The Wounded

Courage came to you with your boyhood's grace Of ardent life and limb. Each day new dangers steeled you to the test, To ride, to climb, to swim. Your hot blood taught you carelessness of death      With every breath. So when you went to play another game You could not but be brave: An Empire's team, a rougher football field, The end -- perhaps your grave. What matter? On the winning of a goal      You staked your soul. Yes, you wore courage as you wore your youth With carelessness and joy. But in what Spartan school of discipline Did you get patience, boy? How did you learn to bear this long-drawn pain      And not complain? Restless with throbbing hopes, with thwarted aims, Impulsive as a colt. How do you lie here month by weary month Helpless, and not revolt? What joy can these monotonous days afford      Here in a ward? Yet you are merry as the birds in spring. Or feign the gaiety. Lest those who dress and tend your wound each day Should guess the agony. Lest they should suffer -- this the only fear      You let draw near. Greybeard philosophy has sought in books And argument this truth, That man is greater than his pain, but you Have learnt it in your youth. You know the wisdom taught by Calvary      At twenty-three. Death would have found you brave, but braver still You face each lagging day, A merry Stoic, patient, chivalrous, Divinely kind and gay. You bear your knowledge lightly, graduate      Of unkind fate. Careless philosopher, the first to laugh, The latest to complain, Unmindful that you teach, you taught me this In your long fight with pain: Since God made man so good -- here stands my creed --      God's good indeed.

Winifred M. Letts

When consciousness came back, he found he lay Between the opposing fires, but could not tell On which hand were his friends; and either way For him to turn was chancy -- bullet and shell Whistling and shrieking over him, as the glare Of searchlights scoured the darkness to blind day. He scrambled to his hands and knees ascare, Dragging his wounded foot through puddled clay, And tumbled in a hole a shell had scooped At random in a turnip-field between The unseen trenches where the foes lay cooped Through that unending battle of unseen Dead-locked, league-stretching armies; and quite spent He rolled upon his back within the pit, And lay secure, thinkng of all it meant -- His lying in that little hole, sore hit, But living, while across the starry sky Shrapnel and shell went screeching overhead -- Of all it meant that he, Tom Dodd, should lie Among the Belgian turnips, while his bed . . . If it were he, indeed, who'd climbed each night, Fagged with the day's work, up the narrow stair, And slipt his clothes off in the candle-light, Too tired to fold them neatly in a chair The way his mother'd taught him -- too dog-tired After the long day's serving in the shop, Inquiring what each customer required, Politiely talking weather, fit to drop . . . And now for fourteen days and nights, at least, He hadn't had his clothes off, and had lain In muddy trenches, napping like a beast With one eye open, under sun and rain And that unceasing hell-fire . . .                                         It was strange How things turned out -- the changes! You'd just got To take your luck in life, you couln't change Your luck.            And so here he was lying shot Who just six months ago had thought to spend His days behind a counter. Still, perhaps . . . And now, God only knew how he would end! He'd like to know haw many of the chaps Had won back to the trench alive, when he Had fallen wounded and been left for dead, If any! . . .          This was different, certainly, From selling knots of tape and reels of thread And knots of tape and reels of thread and knots Of tape and reels of thread and knots of tape, Day in, day out, and answering "Have you got" 's And "Do you keep" 's till there seemed no escape From everlasting serving in a shop, Inquiring what each customer required, Politely talking weather, fit to drop, With swollen ankles, tired . . .                                          But he was tired Now. Every bone was aching, and had ached For fourteen days and nights in that wet trench -- Just duller when he slept than when he waked -- Crouching for shelter from the steady drench Of shell and shrapnel . . .                                  That old trench, it seemed Almost like home to him. He'd slept and fed And sung and smoked in it, while shrapnel screamed Harmless, at least, as far as he . . .                                            But Dick -- Dick hadn't found them harmless yesterday, At breakfast, when he'd said he couldn't stick Eating dry bread, and crawled out the back way, And brought them butter in a lordly dish -- Butter enough for all, and held it high, Yellow and fresh and clean as you would wish -- When plump upon the plate from out the sky A shell fell bursting . . . Where the butter went, God only knew! . . .                         And Dick . . . He dared not think Of what had come to Dick . . . or what it meant -- The shrieking and the whistling and the stink He'd lived in fourteen days and nights. 'Twas luck That he still lived . .. And queer how little then He seemed to care that Dick . . . perhaps 'twas pluck That hardened him -- a man among the men -- Perhaps . . . Yet, only think things out a bit, And he was rabbit-livered, blue with funk! And he'd liked Dick . . . and yet when Dick was hit, He hadn't turned a hair. The meanest skunk He should have thought would feel it when his mate Was blown to smithereens -- Dick, proud as punch, Grinning like sin, and holding up the plate -- But he had gone on munching his dry hunch, Unwinking, will he swallowed the last crumb. Perhaps 'twas just because he dared not let His mind run upon Dick, who'd been his chum. He dared not now, though he could not forget. Dick took his luck. And, life or death, 'twas luck From first to last; and you'd just got to trust Your luck and grin. It wasn't so much pluck As knowing that you'd got to, when needs must, And better to die grinning . . .                                        Quiet now Had fallen on the night. On either hand The guns were quiet. Cool upon his brow The quiet darkness brooded, as he scanned The starry sky. He'd never seen before So many stars. Although, of course, he'd known That there were stars, somehow before the war He'd never realised them -- so thick-sown, Millions and millions. Serving in the shop, Stars didn't count for much; and then at nights Strolling the pavements, dull and fit to drop, You didn't see much but the city lights. He'd never in his life seen so much sky As he'd seen this last fortnight. It was queer The things war taught you. He'd a mind to try To count the stars -- they shone so bright and clear. One, two, three, four . . . Ah, God, but he was tired . . . Five, six, seven, eight . . .                                     Yes, it was number eight. And what was the next thing that she required? (Too bad of customers to come so late, At closing time!) Again within the shop He handled knots of tape and reels of thread, Politely talking weather, fit to drop . . . When once again the whole sky overhead Flared blind with searchlights, and the shriek of shell And scream of shrapnel roused him. Drowsily He stared about him, wondering. Then he fell Into deep dreamless slumber. . . . . . . . . . .                                        He could see Two dark eyes peeping at him, ere he knew He was awake, and it again was day -- An August morning, burning to clear blue. The frightened rabbit scuttled . . .                                            Far away, A sound of firing . . . Up there, in the sky Big dragon-flies hung hovering . . . Snowballs burst About them . . . Flies and snowballs. With a cry He crouched to watch the airmen pass -- the first That he'd seen under fire. Lord, that was pluck -- Shells bursting all about them -- and what nerve! They took their chance, and trusted to their luck At such a dizzy height to dip and swerve, Dodging the shell-fire . . .                                    Hell! but one was hit, And tumbling like a pigeon, plump . . .                                          Thank Heaven, It righted, and then turned; and after it The whole flock followed safe -- four, five, six, seven, Yes, they were all there safely. They deserved, Even if they were Germans . . . 'Twas no sin To wish them luck. Think how that beggar swerved Just in the nick of time!                                   He, too, must try To win back to the lines, though, likely as not, He'd take the wrong turn: but he couldn't lie Forever in that hungry hole and rot, He'd got to take his luck, to take his chance Of being sniped by foes or friends. He'd be With any luck in Germany or France Or Kingdom-come, next morning . . .                                                    Drearily The blazing day burnt over him, shot and shell Whistling and whining ceaselessly. But light Faded at last, and as the darkness fell He rose, and crawled away into the night.

Wilfred Wilson Gibson

Under our curtain of fire, Over the clotted clods, We charged, to be withered, to reel And despairingly wheel When the bugles bade us retire From the terrible odds. As we ebbed with the battle-tide, Fingers of red-hot steel Suddenly closed on my side. I fell, and began to pray. I crawled on my hands and lay Where a shallow crater yawned wide; Then, -- I swooned. . . . When I woke, it was yet day. Fierce was the pain of my wound, But I saw it was death to stir, For fifty paces away Their trenches were. In torture I prayed for the dark And the stealthy step of my friend Who, staunch to the very end, Would creep to the danger zone And offer his life as a mark To save my own. Night fell. I heard his tread, Not stealthy, but firm and serene, As if my comrade's head Were lifted far from that scene Of passion and pain and dread; As if my comrade's heart In carnage took no part; As if my comrade's feet Were set on some radiant street Such as no darkness might haunt; As if my comrade's eyes, No deluge of flame could surprise, No death and destruction daunt, No red-beaked bird dismay, Nor sight of decay. Then in the bursting shells' dim light I saw he was clad in white. For a moment I thought that I saw the smock Of a shepherd in search of his flock. Alert were the enemy, too, And their bullets flew Straight at a mark no bullet could fail: For the seeker was tall and his robe was bright; But he did not flee nor quail. Instead, with unhurrying stride He came, And gathering my tall frame, Like a child, in his arms . . . Again I swooned, And awoke From a blissful dream In a cave by a stream. My silent comrade had bound my side. No pain now was mine, but a wish that I spoke, -- A mastering wish to serve this man Who had ventured through hell my doom to revoke As only the truest of comrades can. I begged him to tell me how best I might aid him, And urgently prayed him Never to leave me, whatever betide; When I saw he was hurt -- Shot through he hands that were clasped in prayer! Then, as the dark drops ggathered there And fell in the dirt, The wounds of my friend Seemed to me such as no man might bear. Those bullet-holes in the patient hands Seemed to transend All horrors that ever these war-drenched lands Had known or would know till the mad world's end. Then suddenly I was aware That his feet had been wounded, too; And, dimming the white of his side, A dull stain grew. "You are hurt, White Comrade!" I cried. His words I already foreknew: "These are old wounds," said he, "But of late they have troubled me."

Robert Haven Schauffler

The Wounded Canadian Speaks: My leg? It's off at the knee. Do I miss it? Well, some. You see I've had it since I was born; And lately a devilish corn. (I rather chuckle with glee To think how I've fooled that corn.) But I'll hobble around all right. It isn't that, it's my face. Oh, I know I'm a hideous sight, Hardly a thing in place. Sort of gargoyle, you'd say. Nurse won't give me a glass, But I see the folks as they pass Shudder and turn away; Turn away in distress . . . Mirror enough, I guess. I'm gay! You bet I am gay, But I wasn't a while ago. If you'd seen me even to-day, The darnedest picture of woe, With this Caliban mug of mine, So ravaged and raw and red, Turned to the wall -- in fine Wishing that I was dead. . . . What has happened since then, Since I lay with my face to the wall, The most despairing of men! Listen! I'll tell you all. That poilu across the way, With the shrapnel wound on his head, Has a sister: she came to-day To sit awhile by his bed. All morning I heard him fret: "Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?" Then sudden, a joyous cry; The tripping of little feet; The softest, tenderest sigh; A voice so fresh and sweet; Clear as a silver bell, Fresh as the morning dews: "C'est toi, cest toi, Marcel! Mon frère, comme je suis heureuse!" So over the blanket's rim I raised my terrible face, And I saw -- how I envied him! A girl of such delicate grace; Sixteen, all laughter and love; As gay as a linnet, and yet As tenderly sweet as a dove; Half woman, half child -- Fleurette. Then I turned to the wall again. (I was awfully blue, you see,) And I thought with a bitter pain: "Such visions are not for me." So there like a log I lay, All hidden, I thought, from view, When sudden I heard her say, "Ah! Who is that malheureux?" Then briefly I heard him tell (However he came to know) How I'd smothered a bomb that fell Into the trench, and so None of my men were hit, Though it busted me up a bit. Well, I didn't quiver an eye, And he chattered and there she sat; And I fancied I heard her sigh -- But I wouldn't just swear that. And maybe she wasn't so bright, Though she talked in a merry strain, And I closed my eyes ever so tight, Yet I saw her ever so plain: Her dear little tilted nose, Her delicate, dimpled chin, Her mouth like a budding rose, And the glistening pearls within; Her eyes like the violet: Such a rare little queen -- Fleurette. And last last when she rose to go, The light was a little dim, And I ventured to peep, and so I saw her, graceful and slim, And she kissed him and kissed him, and oh How I envied and envied him. So when she was gone I said In rather a dreary voice To him of the opposite bed: "Ah, friend, how you must rejoice! But me, I'm a thing of dread. For me nevermore the bliss The thrill of a woman's kiss." Then I stopped, for lo! she was there, And a great light whone in her eyes. And me! I could only stare, I was taken so by surprise, When gently she bent her head: "May I kiss you, sergeant?" she said. Then she kissed my burning lips, With her mouth like a scented flower, And I thrilled to the finger-tips, And I hadn't even the power To say: "God bless you, dear!" And I felt such a precious tear Fall on my withered cheek, And darn it, I couldn't speak. And so she went sadly away, And I know that my eyes were wet. Ah, not to my dyng day Will I forget, forget! Can you wonder now I am gay? God bless her, that little Fleurette!

Robert W. Service

They sent him back to her. The letter came Saying . . . and she could have him. And before She could be sure there was no hidden ill Under the formal writing, he was in her sight -- Living. -- They gave him back to her alive -- How else? They are not known to send the dead -- And not disfigured visibly. His face? -- His hands? She had to look -- to ask, "What was it, dear?" And she had given all And still she had all -- they had -- they the lucky! Wasn't she glad now? Everything seemed won, And all the rest for them permissable ease. She had to ask, "What was it, dear?"                                           "Enough, Yet not enough. A bullet through and through, High in the breast. Nothing but what good care And medicine and rest -- and you a week, Can cure me of to go again." The same Grim giving to do over for them both. She dared no more than ask him with her eyes How was it with him for a second trial. And with his eyes he asked her not to ask. They had given him back to her, but not to keep.

Robert Frost

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