Just got your letter and the poems. Thanks.You always were a brainy sort of chap:Though pretty useless as a subaltern—Too much imagination, not enoughOf that rare quality, sound commonsenseAnd so you’ve managed to get on the Staff:Influence, I suppose: a Captain, too!How do tabs suit you? Are they blue or green?About your book. I’ve read it carefully,So has Macfaddyen (you remember him,The light-haired chap who joined us after Loos?);And candidly, we don’t think much of it.The piece about the horses isn’t bad;But all the rest, excuse the word, are tripe—The same old tripe we’ve read a thousand times.My grief, but we’re fed up to the back-teethWith war-books, war-verse, all the eye-wash stuffThat seems to please the idiots at home.You know the kind of thing, or used to know:“Heroes who laugh while Fritz is strafing them”—(I don’t remember thatyoufound it fun,The day they shelled us out of Blouwpoort Farm!)“After the fight. Our cheery wounded. NoteThe smile of victory: it won’t come off”—(Of course they smile; so’d you, if you’d escaped,And saw three months of hospital ahead....They don’t smile, much, when they’re shipped back to France!)“Out for the Great Adventure”—(twenty-fiveFat, smirking wasters in some O.T.C.,Who just avoided the Conscription Act!)“A strenuous woman-worker for the Cause”—(Miss Trixie Toogood of the Gaiety,Who helped to pauperize a few BelgiquesIn the great cause of self-advertisement!) ...Lord knows, the newspapers are bad enough;But they’ve got some excuse—the censorship—Helping to keep their readers’ spirits up—Giving the public what it wants: (besides,One mustn’t blame the press, the press has doneMore than its share to help us win this war—More than some other people I could name):But what’s the good of war-books, if they failTo give civilian-readers an ideaOf what lifeislike in the firing-line?...You might have done that much; from you, at least,I thought we’d get an inkling of the truth.But no; you rant and rattle, beat your drum,And blow your two-penny trumpet like the rest:“Red battle’s glory,” “honour’s utmost task,”“Gay jesting faces of undaunted boys,” ...The same old Boys’-Own-Paper balderdash!Mind you, I don’t deny that they exist,These abstract virtues which you gas about—(We shouldn’t stop out here long, otherwise!)—Honour and humour, and that sort of thing;(Though heaven knows where you found the glory-touch,Unless you picked it up at G.H.Q.);But if you’d commonsense, you’d understandThat humour’s just the Saxon cloak for fear,Our English substitute for “Vive la France,”Or else a trick to keep the folk at homeFrom being scared to death—as we are scared;That honour ... damn it, honour’s the one thingNo soldier yaps about, except of courseA soldier-poet—three-and-sixpence net.Honest to God, it makes me sick and tiredTo think that you, who lived a year with us,Should be content to write such tommy-rot.I feel as though I’d sent a runner backWith news that we were being strafed like Hell ...And he’d reported: “Everything O. K.”Something’s the matter: either you can’tsee,Or else you see, and cannot write—that’s worse.Hang it, you can’t have clean forgotten thingsYou went to bed with, woke with, smelt and felt,All those long months of boredom streaked with fear:Mud, cold, fatigue, sweat, nerve-strain, sleeplessness,And men’s excreta viscid in the rain,And stiff-legged horses lying by the road,Their bloated bellies shimmering, green with flies....Haveyou forgotten? you who dine to-nightIn comfort at the Carlton or Savoy.(Lord, but I’d like a dart at that myself—Oysters,crêmesomething, solevin blanc, a bird,And one cold bottle of the very best—A girl to share it: afterwards, a show—Lee White and Alfred Lester, Nelson Keys;Supper to follow.... Our Brigade’s in rest—The usual farm. I’ve got the only bed.The men are fairly comfy—three good barns.Thank God, they didn’t have to bivouacAfter this last month in the Salient.) ...Youhaveforgotten; or you couldn’t writeThis sort of stuff—all cant, no guts in it,Hardly a single picture true to life.Well, here’s a picture for you: Montauban—Last year—the flattened village on our left—On our right flank, the razed Briqueterie,Their five-nines pounding bits to dustier bits—Behind, a cratered slope, with batteriesCrashing and flashing, violet in the dusk,And prematuring every now and then—In front, the ragged Bois de Bernafay,Bosche whizz-bangs bursting white among its trees.You had been doing F.O.O. that day;(The Staff knows why we had an F.O.O.:One couldn’t flag-wag through Trônes Wood; the wiresWent down as fast as one could put them up;And messages by runner took three hours.)I got the wind up rather: you were late,And they’d been shelling like the very deuce.However, back you came. I see you now,Staggering into “mess”—a broken trench,Two chalk-walls roofed with corrugated iron,And, round the traverse, Driver Noakes’s stoveStinking and smoking while we ate our grub.Your face was blue-white, streaked with dirt; your eyesHad shrunk into your head, as though afraidTo watch more horrors; you were sodden-wetWith greasy coal-black mud—and other things.Sweating and shivering, speechless, there you stood.I gave you whisky, made you talk. You said:“Major, another signaller’s been killed.”“Who?”“Gunner Andrews, blast them. O my Christ!His head—split open—when his brains oozed out,They looked like bloody sweetbreads, in the muck.”And you’re the chap who writes this claptrap verse!Lord, if I’d halfyourbrains, I’d write a book:None of your sentimental platitudes,But something real, vital; that should stripThe glamour from this outrage we call war,Shewing it naked, hideous, stupid, vile—One vast abomination. So that theyWho, coming after, till the ransomed fieldsWhere our lean corpses rotted in the ooze,Reading my written words, should understandThis stark stupendous horror, visualizeThe unutterable foulness of it all....I’d shew them, not your glamourous “glorious game,”Which men play “jesting” “for their honour’s sake”—(A kind of Military Tournament,With just a hint of danger—bound in cloth!)—But War,—as war is now, and always was:A dirty, loathsome, servile murder-job:—Men, lousy, sleepless, ulcerous, afraid,Toiling their hearts out in the pulling slimeThat wrenches gum-boot down from bleeding heelAnd cakes in itching arm-pits, navel, ears:Men stunned to brainlessness, and gibbering:Men driving men to death and worse than death:Men maimed and blinded: men against machines—Flesh versus iron, concrete, flame and wire:Men choking out their souls in poison-gas:Men squelched into the slime by trampling feet:Men, disembowelled by guns five miles away,Cursing, with their last breath, the living GodBecause he made them, in His image, men....So—were your talent mine—I’d write of warFor those who, coming after, know it not.And if posterity should ask of meWhat high, what base emotions keyed weak fleshTo face such torments, I would answer: “You!Not for themselves, O daughters, grandsons, sons,Your tortured forebears wrought this miracle;Not for themselves,accomplished utterlyThis loathliest task of murderous servitude;But just because they realized that thus,And only thus, by sacrifice, might theySecure a world worth living in—for you.” ...Good-night, my soldier-poet.Dormez bien!
Just got your letter and the poems. Thanks.You always were a brainy sort of chap:Though pretty useless as a subaltern—Too much imagination, not enoughOf that rare quality, sound commonsenseAnd so you’ve managed to get on the Staff:Influence, I suppose: a Captain, too!How do tabs suit you? Are they blue or green?About your book. I’ve read it carefully,So has Macfaddyen (you remember him,The light-haired chap who joined us after Loos?);And candidly, we don’t think much of it.The piece about the horses isn’t bad;But all the rest, excuse the word, are tripe—The same old tripe we’ve read a thousand times.My grief, but we’re fed up to the back-teethWith war-books, war-verse, all the eye-wash stuffThat seems to please the idiots at home.You know the kind of thing, or used to know:“Heroes who laugh while Fritz is strafing them”—(I don’t remember thatyoufound it fun,The day they shelled us out of Blouwpoort Farm!)“After the fight. Our cheery wounded. NoteThe smile of victory: it won’t come off”—(Of course they smile; so’d you, if you’d escaped,And saw three months of hospital ahead....They don’t smile, much, when they’re shipped back to France!)“Out for the Great Adventure”—(twenty-fiveFat, smirking wasters in some O.T.C.,Who just avoided the Conscription Act!)“A strenuous woman-worker for the Cause”—(Miss Trixie Toogood of the Gaiety,Who helped to pauperize a few BelgiquesIn the great cause of self-advertisement!) ...Lord knows, the newspapers are bad enough;But they’ve got some excuse—the censorship—Helping to keep their readers’ spirits up—Giving the public what it wants: (besides,One mustn’t blame the press, the press has doneMore than its share to help us win this war—More than some other people I could name):But what’s the good of war-books, if they failTo give civilian-readers an ideaOf what lifeislike in the firing-line?...You might have done that much; from you, at least,I thought we’d get an inkling of the truth.But no; you rant and rattle, beat your drum,And blow your two-penny trumpet like the rest:“Red battle’s glory,” “honour’s utmost task,”“Gay jesting faces of undaunted boys,” ...The same old Boys’-Own-Paper balderdash!Mind you, I don’t deny that they exist,These abstract virtues which you gas about—(We shouldn’t stop out here long, otherwise!)—Honour and humour, and that sort of thing;(Though heaven knows where you found the glory-touch,Unless you picked it up at G.H.Q.);But if you’d commonsense, you’d understandThat humour’s just the Saxon cloak for fear,Our English substitute for “Vive la France,”Or else a trick to keep the folk at homeFrom being scared to death—as we are scared;That honour ... damn it, honour’s the one thingNo soldier yaps about, except of courseA soldier-poet—three-and-sixpence net.Honest to God, it makes me sick and tiredTo think that you, who lived a year with us,Should be content to write such tommy-rot.I feel as though I’d sent a runner backWith news that we were being strafed like Hell ...And he’d reported: “Everything O. K.”Something’s the matter: either you can’tsee,Or else you see, and cannot write—that’s worse.Hang it, you can’t have clean forgotten thingsYou went to bed with, woke with, smelt and felt,All those long months of boredom streaked with fear:Mud, cold, fatigue, sweat, nerve-strain, sleeplessness,And men’s excreta viscid in the rain,And stiff-legged horses lying by the road,Their bloated bellies shimmering, green with flies....Haveyou forgotten? you who dine to-nightIn comfort at the Carlton or Savoy.(Lord, but I’d like a dart at that myself—Oysters,crêmesomething, solevin blanc, a bird,And one cold bottle of the very best—A girl to share it: afterwards, a show—Lee White and Alfred Lester, Nelson Keys;Supper to follow.... Our Brigade’s in rest—The usual farm. I’ve got the only bed.The men are fairly comfy—three good barns.Thank God, they didn’t have to bivouacAfter this last month in the Salient.) ...Youhaveforgotten; or you couldn’t writeThis sort of stuff—all cant, no guts in it,Hardly a single picture true to life.Well, here’s a picture for you: Montauban—Last year—the flattened village on our left—On our right flank, the razed Briqueterie,Their five-nines pounding bits to dustier bits—Behind, a cratered slope, with batteriesCrashing and flashing, violet in the dusk,And prematuring every now and then—In front, the ragged Bois de Bernafay,Bosche whizz-bangs bursting white among its trees.You had been doing F.O.O. that day;(The Staff knows why we had an F.O.O.:One couldn’t flag-wag through Trônes Wood; the wiresWent down as fast as one could put them up;And messages by runner took three hours.)I got the wind up rather: you were late,And they’d been shelling like the very deuce.However, back you came. I see you now,Staggering into “mess”—a broken trench,Two chalk-walls roofed with corrugated iron,And, round the traverse, Driver Noakes’s stoveStinking and smoking while we ate our grub.Your face was blue-white, streaked with dirt; your eyesHad shrunk into your head, as though afraidTo watch more horrors; you were sodden-wetWith greasy coal-black mud—and other things.Sweating and shivering, speechless, there you stood.I gave you whisky, made you talk. You said:“Major, another signaller’s been killed.”“Who?”“Gunner Andrews, blast them. O my Christ!His head—split open—when his brains oozed out,They looked like bloody sweetbreads, in the muck.”And you’re the chap who writes this claptrap verse!Lord, if I’d halfyourbrains, I’d write a book:None of your sentimental platitudes,But something real, vital; that should stripThe glamour from this outrage we call war,Shewing it naked, hideous, stupid, vile—One vast abomination. So that theyWho, coming after, till the ransomed fieldsWhere our lean corpses rotted in the ooze,Reading my written words, should understandThis stark stupendous horror, visualizeThe unutterable foulness of it all....I’d shew them, not your glamourous “glorious game,”Which men play “jesting” “for their honour’s sake”—(A kind of Military Tournament,With just a hint of danger—bound in cloth!)—But War,—as war is now, and always was:A dirty, loathsome, servile murder-job:—Men, lousy, sleepless, ulcerous, afraid,Toiling their hearts out in the pulling slimeThat wrenches gum-boot down from bleeding heelAnd cakes in itching arm-pits, navel, ears:Men stunned to brainlessness, and gibbering:Men driving men to death and worse than death:Men maimed and blinded: men against machines—Flesh versus iron, concrete, flame and wire:Men choking out their souls in poison-gas:Men squelched into the slime by trampling feet:Men, disembowelled by guns five miles away,Cursing, with their last breath, the living GodBecause he made them, in His image, men....So—were your talent mine—I’d write of warFor those who, coming after, know it not.And if posterity should ask of meWhat high, what base emotions keyed weak fleshTo face such torments, I would answer: “You!Not for themselves, O daughters, grandsons, sons,Your tortured forebears wrought this miracle;Not for themselves,accomplished utterlyThis loathliest task of murderous servitude;But just because they realized that thus,And only thus, by sacrifice, might theySecure a world worth living in—for you.” ...Good-night, my soldier-poet.Dormez bien!
Just got your letter and the poems. Thanks.You always were a brainy sort of chap:Though pretty useless as a subaltern—Too much imagination, not enoughOf that rare quality, sound commonsenseAnd so you’ve managed to get on the Staff:Influence, I suppose: a Captain, too!How do tabs suit you? Are they blue or green?
Just got your letter and the poems. Thanks.
You always were a brainy sort of chap:
Though pretty useless as a subaltern—
Too much imagination, not enough
Of that rare quality, sound commonsense
And so you’ve managed to get on the Staff:
Influence, I suppose: a Captain, too!
How do tabs suit you? Are they blue or green?
About your book. I’ve read it carefully,So has Macfaddyen (you remember him,The light-haired chap who joined us after Loos?);And candidly, we don’t think much of it.The piece about the horses isn’t bad;But all the rest, excuse the word, are tripe—The same old tripe we’ve read a thousand times.
About your book. I’ve read it carefully,
So has Macfaddyen (you remember him,
The light-haired chap who joined us after Loos?);
And candidly, we don’t think much of it.
The piece about the horses isn’t bad;
But all the rest, excuse the word, are tripe—
The same old tripe we’ve read a thousand times.
My grief, but we’re fed up to the back-teethWith war-books, war-verse, all the eye-wash stuffThat seems to please the idiots at home.You know the kind of thing, or used to know:“Heroes who laugh while Fritz is strafing them”—(I don’t remember thatyoufound it fun,The day they shelled us out of Blouwpoort Farm!)“After the fight. Our cheery wounded. NoteThe smile of victory: it won’t come off”—(Of course they smile; so’d you, if you’d escaped,And saw three months of hospital ahead....They don’t smile, much, when they’re shipped back to France!)“Out for the Great Adventure”—(twenty-fiveFat, smirking wasters in some O.T.C.,Who just avoided the Conscription Act!)“A strenuous woman-worker for the Cause”—(Miss Trixie Toogood of the Gaiety,Who helped to pauperize a few BelgiquesIn the great cause of self-advertisement!) ...
My grief, but we’re fed up to the back-teeth
With war-books, war-verse, all the eye-wash stuff
That seems to please the idiots at home.
You know the kind of thing, or used to know:
“Heroes who laugh while Fritz is strafing them”—
(I don’t remember thatyoufound it fun,
The day they shelled us out of Blouwpoort Farm!)
“After the fight. Our cheery wounded. Note
The smile of victory: it won’t come off”—
(Of course they smile; so’d you, if you’d escaped,
And saw three months of hospital ahead....
They don’t smile, much, when they’re shipped back to France!)
“Out for the Great Adventure”—(twenty-five
Fat, smirking wasters in some O.T.C.,
Who just avoided the Conscription Act!)
“A strenuous woman-worker for the Cause”—
(Miss Trixie Toogood of the Gaiety,
Who helped to pauperize a few Belgiques
In the great cause of self-advertisement!) ...
Lord knows, the newspapers are bad enough;But they’ve got some excuse—the censorship—Helping to keep their readers’ spirits up—Giving the public what it wants: (besides,One mustn’t blame the press, the press has doneMore than its share to help us win this war—More than some other people I could name):But what’s the good of war-books, if they failTo give civilian-readers an ideaOf what lifeislike in the firing-line?...
Lord knows, the newspapers are bad enough;
But they’ve got some excuse—the censorship—
Helping to keep their readers’ spirits up—
Giving the public what it wants: (besides,
One mustn’t blame the press, the press has done
More than its share to help us win this war—
More than some other people I could name):
But what’s the good of war-books, if they fail
To give civilian-readers an idea
Of what lifeislike in the firing-line?...
You might have done that much; from you, at least,I thought we’d get an inkling of the truth.But no; you rant and rattle, beat your drum,And blow your two-penny trumpet like the rest:“Red battle’s glory,” “honour’s utmost task,”“Gay jesting faces of undaunted boys,” ...The same old Boys’-Own-Paper balderdash!
You might have done that much; from you, at least,
I thought we’d get an inkling of the truth.
But no; you rant and rattle, beat your drum,
And blow your two-penny trumpet like the rest:
“Red battle’s glory,” “honour’s utmost task,”
“Gay jesting faces of undaunted boys,” ...
The same old Boys’-Own-Paper balderdash!
Mind you, I don’t deny that they exist,These abstract virtues which you gas about—(We shouldn’t stop out here long, otherwise!)—Honour and humour, and that sort of thing;(Though heaven knows where you found the glory-touch,Unless you picked it up at G.H.Q.);But if you’d commonsense, you’d understandThat humour’s just the Saxon cloak for fear,Our English substitute for “Vive la France,”Or else a trick to keep the folk at homeFrom being scared to death—as we are scared;That honour ... damn it, honour’s the one thingNo soldier yaps about, except of courseA soldier-poet—three-and-sixpence net.
Mind you, I don’t deny that they exist,
These abstract virtues which you gas about—
(We shouldn’t stop out here long, otherwise!)—
Honour and humour, and that sort of thing;
(Though heaven knows where you found the glory-touch,
Unless you picked it up at G.H.Q.);
But if you’d commonsense, you’d understand
That humour’s just the Saxon cloak for fear,
Our English substitute for “Vive la France,”
Or else a trick to keep the folk at home
From being scared to death—as we are scared;
That honour ... damn it, honour’s the one thing
No soldier yaps about, except of course
A soldier-poet—three-and-sixpence net.
Honest to God, it makes me sick and tiredTo think that you, who lived a year with us,Should be content to write such tommy-rot.I feel as though I’d sent a runner backWith news that we were being strafed like Hell ...And he’d reported: “Everything O. K.”Something’s the matter: either you can’tsee,Or else you see, and cannot write—that’s worse.
Honest to God, it makes me sick and tired
To think that you, who lived a year with us,
Should be content to write such tommy-rot.
I feel as though I’d sent a runner back
With news that we were being strafed like Hell ...
And he’d reported: “Everything O. K.”
Something’s the matter: either you can’tsee,
Or else you see, and cannot write—that’s worse.
Hang it, you can’t have clean forgotten thingsYou went to bed with, woke with, smelt and felt,All those long months of boredom streaked with fear:Mud, cold, fatigue, sweat, nerve-strain, sleeplessness,And men’s excreta viscid in the rain,And stiff-legged horses lying by the road,Their bloated bellies shimmering, green with flies....
Hang it, you can’t have clean forgotten things
You went to bed with, woke with, smelt and felt,
All those long months of boredom streaked with fear:
Mud, cold, fatigue, sweat, nerve-strain, sleeplessness,
And men’s excreta viscid in the rain,
And stiff-legged horses lying by the road,
Their bloated bellies shimmering, green with flies....
Haveyou forgotten? you who dine to-nightIn comfort at the Carlton or Savoy.(Lord, but I’d like a dart at that myself—Oysters,crêmesomething, solevin blanc, a bird,And one cold bottle of the very best—A girl to share it: afterwards, a show—Lee White and Alfred Lester, Nelson Keys;Supper to follow.
Haveyou forgotten? you who dine to-night
In comfort at the Carlton or Savoy.
(Lord, but I’d like a dart at that myself—
Oysters,crêmesomething, solevin blanc, a bird,
And one cold bottle of the very best—
A girl to share it: afterwards, a show—
Lee White and Alfred Lester, Nelson Keys;
Supper to follow.
... Our Brigade’s in rest—The usual farm. I’ve got the only bed.The men are fairly comfy—three good barns.Thank God, they didn’t have to bivouacAfter this last month in the Salient.) ...
... Our Brigade’s in rest—
The usual farm. I’ve got the only bed.
The men are fairly comfy—three good barns.
Thank God, they didn’t have to bivouac
After this last month in the Salient.) ...
Youhaveforgotten; or you couldn’t writeThis sort of stuff—all cant, no guts in it,Hardly a single picture true to life.
Youhaveforgotten; or you couldn’t write
This sort of stuff—all cant, no guts in it,
Hardly a single picture true to life.
Well, here’s a picture for you: Montauban—Last year—the flattened village on our left—On our right flank, the razed Briqueterie,Their five-nines pounding bits to dustier bits—Behind, a cratered slope, with batteriesCrashing and flashing, violet in the dusk,And prematuring every now and then—In front, the ragged Bois de Bernafay,Bosche whizz-bangs bursting white among its trees.
Well, here’s a picture for you: Montauban—
Last year—the flattened village on our left—
On our right flank, the razed Briqueterie,
Their five-nines pounding bits to dustier bits—
Behind, a cratered slope, with batteries
Crashing and flashing, violet in the dusk,
And prematuring every now and then—
In front, the ragged Bois de Bernafay,
Bosche whizz-bangs bursting white among its trees.
You had been doing F.O.O. that day;(The Staff knows why we had an F.O.O.:One couldn’t flag-wag through Trônes Wood; the wiresWent down as fast as one could put them up;And messages by runner took three hours.)I got the wind up rather: you were late,And they’d been shelling like the very deuce.However, back you came. I see you now,Staggering into “mess”—a broken trench,Two chalk-walls roofed with corrugated iron,And, round the traverse, Driver Noakes’s stoveStinking and smoking while we ate our grub.Your face was blue-white, streaked with dirt; your eyesHad shrunk into your head, as though afraidTo watch more horrors; you were sodden-wetWith greasy coal-black mud—and other things.Sweating and shivering, speechless, there you stood.I gave you whisky, made you talk. You said:“Major, another signaller’s been killed.”“Who?”“Gunner Andrews, blast them. O my Christ!His head—split open—when his brains oozed out,They looked like bloody sweetbreads, in the muck.”
You had been doing F.O.O. that day;
(The Staff knows why we had an F.O.O.:
One couldn’t flag-wag through Trônes Wood; the wires
Went down as fast as one could put them up;
And messages by runner took three hours.)
I got the wind up rather: you were late,
And they’d been shelling like the very deuce.
However, back you came. I see you now,
Staggering into “mess”—a broken trench,
Two chalk-walls roofed with corrugated iron,
And, round the traverse, Driver Noakes’s stove
Stinking and smoking while we ate our grub.
Your face was blue-white, streaked with dirt; your eyes
Had shrunk into your head, as though afraid
To watch more horrors; you were sodden-wet
With greasy coal-black mud—and other things.
Sweating and shivering, speechless, there you stood.
I gave you whisky, made you talk. You said:
“Major, another signaller’s been killed.”
“Who?”
“Gunner Andrews, blast them. O my Christ!
His head—split open—when his brains oozed out,
They looked like bloody sweetbreads, in the muck.”
And you’re the chap who writes this claptrap verse!
And you’re the chap who writes this claptrap verse!
Lord, if I’d halfyourbrains, I’d write a book:None of your sentimental platitudes,But something real, vital; that should stripThe glamour from this outrage we call war,Shewing it naked, hideous, stupid, vile—One vast abomination. So that theyWho, coming after, till the ransomed fieldsWhere our lean corpses rotted in the ooze,Reading my written words, should understandThis stark stupendous horror, visualizeThe unutterable foulness of it all....I’d shew them, not your glamourous “glorious game,”Which men play “jesting” “for their honour’s sake”—(A kind of Military Tournament,With just a hint of danger—bound in cloth!)—But War,—as war is now, and always was:A dirty, loathsome, servile murder-job:—Men, lousy, sleepless, ulcerous, afraid,Toiling their hearts out in the pulling slimeThat wrenches gum-boot down from bleeding heelAnd cakes in itching arm-pits, navel, ears:Men stunned to brainlessness, and gibbering:Men driving men to death and worse than death:Men maimed and blinded: men against machines—Flesh versus iron, concrete, flame and wire:Men choking out their souls in poison-gas:Men squelched into the slime by trampling feet:Men, disembowelled by guns five miles away,Cursing, with their last breath, the living GodBecause he made them, in His image, men....So—were your talent mine—I’d write of warFor those who, coming after, know it not.
Lord, if I’d halfyourbrains, I’d write a book:
None of your sentimental platitudes,
But something real, vital; that should strip
The glamour from this outrage we call war,
Shewing it naked, hideous, stupid, vile—
One vast abomination. So that they
Who, coming after, till the ransomed fields
Where our lean corpses rotted in the ooze,
Reading my written words, should understand
This stark stupendous horror, visualize
The unutterable foulness of it all....
I’d shew them, not your glamourous “glorious game,”
Which men play “jesting” “for their honour’s sake”—
(A kind of Military Tournament,
With just a hint of danger—bound in cloth!)—
But War,—as war is now, and always was:
A dirty, loathsome, servile murder-job:—
Men, lousy, sleepless, ulcerous, afraid,
Toiling their hearts out in the pulling slime
That wrenches gum-boot down from bleeding heel
And cakes in itching arm-pits, navel, ears:
Men stunned to brainlessness, and gibbering:
Men driving men to death and worse than death:
Men maimed and blinded: men against machines—
Flesh versus iron, concrete, flame and wire:
Men choking out their souls in poison-gas:
Men squelched into the slime by trampling feet:
Men, disembowelled by guns five miles away,
Cursing, with their last breath, the living God
Because he made them, in His image, men....
So—were your talent mine—I’d write of war
For those who, coming after, know it not.
And if posterity should ask of meWhat high, what base emotions keyed weak fleshTo face such torments, I would answer: “You!Not for themselves, O daughters, grandsons, sons,Your tortured forebears wrought this miracle;Not for themselves,accomplished utterlyThis loathliest task of murderous servitude;But just because they realized that thus,And only thus, by sacrifice, might theySecure a world worth living in—for you.” ...
And if posterity should ask of me
What high, what base emotions keyed weak flesh
To face such torments, I would answer: “You!
Not for themselves, O daughters, grandsons, sons,
Your tortured forebears wrought this miracle;
Not for themselves,accomplished utterly
This loathliest task of murderous servitude;
But just because they realized that thus,
And only thus, by sacrifice, might they
Secure a world worth living in—for you.” ...
Good-night, my soldier-poet.Dormez bien!
Good-night, my soldier-poet.Dormez bien!