mothers are so proud Of our dead soldiers." Then her face was bowed.

Quietly the Brother Officer went out. He'd told the poor old dear some gallant lies That she would nourish all her days, no doubt. For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy, Because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy.

He thought how "Jack," cold-footed, useless swine, Had panicked down the trench that night the mine Went up at Wicked Corner; how he'd tried To get sent home; and how, at last, he died, Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care Except that lonely woman with white hair.

BEFORE THE BATTLE

Music of whispering trees Hushed by the broad-winged breeze Where shaken water gleams; And evening radiance falling With reedy bird-notes calling. O bear me safe through dark, you low-voiced streams.

I have no need to pray That fear may pass away; I scorn the growl and rumble of the fight That summons me from cool Silence of marsh and pool, And yellow lilies islanded in light. O river of stars and shadows, lead me through the night.

_June 25th, 1916._

THE ROAD

The road is thronged with women; soldiers pass And halt, but never see them; yet they're here-- A patient crowd along the sodden grass, Silent, worn out with waiting, sick with fear. The road goes crawling up a long hillside, All ruts and stones and sludge, and the emptied dregs Of battle thrown in heaps. Here where they died Are stretched big-bellied horses with stiff legs; And dead men, bloody-fingered from the fight, Stare up at caverned darkness winking white.

You in the bomb-scorched kilt, poor sprawling Jock, You tottered here and fell, and stumbled on, Half dazed for want of sleep. No dream could mock Your reeling brain with comforts lost and gone. You did not feel her arms about your knees, Her blind caress, her lips upon your head: Too tired for thoughts of home and love and ease, The road would serve you well enough for bed.

TWO HUNDRED YEARS AFTER

Trudging by Corbie Ridge one winter's night, (Unless old, hearsay memories tricked his sight), Along the pallid edge of the quiet sky He watched a nosing lorry grinding on, And straggling files of men; when these were gone, A double limber and six mules went by, Hauling the rations up through ruts and mud To trench-lines digged two hundred years ago. Then darkness hid them with a rainy scud, And soon he saw the village lights below.

But when he'd told his tale, an old man said That _he'd_ seen soldiers pass along that hill; "Poor, silent things, they were the English dead Who came to fight in France and got their fill."

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.

AT CARNOY

Down in the hollow there's the whole Brigade Camped in four groups: through twilight falling slow I hear a sound of mouth-organs, ill-played, And murmur of voices, gruff, confused, and low. Crouched among thistle-tufts I've watched the glow Of a blurred orange sunset flare and fade; And I'm content. To-morrow we must go To take some cursèd Wood.... O world God made!

_July 3rd, 1916._

BATTALION RELIEF

"_Fall in! Now, get a move on!_" (Curse the rain.) We splash away along the straggling village, Out to the flat rich country green with June.... And sunset flares across wet crops and tillage, Blazing with splendour-patches. Harvest soon Up in the Line. "_Perhaps the War'll be done By Christmas-time. Keep smiling then, old son!_"

Here's the Canal: it's dusk; we cross the bridge. "_Lead on there by platoons._" The Line's a-glare With shell-fire through the poplars; distant rattle Of rifles and machine-guns. "_Fritz is there! Christ, ain't it lively, Sergeant? Is't a battle?_" More rain: the lightning blinks, and thunder rumbles. "There's overhead artillery," some chap grumbles.

"_What's all this mob, by the cross-road?_" (The guides).... "_Lead on with Number One_" (And off they go.)

"_Three-minute intervals._" ... Poor blundering files, Sweating and blindly burdened; who's to know If death will catch them in those two dark miles? (More rain.) "_Lead on, Headquarters._" (That's the lot.) "_Who's that? O, Sergeant-major; don't get shot! And tell me, have we won this war or not?_"

THE DUG-OUT

Why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddled, And one arm bent across your sullen cold Exhausted face? It hurts my heart to watch you, Deep-shadow'd from the candle's guttering gold; And you wonder why I shake you by the shoulder; Drowsy, you mumble and sigh and turn your head.... _You are too young to fall asleep for ever; And when you sleep you remind me of the dead._

THE REAR-GUARD

(Hindenburg Line, April 1917.)

Groping along the tunnel, step by step, He winked his prying torch with patching glare From side to side, and sniffed the unwholesome air.

Tins, boxes, bottles, shapes too vague to know, A mirror smashed, the mattress from a bed; And he, exploring fifty feet below The rosy gloom of battle overhead.

Tripping, he grabbed the wall; saw some one lie Humped at his feet, half-hidden by a rug, And stooped to give the sleeper's arm a tug. "I'm looking for headquarters." No reply. "God blast your neck!" (For days he'd had no sleep,) "Get up and guide me through this stinking place." Savage, he kicked a soft, unanswering heap, And flashed his beam across the livid face Terribly glaring up, whose eyes yet wore Agony dying hard ten days before; And fists of fingers clutched a blackening wound.

Alone he staggered on until he found Dawn's ghost that filtered down a shafted stair To the dazed, muttering creatures underground Who hear the boom of shells in muffled sound. At last, with sweat of horror in his hair, He climbed through darkness to the twilight air, Unloading hell behind him step by step.

I STOOD WITH THE DEAD

I stood with the Dead, so forsaken and still: When dawn was grey I stood with the Dead. And my slow heart said, "You must kill; you must kill: Soldier, soldier, morning is red."

On the shapes of the slain in their crumpled disgrace I stared for a while through the thin cold rain.... "O lad that I loved, there is rain on your face, And your eyes are blurred and sick like the plain."

I stood with the Dead.... They were dead; they were dead; My heart and my head beat a march of dismay; And gusts of the wind came dulled by the guns.... "Fall in!" I shouted; "Fall in for your pay!"

SUICIDE IN 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 smug-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.

ATTACK