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. He couldn't sleep that night. Stiff in the dark He groaned and thought of Sundays at the farm, When he'd go out as cheerful as a lark In his best suit to wander arm-in-arm With brown-eyed Gwen, and whisper in her ear The simple, silly things she liked to hear. And then he thought: to-morrow night we trudge Up to the trenches, and my boots are rotten. Five miles of stodgy clay and freezing sludge, And everything but wretchedness forgotten. To-night he's in the pink; but soon he'll die. And still the war goes on; _he_ don't know why. THE HERO