Arthur Graeme West

France, March 1916. Over the top! The wire’s thin here, unbarbed Plain rusty coils, not staked, and low enough: Full of old tins, though—“When you’re through, all three, Aim quarter left for fifty yards or so, Then straight for that new piece of German wire; See if it’s thick, and listen for a while For sounds of working; don’t run any risks; About an hour; now, over!” And we placed Our hands on the topmost sand-bags, leapt, and stood A second with curved backs, then crept to the wire, Wormed ourselves tinkling through, glanced back, and dropped. The sodden ground was splashed with shallow pools, And tufts of crackling cornstalks, two years old, No man had reaped, and patches of spring grass. Half-seen, as rose and sank the flares, were strewn The wrecks of our attack: the bandoliers, Packs, rifles, bayonets, belts, and haversacks, Shell fragments, and the huge whole forms of shells Shot fruitlessly—and everywhere the dead. Only the dead were always present—present As a vile sickly smell of rottenness; The rustling stubble and the early grass, The slimy pools — the dead men stank through all, Pungent and sharp; as bodies loomed before, And as we passed, they stank: then dulled away To that vague fœtor, all encompassing, Infecting earth and air. They lay, all clothed, Each in some new and piteous attitude That we well marked to guide us back: as he, Outside our wire, that lay on his back and crossed His legs Crusader-wise: I smiled at that, And thought on Elia and his Temple Church. From him, at quarter left, lay a small corpse, Down in a hollow, huddled as in a bed, That one of us put his hand on unawares. Next was a bunch of half a dozen men All blown to bits, an archipelago Of corrupt fragments, vexing to us three, Who had no light to see by, save the flares. On such a trail, so light, for ninety yards We crawled on belly and elbows, till we saw, Instead of lumpish dead before our eyes, The stakes and crosslines of the German wire. We lay in shelter of the last dead man, Ourselves as dead, and heard their shovels ring Turning the earth, then talk and cough at times. A sentry fired and a machine-gun spat; They shot a glare above us, when it fell And spluttered out in the pools of No Man’s Land, We turned and crawled past the remembered dead: Past him and him, and them and him, until, For he lay some way apart, we caught the scent Of the Crusader and slide past his legs, And through the wire and home, and got our rum.

God! How I hate you, you young cheerful men, Whose pious poetry blossoms on your graves As soon as you are in them, nurtured up By the salt of your corruption, and the tears Of mothers, local vicars, college deans, And flanked by prefaces and photographs From all you minor poet friends—the fools— Who paint their sentimental elegies Where sure, no angel treads; and, living, share The dead’s brief immortality Oh Christ! To think that one could spread the ductile wax Of his fluid youth to Oxford’s glowing fires And take her seal so ill! Hark how one chants— “Oh happy to have lived these epic days”— “These epic days”! And he’d been to France, And seen the trenches, glimpsed the huddled dead In the periscope, hung in the rusting wire: Chobed by their sickley fœtor, day and night Blown down his throat: stumbled through ruined hearths, Proved all that muddy brown monotony, Where blood’s the only coloured thing. Perhaps Had seen a man killed, a sentry shot at night, Hunched as he fell, his feet on the firing-step, His neck against the back slope of the trench, And the rest doubled up between, his head Smashed like and egg-shell, and the warm grey brain Spattered all bloody on the parados: Had flashed a torch on his face, and known his friend, Shot, breathing hardly, in ten minutes—gone! Yet still God’s in His heaven, all is right In the best possible of worlds. The woe, Even His scaled eyes must see, is partial, only A seeming woe, we cannot understand. God loves us, God looks down on this out strife And smiles in pity, blows a pipe at times And calls some warriors home. We do not die, God would not let us, He is too “intense,” Too “passionate,” a whole day sorrows He Because a grass-blade dies. How rare life is! On earth, the love and fellowship of men, Men sternly banded: banded for what end? Banded to maim and kill their fellow men— For even Huns are men. In heaven above A genial umpire, a good judge of sport, Won’t let us hurt each other! Let’s rejoice God keeps us faithful, pens us still in fold. Ah, what a faith is ours (almost, it seems, Large as a mustard-seed)—we trust and trust, Nothing can shake us! Ah, how good God is To suffer us to be born just now, when youth That else would rust, can slake his blade in gore, Where very God Himself does seem to walk The bloody fields of Flanders He so loves!

One writes to ask me if I’ve read Of “the Jutland battle,” of “the great advance Made by the Russians,” chiding—“History Is being made these days, these are the things That are worth while.” These! Not to one who’s lain In Heaven before God’s throne with eyes abased, Worshipping Him, in many forms of Good, That sate thereon; turning this patchwork world Wholly to glorify Him, point His plan Toward some supreme perfection, dimly visioned By loving faith: not these to him, when, stressed By some soul-dizzying woe beyond his trust, He lifts his startled face, and finds the Throne Empty, turns away, too drunk with Truth To mind his shame, or feel the loss of God.