64435: Bazentin, 1916
Creators: name: Project Team, First World War Poetry Digital Archive
Publisher: name: University of Oxford
Year: 2024
Subjects: classificationCode: 430304
subject: British history
classificationCode: 430308
subject: European history (excl. British, classical Greek and Roman)
classificationCode: 430316
subject: International history

description: (A Reminiscence---Robert and David)<br> R.<br> That was a curious night, two years ago,<br> Relieving those tired Dockers at Bazentin.<br> Remember climbing up between the ruins?<br> The guide that lost his head when the gas-shells came,<br> Lurching about this way and that, half-witted,<br> Till we were forced to find the way ourselves?<br> D.<br> Yes, twilight torn with flashes, faces muffled,<br> In stinking masks, and eyes all sore and crying<br> With lachrymatory stuff, and four men gassed.<br> R.<br> Yet we got up there safely, found the trenches<br> Untraversed shallow ditches, along a road<br> With dead men sprawled about, some ours, some theirs---<br> D.<br> Ours mostly, and those Dockers doing nothing,<br> Tired out, poor devils; much too tired to dig,<br> Or to do anything but just hold the ground:<br> No touch on either flank, no touch in front,<br> Everything in the air. I cursed, I tell you.<br> Out went the Dockers, quick as we filed in,<br> And soon we'd settled down and put things straight,<br> Posted the guns, dug in, got out patrols,<br> And sent to right and left to restore touch.<br> R.<br> There was a sunken road out on the right,<br> With rifle-pits half dug; at every pit<br> A dead man had his head thrust in for shelter.<br> D.<br> Dawn found us happy enough; a funny day ---<br> The strangest I remember in all those weeks.<br> German five-nines were bracketting down our trenches<br> Morning and afternoon.<br> R.<br> Why, yes; at dinner,<br> Three times my cup was shaken out of my hand<br> And filled with dirt: I had to pour out fresh.<br> D.<br> That was the mug you took from the Boche gun.<br> Remember that field gun, with the team killed<br> By a lucky shot just as the German gunners<br> Were limbering up? We found the gunner's treasures<br> In a box behind, his lump of fine white chalk<br> Carefully carved, and painted with a message<br> Of love to his dear wife, and Allied flags,<br> A list of German victories, and an eagle.<br> Then his clean washing, and his souvenirs ---<br> British shell-heads, French bullets, lumps of shrapnel,<br> Nothing much more. I never thought it lucky<br> To take that sort of stuff.<br> R.<br> Then a tame magpie---<br> German, we guessed---came hopping into the trench,<br> Picking up scraps of food. That's 'One for sorrow'<br> I said to little Owen.<br> D.<br> Not much mistaken<br> In the event, when only three days later<br> They threw us at High Wood and (mind, we got there!)<br> Smashed up the best battalion in the whole corps.<br> But, Robert, quite the queerest thing that day<br> Happened in the late afternoon. Worn out,<br> I snatched two hours of sleep; the Boche bombardment<br> Roared on, but I commended my soul to God,<br> And slept half through it; but as I lay there snoring<br> A mouse, in terror of all these wild alarms,<br> Crept down my neck for shelter, and woke me up<br> In a great sweat. Blindly I gave one punch<br> And slew the rascal at the small of my back.<br> That was a strange day!<br> R.<br> Yes, and a merry one.