I dropp’d here three weeks ago, yes – I know,
And it’s bitter cold at night, since the fight –
I could tell you if I chose – no one knows
Excep’ me and four or five, what ain’t alive.
I can see them all asleep, three men deep,
And they’re nowhere near a fire – but our wire
Has ’em fast as fast can be. Can’t you see
When the flare goes up? Ssh! boys; what’s that noise?
Do you know what these rats eat? Body-meat!
After you’ve been down a week, an’ your cheek
Gets as pale as life, and night seems as white
As the day, only the rats and their brats
Seem more hungry when the day’s gone away –
An’ they look big as bulls, an’ they pulls
Till you almost sort o’ shout – but the drought
What you hadn’t felt before makes you sore.
And at times you even think of a drink . . .
There’s a leg across my thighs – if my eyes
Weren’t too sore, I’d like to see who it be,
Wonder if I’d know the bloke if I woke?
Woke? By damn, I’m not asleep – there’s a heap
Of us wond’ring why the hell we’re not well . . .
Leastways I am – since I came it’s the same
With the others – they don’t know what I do,
Or they wouldn’t gape and grin. – It’s a sin
To say that Hell is hot – ’cause it’s not:
Mind you, I know very well we’re in hell. –
In a twisted hump we lie – heaping high,
Yes! an’ higher every day. – Oh I say
This chap’s heavy on my thighs – damn his eyes.
This poem was written three months before the author’s death in battle.