Robert W. Service
We was in a crump-‘ole, ‘im and me;
Fightin’ wiv our bayonets was we;
Fightin’ ‘ard as ‘ell we was,
Fightin’ fierce as fire because
It was ‘im or me as must be downed;
‘E was twice as big as me;
I was ‘arf the weight of ‘e;
We was like a terryer and a ‘ound.
‘Struth! But ‘e was sich a ‘andsome bloke.
Me, I’m ‘andsome as a chunk o’ coke.
Did I give it ‘im? Not ‘arf!
Why, it fairly made me laugh,
‘Cos ‘is bloomin’ bellows wasn’t sound.
Couldn’t fight for monkey nuts.
Soon I gets ‘im in the guts,
There ‘e lies a-floppin’ on the ground.
In I goes to finish up the job.
Quick ‘e throws ‘is ‘ands above ‘is nob;
Speakin’ English good as me:
“‘Tain’t no use to kill,” says ‘e;
“Can’t yer tyke me prisoner instead?”
“Why, I’d like to, sir,” says I;
“But—yer knows the reason why:
If we pokes our noses out we’re dead.
“Sorry, sir. Then on the other ‘and
(As a gent like you must understand),
If I ‘olds you longer ‘ere,
Wiv yer pals so werry near,
It’s me ‘oo’ll ‘ave a free trip to Berlin;
If I lets yer go away,
Why, you’ll fight another day:
See the sitooation I am in.
“Anyway I’ll tell you wot I’ll do,
Bein’ kind and seein’ as it’s you,
Knowin’ ‘ow it’s cold, the feel
Of a ‘alf a yard o’ steel,
I’ll let yer ‘ave a rifle ball instead;
Now, jist think yerself in luck. . . .
‘Ere, ol’ man! You keep ’em stuck,
Them saucy dooks o’ yours, above yer ‘ead.”
‘Ow ‘is mits shot up it made me smile!
‘Ow ‘e seemed to ponder for a while!
Then ‘e says: “It seems a shyme,
Me, a man wot’s known ter Fyme:
Give me blocks of stone, I’ll give yer gods.
Whereas, pardon me, I’m sure
You, my friend, are still obscure. . . .”
“In war,” says I, “that makes no blurry odds.”
Then says ‘e: “I’ve painted picters too. . . .
Oh, dear God! The work I planned to do,
And to think this is the end!”
“‘Ere,” says I, “my hartist friend,
Don’t you give yerself no friskin’ airs.
Picters, statoos, is that why
You should be let off to die?
That the best ye done? Just say yer prayers.”
Once again ‘e seems ter think awhile.
Then ‘e smiles a werry ‘aughty smile:
“Why, no, sir, it’s not the best;
There’s a locket next me breast,
Picter of a gel ‘oo’s eyes are blue.
That’s the best I’ve done,” says ‘e.
“That’s me darter, aged three. . . .”
“Blimy!” says I, “I’ve a nipper, too.”
Straight I chucks my rifle to one side;
Shows ‘im wiv a lovin’ farther’s pride
Me own little Mary Jane.
Proud ‘e shows me ‘is Elaine,
And we talks as friendly as can be;
Then I ‘elps ‘im on ‘is way,
‘Opes ‘e’s sife at ‘ome to-day,
Wonders—’OW WOULD ‘E ‘AVE TREATED ME?
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem, written in a rough, conversational style, delivers an unvarnished look at war through the eyes of a common soldier. The casual, almost cheeky language strikes a surprising contrast with the gravity of the situation described. It’s a gritty tale of survival, humor, and fleeting humanity in the trenches.
What stands out first is the voice. It’s not polished or poetic in the traditional sense—it’s raw, filled with slang, and unapologetically colloquial. This makes it feel authentic, like hearing a story straight from the soldier’s lips. The humor, even when dark, pulls you into the narrator’s headspace, where laughing at death and chaos is the only way to cope. Lines like *“Me, I’m ’andsome as a chunk o’ coke”* give a sense of who this man is: self-deprecating, scrappy, and maybe just trying to make it to the next day.
The poem also captures the absurdity of war. Two men locked in a fight to the death pause to chat about their daughters and their dreams. It’s such a bizarre and tragic moment—one that shows how the humanity of war’s participants often clashes with the inhumanity of their situation. This clash is most striking when the soldier admits he can’t afford to take his opponent prisoner because, in this world, such kindness could get him killed. Yet, for all his cynicism, he lowers his gun when he learns of the other man’s daughter, showing that even in war, shared experiences can break down barriers.
What really sticks, though, is the final question: *“’OW WOULD ’E ’AVE TREATED ME?”* It lingers. The soldier doesn’t know the answer, and neither do we. That uncertainty adds depth to the story. Was the compassion he showed unique to him, or could it have been mutual? This open-endedness leaves the reader thinking, not just about this moment but about the countless other such moments in war.
The humor and warmth of the soldier’s voice make the horror easier to digest but don’t erase it. Underneath the jokes and banter is a harsh reality: war is absurd, brutal, and deeply personal. The poem doesn’t preach or wax philosophical; it just tells a story. That’s its power. By the end, you’re left feeling like you’ve been there in the trench, hearing the laughter, feeling the cold steel, and wondering what you would have done.