Robert W. Service
The poppies gleamed like bloody pools through cotton-woolly mist;
The Captain kept a-lookin’ at the watch upon his wrist;
And there we smoked and squatted, as we watched the shrapnel flame;
‘Twas wonnerful, I’m tellin’ you, how fast them bullets came.
‘Twas weary work the waiting, though; I tried to sleep a wink,
For waitin’ means a-thinkin’, and it doesn’t do to think.
So I closed my eyes a little, and I had a niceish dream
Of a-standin’ by a dresser with a dish of Devon cream;
But I hadn’t time to sample it, for suddenlike I woke:
“Come on, me lads!” the Captain says, ‘n I climbed out through the smoke.
We spread out in the open: it was like a bath of lead;
But the boys they cheered and hollered fit to raise the bloody dead,
Till a beastly bullet copped ’em, then they lay without a sound,
And it’s odd—we didn’t seem to heed them corpses on the ground.
And I kept on thinkin’, thinkin’, as the bullets faster flew,
How they picks the werry best men, and they lets the rotters through;
So indiscriminatin’ like, they spares a man of sin,
And a rare lad wot’s a husband and a father gets done in.
And while havin’ these reflections and advancin’ on the run,
A bullet biffs me shoulder, and says I: “That’s number one.”
Well, it downed me for a jiffy, but I didn’t lose me calm,
For I knew that I was needed: I’m a bomber, so I am.
I ‘ad lost me cap and rifle, but I “carried on” because
I ‘ad me bombs and knew that they was needed, so they was.
We didn’t ‘ave no singin’ now, nor many men to cheer;
Maybe the shrapnel drowned ’em, crashin’ out so werry near;
And the Maxims got us sideways, and the bullets faster flew,
And I copped one on me flipper, and says I: “That’s number two.”
I was pleased it was the left one, for I ‘ad me bombs, ye see,
And ’twas ‘ard if they’d be wasted like, and all along o’ me.
And I’d lost me ‘at and rifle—but I told you that before,
So I packed me mit inside me coat and “carried on” once more.
But the rumpus it was wicked, and the men were scarcer yet,
And I felt me ginger goin’, but me jaws I kindo set,
And we passed the Boche first trenches, which was ‘eapin’ ‘igh with dead,
And we started for their second, which was fifty feet ahead;
When something like a ‘ammer smashed me savage on the knee,
And down I came all muck and blood: Says I: “That’s number three.”
So there I lay all ‘elpless like, and bloody sick at that,
And worryin’ like anythink, because I’d lost me ‘at;
And thinkin’ of me missis, and the partin’ words she said:
“If you gets killed, write quick, ol’ man, and tell me as you’re dead.”
And lookin’ at me bunch o’ bombs—that was the ‘ardest blow,
To think I’d never ‘ave the chance to ‘url them at the foe.
And there was all our boys in front, a-fightin’ there like mad,
And me as could ‘ave ‘elped ’em wiv the lovely bombs I ‘ad.
And so I cussed and cussed, and then I struggled back again,
Into that bit of battered trench, packed solid with its slain.
Now as I lay a-lyin’ there and blastin’ of me lot,
And wishin’ I could just dispose of all them bombs I’d got,
I sees within the doorway of a shy, retirin’ dug-out
Six Boches all a-grinnin’, and their Captain stuck ‘is mug out;
And they ‘ad a nice machine gun, and I twigged what they was at;
And they fixed it on a tripod, and I watched ’em like a cat;
And they got it in position, and they seemed so werry glad,
Like they’d got us in a death-trap, which, condemn their souls! they ‘ad.
For there our boys was fightin’ fifty yards in front, and ‘ere
This lousy bunch of Boches they ‘ad got us in the rear.
Oh it set me blood a-boilin’ and I quite forgot me pain,
So I started crawlin’, crawlin’ over all them mounds of slain;
And them barstards was so busy-like they ‘ad no eyes for me,
And me bleedin’ leg was draggin’, but me right arm it was free. . . .
And now they ‘ave it all in shape, and swingin’ sweet and clear;
And now they’re all excited like, but—I am drawin’ near;
And now they ‘ave it loaded up, and now they’re takin’ aim. . . .
Rat-tat-tat-tat! Oh here, says I, is where I join the game.
And my right arm it goes swingin’, and a bomb it goes a-slingin’,
And that “typewriter” goes wingin’ in a thunderbolt of flame.
Then these Boches, wot was left of ’em, they tumbled down their ‘ole,
And up I climbed a mound of dead, and down on them I stole.
And oh that blessed moment when I heard their frightened yell,
And I laughed down in that dug-out, ere I bombed their souls to hell.
And now I’m in the hospital, surprised that I’m alive;
We started out a thousand men, we came back thirty-five.
And I’m minus of a trotter, but I’m most amazin’ gay,
For me bombs they wasn’t wasted, though, you might say, “thrown away”.
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem captures the spirited, paradoxical nature of soldiers in war—particularly the French soldiers known as “piou-piou” during World War I. The term “piou-piou” refers to the light-hearted nickname for French infantrymen, evoking the image of a carefree, almost childlike soldier. The poem presents the duality of their existence: soldiers bound to march into battle, facing death, yet still maintaining a resilient, even joyful attitude as they go.
The first stanza introduces the piou-piou in a casual, jovial light. Despite the serious nature of war, the poem begins with an upbeat march to battle. The soldiers wear a mix of colorful uniforms—”trousers of scarlet” and “big sloppy ulsters of blue”—which gives a sense of absurdity in contrast to the grim reality of war. Their uniforms, out of place for the battlefield, emphasize the disconnect between the soldiers’ appearance and the brutal task ahead. The use of “piou-piou” in a rhythmic, almost sing-song fashion adds a lightness, as if the soldiers are marching cheerfully into something they don’t fully comprehend.
The phrase “Encore un petit verre de vin” (another small glass of wine) underscores this carefree attitude. It’s a toast to ease the mind before the fight, a gesture that might seem foolish in the face of inevitable danger, but it also suggests the soldiers’ need to cling to moments of levity before they face what they know is coming.
As the poem progresses, it delves into the grim reality of battle. The soldiers are aware of the inevitable violence they will face, but there’s no room for doubt or fear. Instead, they take pride in their duty: “Some must be killed, that is certain; There’s only one’s duty to do.” The tone here shifts, and the earlier lightheartedness gives way to a grim acceptance of death. But still, the piou-piou face it with courage, humor, and a sense of honor. They march “with a rattle” into battle, a symbol of both their physical wear and their unwillingness to be broken by the war.
The mention of “La France” ties the soldiers’ sacrifice to national pride. Despite the chaos and violence, their actions are framed as a glorious duty in service of their country. The battle is framed as inevitable and necessary, and they embrace it with the same enthusiasm as their songs and laughter.
As the poem shifts to their transformation into battle-hardened veterans, the soldiers are described as “grim and hard” but still “gay as can be.” Even after experiencing the horrors of war, they retain some of their original youthful energy and joie de vivre, reflected in their constant cheerfulness and ability to laugh in the face of death. The final stanzas speak to their endurance, their readiness to keep fighting even after the horrors they’ve witnessed, and their defiant attitude as they march into further battles.
The closing line, “Sonnez la charge, clairons!” (Sound the charge, trumpets!), is a call to action, reminding us that no matter how exhausted or scarred they become, the piou-piou continue to answer the call with enthusiasm, almost as if they are compelled to by some ingrained sense of duty.
Overall, the poem captures the contradiction at the heart of the soldiers’ experience: the tragic futility of war juxtaposed with the unwavering spirit of those who fight it. The piou-piou are not just soldiers; they are emblematic of the resilience and absurdity of human life in war—suffering, yet somehow able to maintain humor and a sense of purpose. The poem’s structure, rhythm, and language mirror this paradox, with its light, sing-song elements contrasting with the underlying tragedy of the war experience.