# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/A Finger and a Huge, Thick Thumb

A FINGER AND A HUGE, THICK THUMB
(A Ballad of the Trenches)
IT was nearly twelve o'clock by the sergeant's watch; The moon was three hours high. The long grass growing on the parapet Rustled as the wind went by. Hoar-frost glistened on the bayonets Of the rifles in the rifle-rack. Suddenly I heard a faint, weird call And an answering call come back.
We were standing in the corner by the Maxim gun, In the shadow, and the sergeant said, As he gripped my arm: "Did you hear it?" I could only nod my head. Looking down the length of the moonlit trench, I saw the sleeping men Huddled on the floor; but no one stirred. Silently we listened again.
​A second time it came, still dim and strange, A far "Hal oo-o-o Halloo-o-o!" I wouldn't have believed such a ghostly cry Could sound so clearly, too. The sentries standing to the right and left Neither spoke nor stirred. They stood like stone. Can it be, I thought, That nobody else has heard?
Then closer at hand, "Halloo-o-o! Halloo-o-o!" Again the answering call. "Quick!" said the sergeant as he pulled me down In the shadow, close to the wall. I dropped in a heap and none too soon; For scarcely a rifle length away, A man stood silent on the parados; His face was a ghastly grey.
He carried a queer, old muzzle-loading gun; The bayonet was dim with rust. His top-boots were muddy, and his red uniform Covered with blood and dust. He waited for a moment, then waved his hand, And they came in twos and threes: Englishmen, Dutchmen, French cuirassiers, Highlanders with great bare knees;
Pikemen, archers with huge crossbows, Lancers and grenadiers; Men in rusty armour, with battle-dented shields, With axes and swords and spears. Great blond giants with long, flowing hair And limbs of enormous girth; Yellow men with bludgeons, black men with knives, From the wild, waste lands of the earth.
The one with the queer, old muzzle-loading gun Jumped down with a light quick leap. He was head and shoulders higher than the parapet, Though the trench was six feet deep ​The sentries stood like men in a dream, With their faces to the German line. He felt of their arms, their bodies, and their legs, But they made no sound or sign.
He beckoned to the others, and three jumped in. I was shaking like a man with a chill; But I couldn't help smiling when the sergeant said Through his chattering teeth: "K-k-k-keep s-s-s-still!" A hairy-armed giant, with rings in his ears, Stood looking down the dugout stair, Hands on his knees. Slowly he turned, And saw us lying there!
With a huge forefinger and a huge, thick thumb He felt us over, limb by limb. The two of us together would not have made One man the size of him. I could see his scorn, and my face burned hot, Though my body was cold and numb, When he spanned my chest so disdainfully With only a finger and a thumb.
Suddenly the chatter of the sergeant's teeth Stopped. He was angry, too; And he whispered: "Are you game? Get the Maxim gun!" I hugged him. "It will scare them blue." Slowly, very slowly, we rose to our feet; I was conscious of my knocking knees. The murmur of their voices was an eery sound Like wind in wintry trees.
I saw them staring from the tail of my eye As the tripod legs were set. We lifted the gun and clamped it on, With the muzzle at the parapet. Nervously I pushed in the tag of the belt; The sergeant loaded and laid Quietly, deftly; the click of the lock Was the only sound he made.
​"Ready?" He nodded. I turned my head And nearly collapsed with fright. Four of them were standing at my shoulder, The others to the left and right. Then, "Fire!" I shouted, and the gun leaped up With a roar and a spurt of flame. The sergeant gripped the handles while the belt ran through, Never stopping to correct his aim.
Fearfully I turned, then jumped to my feet, Forgetting all about the feed. They were running like the wind up a long, steep hill, With the thumb-and-finger man in the lead! And high above the rattle and roar of the gun I heard a despairing yell, As Englishmen, Dutchmen, pikemen, bowmen, Vanished in the night, pell-mell.
The men who were sleeping in the moonlit trench Sat up and rubbed their eyes; And one of them muttered in a drowsy voice: "Wot to blazes is the row, you guys?" The sergeant said: "That'll do! That'll do!" But he whispered to me: "Keep mum!" They wouldn't have believed that the row was all about A finger and a huge, thick thumb.
James Norman Hall