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.
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