Trench Duty

Shaken from sleep, and numbed and scarce awake,  

Out in the trench with three hours’ watch to take,  

I blunder through the splashing mirk; and then  

Hear the gruff muttering voices of the men  

Crouching in cabins candle-chinked with light.

Hark! There’s the big bombardment on our right  

Rumbling and bumping; and the dark’s a glare  

Of flickering horror in the sectors where  

We raid the Boche; men waiting, stiff and chilled,  

Or crawling on their bellies through the wire.

‘What? Stretcher-bearers wanted? Some one killed?’  

Five minutes ago I heard a sniper fire:  

Why did he do it?… Starlight overhead—  

Blank stars. I’m wide-awake; and some chap’s dead.