Between the Lines


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, thinkng 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 in 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,
Politiely 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 changes!
You'd just got
To take your luck in life, you couln'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 haw 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
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 would
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, will 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 safely. 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
Forever in that hungry hole and rot,
He'd got to take his luck, to take his
chance
Of being sniped by foes or friends. 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.
 
 

By:  Wilfred Wilson Gibson