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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
BETWEEN THE LINES, by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: When consciousness came back, he found he lay Last Line: He rose, and crawled away into the night. Subject(s): World War I - Casualties | |||
When consciousness came back, he found he lay Between the opposing fires, but could not tell On which hand were his friends; and either way For him to turn was chancy -- bullet and shell Whistling and shrieking over him, as the glare Of searchlights scoured the darkness to blind day. He scrambled to his hands and knees ascare, Dragging his wounded foot through puddled clay, And tumbled in a hole a shell had scooped At random in a turnip-field between The unseen trenches where the foes lay cooped Through that unending battle of unseen Dead-locked league-stretching armies; and quite spent He rolled upon his back within the pit, And lay secure, thinking of all it meant -- His lying in that little hole, sore hit, But living, while across the starry sky Shrapnel and shell went screeching overhead -- Of all it meant that he, Tom Dodd, should lie Among the Belgian turnips, while his bed... If it were he, indeed, who'd climbed each night, Fagged with the day's work, up the narrow stair, And slipt his clothes off in the candle-light, Too tired to fold them neatly on a chair The way his mother'd taught him -- too dog-tired After the long day's serving in the shop, Inquiring what each customer required, Politely talking weather, fit to drop... And now for fourteen days and nights, at least, He hadn't had his clothes off; and had lain In muddy trenches, napping like a beast With one eye open, under sun and rain And that unceasing hell-fire... It was strange How things turned out -- the chances! You'd just got To take your luck in life, you couldn't change Your luck. And so here he was lying shot Who just six months ago had thought to spend His days behind a counter. Still, perhaps... And now, God only knew how he would end! He'd like to know how many of the chaps Had won back to the trench alive, when he Had fallen wounded and been left for dead, If any!... This was different, certainly, From selling knots of tape and reels of thread And knots of tape and reels of thread and knots Of tape and reels of thread and knots of tape, Day in, day out, and answering "Have you got's" And "Do you keep's," till there seemed no escape From everlasting serving in a shop, Inquiring what each customer required, Politely talking weather, fit to drop, With swollen ankles, tired... But he was tired Now. Every bone was aching, and had ached For fourteen days and nights in that wet trench -- Just duller when he slept than when he waked -- Crouching for shelter from the steady drench Of shell and shrapnel... That old trench, it seemed Almost like home to him. He'd slept and fed And sung and smoked in it, while shrapnel screamed And shells went whining harmless overhead -- Harmless, at least, as far as he... But Dick -- Dick hadn't found them harmless yesterday, At breakfast, when he'd said he couldn't stick Eating dry bread, and crawled out the back way, And brought them butter in a lordly dish -- Butter enough for all, and held it high, Yellow and fresh and clean as you could wish -- When plump upon the plate from out the sky A shell fell bursting ... Where the butter went, God only knew!... And Dick ... He dared not think Of what had come to Dick ... or what it meant -- The shrieking and the whistling and the stink He'd lived in fourteen days and nights. 'Twas luck That he still lived ... And queer how little then He seemed to care that Dick ... Perhaps 'twas pluck That hardened him -- a man among the men -- Perhaps ... Yet, only think things out a bit, And he was rabbit-livered, blue with funk! And he'd liked Dick ... and yet when Dick was hit, He hadn't turned a hair. The meanest skunk He should have thought would feel it when his mate Was blown to smithereens -- Dick, proud as punch, Grinning like sin, and holding up the plate -- But he had gone on munching his dry hunch, Unwinking, till he swallowed the last crumb. Perhaps 'twas just because he dared not let His mind run upon Dick, who'd been his chum. He dared not now, though he could not forget. Dick took his luck. And, life or death, 'twas luck From first to last; and you'd just got to trust Your luck and grin. It wasn't so much pluck As knowing that you'd got to, when needs must, And better to die grinning... Quiet now Had fallen on the night. On either hand The guns were quiet. Cool upon his brow The quiet darkness brooded, as he scanned The starry sky. He'd never seen before So many stars. Although, of course, he'd known That there were stars, somehow before the war He'd never realised them -- so thick-sown, Millions and millions. Serving in the shop, Stars didn't count for much; and then at nights Strolling the pavements, dull and fit to drop, You didn't see much but the city lights. He'd never in his life seen so much sky As he'd seen this last fortnight. It was queer The things war taught you. He'd a mind to try To count the stars -- they shone so bright and clear. One, two, three, four ... Ah, God, but he was tired... Five, six, seven, eight... Yes: it was number eight. And what was the next thing that she required? (Too bad of customers to come so late, At closing-time!) Again within the shop He handled knots of tape and reels of thread, Politely talking weather, fit to drop... When once again the whole sky overhead Flared blind with searchlights, and the shriek of shell And scream of shrapnel roused him. Drowsily He stared about him wondering. Then he fell Into deep dreamless slumber. He could see Two dark eyes peeping at him, ere he knew He was awake, and it again was day -- An August morning burning to clear blue. The frightened rabbit scuttled... Far away, A sound of firing ... Up there, in the sky Big dragon-flies hung hovering ... Snowballs burst About them... Flies and snowballs! With a cry He crouched to watch the airmen pass -- the first That he'd seen under fire. Lord, that was pluck -- Shells bursting all about them -- and what nerve! They took their chance, and trusted to their luck. At such a dizzy height to dip and swerve, Dodging the shell-fire... Hell! but one was hit, And tumbling like a pigeon, plump... Thank Heaven, It righted, and then turned; and after it The whole flock followed safe -- four, five, six, seven, Yes, they were all there safe. He hoped they'd win Back to their lines in safety. They deserved, Even if they were Germans ... 'Twas no sin To wish them luck. Think how that beggar swerved Just in the nick of time! He, too, must try To win back to the lines, though, likely as not, He'd take the wrong turn: but he couldn't lie For ever in that hungry hole and rot. He'd got to take his luck, to take his chance Of being sniped by foe or friend. He'd be With any luck in Germany or France Or kingdom-come, next morning... Drearily The blazing day burnt over him, shot and shell Whistling and whining ceaselessly. But light Faded at last, and as the darkness fell He rose, and crawled away into the night. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MORNING PAPER by KATHARINE LEE BATES FOR THE FALLEN (SEPTEMBER 1914) by LAURENCE BINYON TRAFALGAR SQUARE by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES 1914: 3. THE DEAD by RUPERT BROOKE 1914: 4. THE DEAD by RUPERT BROOKE RUPERT BROOKE by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON THE MESSAGES by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON |
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