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.

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