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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508970" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Wounded</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Is it not strange? A year ago to-day,<br> With scarce a thought beyond the hum-drum round,<br>I did my decent job and earned my pay;<br> Was averagely happy, I'll be bound.<br>Ay, in my little groove I was content,<br> Seeing my life run smoothly to the end,<br>With prosy days in stolid labour spent,<br> And jolly nights, a pipe, a glass, a friend.<br>In God's good time a hearth fire's cosy gleam,<br> A wife and kids, and all a fellow needs;<br>When presto! like a bubble goes my dream:<br> I leap upon the Stage of Splendid Deeds.<br>I yell with rage; I wallow deep in gore:<br> I, that was clerk in a drysalter's store.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Stranger than any book I've ever read.<br> Here on the reeking battlefield I lie,<br>Under the stars, propped up with smeary dead,<br> Like too, if no one takes me in, to die.<br>Hit on the arms, legs, liver, lungs and gall;<br> Damn glad there's nothing more of me to hit;<br>But calm, and feeling never pain at all,<br> And full of wonder at the turn of it.<br>For of the dead around me three are mine,<br> Three foemen vanquished in the whirl of fight;<br>So if I die I have no right to whine,<br> I feel I've done my little bit all right.<br>I don't know how -- but there the beggars are,<br> As dead as herrings pickled in a jar.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And here am I, worse wounded than I thought;<br> For in the fight a bullet bee-like stings;<br>You never heed; the air is metal-hot,<br> And all alive with little flicking wings.<br>But on you charge. You see the fellows fall;<br> Your pal was by your side, fair fighting-mad;<br>You turn to him, and lo! no pal at all;<br> You wonder vaguely if he's copped it bad.<br>But on you charge. The heavens vomit death;<br> And vicious death is besoming the ground.<br>You're blind with sweat; you're dazed, and out of breath,<br> And though you yell, you cannot hear a sound.<br>But on you charge. Oh, War's a rousing game!<br> Around you smoky clouds like ogres tower;<br>The earth is rowelled deep with spurs of flame,<br> And on your helmet stones and ashes shower.<br>But on you charge. It's odd! You have no fear.<br> Machine-gun bullets whip and lash your path;<br>Red, yellow, black the smoky giants rear;<br> The shrapnel rips, the heavens roar in wrath.<br>But on you charge. Barbed wire all trampled down.<br> The ground all gored and rent as by a blast;<br>Grim heaps of grey where once were heaps of brown;<br> A ragged ditch -- the Hun first line at last.<br>All smashed to hell. Their second right ahead,<br> So on you charge. There's nothing else to do.<br>More reeking holes, blood, barbed wire, gruesome dead;<br> (Your puttee strap's undone -- that worries you).<br>You glare around. You think you're all alone.<br> But no; your chums come surging left and right.<br>The nearest chap flops down without a groan,<br> His face still snarling with the rage of fight.<br>Ha! here's the second trench -- just like the first,<br> Only a little more so, more &quot;laid out&quot;;<br>More pounded, flame-corroded, death-accurst;<br> A pretty piece of work, beyond a doubt.<br>Now for the third, and there your job is done,<br> So on you charge. You never stop to think.<br>Your cursed puttee's trailing as you run;<br> You feel you'd sell your soul to have a drink.<br>The acrid air is full of cracking whips.<br> You wonder how it is you're going still.<br>You foam with rage. Oh, God! to be at grips<br> With someone you can rush and crush and kill.<br>Your sleeve is dripping blood; you're seeing red;<br> You're battle-mad; your turn is coming now.<br>See! there's the jagged barbed wire straight ahead,<br> And there's the trench -- you'll get there anyhow.<br>Your puttee catches on a strand of wire,<br> And down you go; perhaps it saves your life,<br>For over sandbag rims you see 'em fire,<br> Crop-headed chaps, their eyes ablaze with strife.<br>You crawl, you cower; then once again you plunge<br> With all your comrades roaring at your heels.<br>Have at 'em lads! You stab, you jab, you lunge;<br> A blaze of glory, then the red world reels.<br>A crash of triumph, then . . . you're faint a bit . . .<br> That cursed puttee! Now to fasten it. . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Well, that's the charge. And now I'm here alone.<br> I've built a little wall of Hun on Hun,<br>To shield me from the leaden bees that drone<br> (It saves me worry, and it hurts 'em none).<br>The only thing I'm wondering is when<br> Some stretcher-men will stroll along my way?<br>It isn't much that's left of me, but then<br> Where life is, hope is, so at least they say.<br>Well, if I'm spared I'll be the happy lad.<br> I tell you I won't envy any king.<br>I've stood the racket, and I'm proud and glad;<br> I've had my crowning hour. Oh, War's the thing!<br>It gives us common, working chaps our chance,<br> A taste of glory, chivalry, romance.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ay, War, they say, is hell; it's heaven, too.<br> It lets a man discover what he's worth.<br>It takes his measure, shows what he can do,<br> Gives him a joy like nothing else on earth.<br>It fans in him a flame that otherwise<br> Would flicker out, these drab, discordant days;<br>It teaches him in pain and sacrifice<br> Faith, fortitude, grim courage past all praise.<br>Yes, War is good. So here beside my slain,<br> A happy wreck I wait amid the din;<br>For even if I perish mine's the gain. . . .<br> Hi, there, you fellows! won't you take me in?<br>Give me a fag to smoke upon the way. . . .<br> We've taken La Boiselle! The hell, you say!<br>Well, that would make a corpse sit up and grin. . . .<br> Lead on! I'll live to fight another day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+William+Service">Robert William Service</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508970" data-title="Wounded de Robert William Service" data-description="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,
Wit..."></div>
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