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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519031" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Working Party</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Three hours ago he blundered up the trench, <br>Sliding and poising, groping with his boots; <br>Sometimes he tripped and lurched against the walls <br>With hands that pawed the sodden bags of chalk. <br>He couldn't see the man who walked in front; <br>Only he heard the drum and rattle of feet <br>Stepping along barred trench boards, often splashing <br>Wretchedly where the sludge was ankle-deep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Voices would grunt `Keep to your right -- make way!' <br>When squeezing past some men from the front-line: <br>White faces peered, puffing a point of red; <br>Candles and braziers glinted through the chinks <br>And curtain-flaps of dug-outs; then the gloom <br>Swallowed his sense of sight; he stooped and swore <br>Because a sagging wire had caught his neck.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A flare went up; the shining whiteness spread <br>And flickered upward, showing nimble rats <br>And mounds of glimmering sand-bags, bleached with rain; <br>Then the slow silver moment died in dark. <br>The wind came posting by with chilly gusts <br>And buffeting at the corners, piping thin. <br>And dreary through the crannies; rifle-shots <br>Would split and crack and sing along the night, <br>And shells came calmly through the drizzling air <br>To burst with hollow bang below the hill.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Three hours ago, he stumbled up the trench; <br>Now he will never walk that road again: <br>He must be carried back, a jolting lump <br>Beyond all needs of tenderness and care.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He was a young man with a meagre wife <br>And two small children in a Midland town, <br>He showed their photographs to all his mates, <br>And they considered him a decent chap <br>Who did his work and hadn't much to say, <br>And always laughed at other people's jokes <br>Because he hadn't any of his own.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That night when he was busy at his job <br>Of piling bags along the parapet, <br>He thought how slow time went, stamping his feet <br>And blowing on his fingers, pinched with cold. <br>He thought of getting back by half-past twelve, <br>And tot of rum to send him warm to sleep <br>In draughty dug-out frowsty with the fumes <br>Of coke, and full of snoring weary men.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He pushed another bag along the top, <br>Craning his body outward; then a flare <br>Gave one white glimpse of No Man's Land and wire; <br>And as he dropped his head the instant split <br>His startled life with lead, and all went out.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Siegfried+Sassoon">Siegfried Sassoon</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=519031" data-title="The Working Party de Siegfried Sassoon" data-description="Three hours ago he blundered up the trench, 
Sliding and poising, groping with his boots; 
Sometimes he tripped and lurched against the walls 
With hands that pawed the sodden bags of chalk. 
He couldn't see the man who walked in front; 
Only he h..."></div>
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