Voices would grunt, “Keep to your right,—­make way!”
When squeezing past the men from the front-line: 
White faces peered, puffing a point of red;
Candles and braziers glinted through the chinks
And curtain-flaps of dug-outs; then the gloom
Swallowed his sense of sight; he stooped and swore
Because a sagging wire had caught his neck. 
A flare went up; the shining whiteness spread
And flickered upward, showing nimble rats,
And mounds of glimmering sand-bags, bleached with rain;
Then the slow, silver moment died in dark.

The wind came posting by with chilly gusts
And buffeting at corners, piping thin
And dreary through the crannies; rifle-shots
Would split and crack and sing along the night,
And shells came calmly through the drizzling air
To burst with hollow bang below the hill.

Three hours ago he stumbled up the trench;
Now he will never walk that road again: 
He must be carried back, a jolting lump
Beyond all need of tenderness and care;
A nine-stone corpse with nothing more to do.

He was a young man with a meagre wife
And two pale children in a Midland town;
He showed the photograph to all his mates;
And they considered him a decent chap
Who did his work and hadn’t much to say,
And always laughed at other people’s jokes
Because he hadn’t any of his own.

That night, when he was busy at his job
Of piling bags along the parapet,
He thought how slow time went, stamping his feet,
And blowing on his fingers, pinched with cold.

He thought of getting back by half-past twelve,
And tot of rum to send him warm to sleep
In draughty dug-out frowsty with the fumes
Of coke, and full of snoring, weary men.

He pushed another bag along the top,
Craning his body outward; then a flare
Gave one white glimpse of No Man’s Land and wire;
And as he dropped his head the instant split
His startled life with lead, and all went out.

STAND-TO:  GOOD FRIDAY MORNING

I’d been on duty from two till four. 
I went and stared at the dug-out door. 
Down in the frowst I heard them snore. 
“Stand-to!” Somebody grunted and swore. 
  Dawn was misty; the skies were still;
  Larks were singing, discordant, shrill;
  They seemed happy; but I felt ill. 
Deep in water I splashed my way
Up the trench to our bogged front line. 
Rain had fallen the whole damned night. 
O Jesus, send me a wound to-day,
And I’ll believe in Your bread and wine,
And get my bloody old sins washed white!

“In the pink”

So Davies wrote:  “This leaves me in the pink.” 
Then scrawled his name:  “Your loving sweetheart, Willie.” 
With crosses for a hug.  He’d had a drink
Of rum and tea; and, though the barn was chilly,
For once his blood ran warm; he had pay to spend. 
Winter was passing; soon the year would mend.