Gilbert Waterhouse
Someville is the Railhead for bully beef and tea,
Matches and candles, and (good for you and me)
Cocoa and coffee and biscuits by the tin,
Sardines, condensed milk, petrol and paraffin.
Truck-load and train-load and lorries by the score,
Mule-cart and limber, “what are yer waitin’ for ?”
Dusty and dirty and full of noisy din,
“If ‘e fights upon ‘is stomach, this ‘ere army oughter win !”
Someville is the Rail-head, full of noisy din,
Full of men and horses and mules and paraffin,
Frozen meat and apricots and peaches-a-la-tin,
Shunting up and down, across, and round and out and in.
But down beyond the Rail-head and village of that name
Are green woods, where the cuckoo is calling just the same,
As he used to call in April, in the years before the war,
And he calls the same as ever now and doesn’t care a straw,
Down the green and leafy lanes, where Jean and his Marcelle
In Spring-time would wander, their loving vows to tell.
But petite Marcelle now is up, and working on the farm,
With only the memory of Jean’s encircling arm,
Only comfort, chilling comfort, can little Marcelle draw,
And cuckoos are calling, and never care a straw;
And Tommy says that girl Marcelle, indeed sh is “no bonn,”
Because Marcelle “no promenade” with any mother’s son;
Because petite Marcelle, he says, is always cross and sad,
When cuckoos are calling and all the woods are glad.
And madame, the mother of dark-eyed, sad Marcelle,
She ain’t what yer’d call now a petite demoiselle,
“Gor blimey, she ain’t, no!” says Tommy. “She’s narpoo!
A-scoldin’ ‘er daughter, an’ makin’ such terdoo!”
But mother and daughter, tho’ Tommy doesn’t see,
Are held by the bond of a common memory,
A husband, a father, a lover, and a son,
The war barely started, and all were up and gone,
And mother and daughter now work upon the farms,
With only the memory of those encircling arms.
Someville is the Rail-head for tea and bully beef,
Dusty and dirty, with all the woods in leaf
In April, sweet April, and all the world at war,
And cuckoos a-calling and never care a straw.
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem paints two worlds side by side: the chaos of a military supply station and the quiet persistence of nature and human loss. It sets up a contrast between the war machine—loud, busy, and impersonal—and the personal grief and endurance of those left behind. The poem doesn’t focus on battle but on the infrastructure that keeps the war moving, showing both the practical and emotional weight of what war does to people and places.
The first half of the poem is all movement and noise. Someville is a railhead, a hub for food, fuel, and supplies. The list of items—bully beef, tea, sardines, petrol—emphasizes the sheer volume of things being moved to sustain an army. The rhythm is choppy and quick, like the trains and trucks constantly in motion. There’s a rough, almost sarcastic humor in the soldier’s observation that if an army fights on its stomach, “this ‘ere army oughter win!” It’s the kind of line that could be said with a smirk or a sigh, recognizing both the necessity and absurdity of war logistics.
But then, the poem shifts. Beyond the railhead, there are green woods, where cuckoos call as they always have. Nature is indifferent, unchanged by human conflict. This is where we meet Marcelle and her mother, living with grief while the world around them moves forward. Marcelle used to walk with Jean in these woods, but Jean is gone, lost to the war. Now she works the farm, and to the soldiers passing through, she seems cold and distant. They don’t understand why she won’t flirt, why she won’t “promenade” with them. To them, she is just “no bonn,” not realizing that her sadness is anchored in loss.
The soldiers misunderstand both Marcelle and her mother, reducing their grief to mere moodiness. The mother is dismissed even more harshly—Tommy calls her “narpoo,” meaning gone, finished. The mother and daughter have been left behind to survive, working the land while the men they loved disappeared into the war. Their bond is one of loss, something deeper than the soldiers can see.
The cuckoos, calling through it all, act as an eerie refrain. Their song is unchanged, as if they are oblivious to the war, to the suffering of Marcelle and her mother. Nature doesn’t pause for human grief. The final lines bring everything together—April has come again, the trees are in leaf, and the war continues. The cuckoos keep calling, as they always have, and they “never care a straw.” The phrase repeats, reinforcing the idea that the world moves on, whether in the relentless efficiency of the railhead or the indifferent songs of birds.
The poem captures war not through battle, but through its effects on everyday life—how it disrupts love, how it reduces people to cogs in a larger machine, how it leaves behind those who must carry on with only memories. There’s no heroic glory here, just movement, noise, and grief that is overlooked by those too busy to notice. It’s a quiet but deeply cutting look at what war takes from people, and how, despite everything, the world keeps turning.