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Wounded



Is it not strange? A year ago to-day,
  With scarce a thought beyond the hum-drum round,
I did my decent job and earned my pay;
  Was averagely happy, I'll be bound.
Ay, in my little groove I was content,
  Seeing my life run smoothly to the end,
With prosy days in stolid labour spent,
  And jolly nights, a pipe, a glass, a friend.
In God's good time a hearth fire's cosy gleam,
  A wife and kids, and all a fellow needs;
When presto! like a bubble goes my dream:
  I leap upon the Stage of Splendid Deeds.
I yell with rage; I wallow deep in gore:
  I, that was clerk in a drysalter's store.

Stranger than any book I've ever read.
  Here on the reeking battlefield I lie,
Under the stars, propped up with smeary dead,
  Like too, if no one takes me in, to die.
Hit on the arms, legs, liver, lungs and gall;
  Damn glad there's nothing more of me to hit;
But calm, and feeling never pain at all,
  And full of wonder at the turn of it.
For of the dead around me three are mine,
  Three foemen vanquished in the whirl of fight;
So if I die I have no right to whine,
  I feel I've done my little bit all right.
I don't know how -- but there the beggars are,
  As dead as herrings pickled in a jar.

And here am I, worse wounded than I thought;
  For in the fight a bullet bee-like stings;
You never heed; the air is metal-hot,
  And all alive with little flicking wings.
But on you charge. You see the fellows fall;
  Your pal was by your side, fair fighting-mad;
You turn to him, and lo! no pal at all;
  You wonder vaguely if he's copped it bad.
But on you charge. The heavens vomit death;
  And vicious death is besoming the ground.
You're blind with sweat; you're dazed, and out of breath,
  And though you yell, you cannot hear a sound.
But on you charge. Oh, War's a rousing game!
  Around you smoky clouds like ogres tower;
The earth is rowelled deep with spurs of flame,
  And on your helmet stones and ashes shower.
But on you charge. It's odd! You have no fear.
  Machine-gun bullets whip and lash your path;
Red, yellow, black the smoky giants rear;
  The shrapnel rips, the heavens roar in wrath.
But on you charge. Barbed wire all trampled down.
  The ground all gored and rent as by a blast;
Grim heaps of grey where once were heaps of brown;
  A ragged ditch -- the Hun first line at last.
All smashed to hell. Their second right ahead,
  So on you charge. There's nothing else to do.
More reeking holes, blood, barbed wire, gruesome dead;
  (Your puttee strap's undone -- that worries you).
You glare around. You think you're all alone.
  But no; your chums come surging left and right.
The nearest chap flops down without a groan,
  His face still snarling with the rage of fight.
Ha! here's the second trench -- just like the first,
  Only a little more so, more "laid out";
More pounded, flame-corroded, death-accurst;
  A pretty piece of work, beyond a doubt.
Now for the third, and there your job is done,
  So on you charge. You never stop to think.
Your cursed puttee's trailing as you run;
  You feel you'd sell your soul to have a drink.
The acrid air is full of cracking whips.
  You wonder how it is you're going still.
You foam with rage. Oh, God! to be at grips
  With someone you can rush and crush and kill.
Your sleeve is dripping blood; you're seeing red;
  You're battle-mad; your turn is coming now.
See! there's the jagged barbed wire straight ahead,
  And there's the trench -- you'll get there anyhow.
Your puttee catches on a strand of wire,
  And down you go; perhaps it saves your life,
For over sandbag rims you see 'em fire,
  Crop-headed chaps, their eyes ablaze with strife.
You crawl, you cower; then once again you plunge
  With all your comrades roaring at your heels.
Have at 'em lads! You stab, you jab, you lunge;
  A blaze of glory, then the red world reels.
A crash of triumph, then . . . you're faint a bit . . .
  That cursed puttee! Now to fasten it. . . .

Well, that's the charge. And now I'm here alone.
  I've built a little wall of Hun on Hun,
To shield me from the leaden bees that drone
  (It saves me worry, and it hurts 'em none).
The only thing I'm wondering is when
  Some stretcher-men will stroll along my way?
It isn't much that's left of me, but then
  Where life is, hope is, so at least they say.
Well, if I'm spared I'll be the happy lad.
  I tell you I won't envy any king.
I've stood the racket, and I'm proud and glad;
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Submitted on May 13, 2011

4:16 min read
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Robert William Service

Robert William Service was a poet and writer sometimes referred to as the Bard of the Yukon He is best-known for his writings on the Canadian North including the poems The Shooting of Dan McGrew The Law of the Yukon and The Cremation of Sam McGee His writing was so expressive that his readers took him for a hard-bitten old Klondike prospector not the later-arriving bank clerk he actually was Robert William Service was born 16 January 1874 in Preston England but also lived in Scotland before emigrating to Canada in 1894 Service went to the Yukon Territory in 1904 as a bank clerk and became famous for his poems about this region which are mostly in his first two books of poetry He wrote quite a bit of prose as well and worked as a reporter for some time but those writings are not nearly as well known as his poems He travelled around the world quite a bit and narrowly escaped from France at the beginning of the Second World War during which time he lived in Hollywood California He died 11 September 1958 in France Incidentally he played himself in a movie called The Spoilers starring John Wayne and Marlene Dietrich more…

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