Robert W. Service
We brought him in from between the lines: we’d better have let him lie;
For what’s the use of risking one’s skin for a TYKE that’s going to die?
What’s the use of tearing him loose under a gruelling fire,
When he’s shot in the head, and worse than dead,
and all messed up on the wire?
However, I say, we brought him in. DIABLE! The mud was bad;
The trench was crooked and greasy and high, and oh, what a time we had!
And often we slipped, and often we tripped, but never he made a moan;
And how we were wet with blood and with sweat!
but we carried him in like our own.
Now there he lies in the dug-out dim, awaiting the ambulance,
And the doctor shrugs his shoulders at him,
and remarks, “He hasn’t a chance.”
And we squat and smoke at our game of bridge
on the glistening, straw-packed floor,
And above our oaths we can hear his breath deep-drawn in a kind of snore.
For the dressing station is long and low, and the candles gutter dim,
And the mean light falls on the cold clay walls
and our faces bristly and grim;
And we flap our cards on the lousy straw, and we laugh and jibe as we play,
And you’d never know that the cursed foe was less than a mile away.
As we con our cards in the rancid gloom, oppressed by that snoring breath,
You’d never dream that our broad roof-beam was swept by the broom of death.
Heigh-ho! My turn for the dummy hand; I rise and I stretch a bit;
The fetid air is making me yawn, and my cigarette’s unlit,
So I go to the nearest candle flame, and the man we brought is there,
And his face is white in the shabby light, and I stand at his feet and stare.
Stand for a while, and quietly stare: for strange though it seems to be,
The dying Boche on the stretcher there has a queer resemblance to me.
It gives one a kind of a turn, you know, to come on a thing like that.
It’s just as if I were lying there, with a turban of blood for a hat,
Lying there in a coat grey-green instead of a coat grey-blue,
With one of my eyes all shot away, and my brain half tumbling through;
Lying there with a chest that heaves like a bellows up and down,
And a cheek as white as snow on a grave, and lips that are coffee brown.
And confound him, too! He wears, like me, on his finger a wedding ring,
And around his neck, as around my own, by a greasy bit of string,
A locket hangs with a woman’s face, and I turn it about to see:
Just as I thought . . . on the other side the faces of children three;
Clustered together cherub-like, three little laughing girls,
With the usual tiny rosebud mouths and the usual silken curls.
“Zut!” I say. “He has beaten me; for me, I have only two,”
And I push the locket beneath his shirt, feeling a little blue.
Oh, it isn’t cheerful to see a man, the marvellous work of God,
Crushed in the mutilation mill, crushed to a smeary clod;
Oh, it isn’t cheerful to hear him moan; but it isn’t that I mind,
It isn’t the anguish that goes with him, it’s the anguish he leaves behind.
For his going opens a tragic door that gives on a world of pain,
And the death he dies, those who live and love, will die again and again.
So here I am at my cards once more, but it’s kind of spoiling my play,
Thinking of those three brats of his so many a mile away.
War is war, and he’s only a Boche, and we all of us take our chance;
But all the same I’ll be mighty glad when I’m hearing the ambulance.
One foe the less, but all the same I’m heartily glad I’m not
The man who gave him his broken head, the sniper who fired the shot.
No trumps you make it, I think you said? You’ll pardon me if I err;
For a moment I thought of other things . . .
MON DIEU! QUELLE VACHE DE GUERRE.
© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes
You may find this and other poems here.
Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem offers a stark, reflective take on the horrors of war, focusing on the emotional toll and the grim realities that soldiers face. It’s not about heroism or glorified victories, but rather the deep, unsettling human connections that emerge in the midst of violence and death.
The story centers around a soldier who, along with his comrades, brings in a dying enemy soldier from the battlefield. The soldier, a “Boche” (German), is near death, having been badly injured in the head. Despite his grim condition, the narrator is struck by the futility of it all, questioning the value of saving someone who’s “worse than dead.” The squad’s detached attitude, playing cards and joking as they wait for the ambulance, reveals how desensitized they’ve become to the suffering around them. This is not the idealized view of soldiers heroically saving lives, but a much more raw and uncomfortable reality.
The tone throughout the poem is one of detached irony, which is especially apparent when the narrator notices that the dying soldier looks strangely like him. The recognition stirs a moment of self-awareness, as he contemplates the shared humanity between him and the enemy. The identification is deepened when he notices the soldier’s personal belongings: a wedding ring and a locket with photos of children. These small, intimate details humanize the enemy, transforming him from a faceless “Boche” into someone with a family and a life far removed from the battlefield.
The poem reflects on the painful realization that the death of one soldier—no matter which side of the conflict they’re on—creates a ripple effect of suffering that extends to their loved ones. This soldier, like all others, is a person with a story, a family, and a future that has been abruptly halted by war. The narrator, though still playing cards and trying to return to normalcy, can’t escape the knowledge that the soldier’s death will haunt his family, just as it would his own, should he meet the same fate.
The final lines of the poem reinforce this heavy feeling of unease, as the narrator can’t help but wish that the death he just witnessed wasn’t his responsibility. There’s an implicit acknowledgment that, despite the dehumanizing effects of war, the soldier’s death is not something to celebrate—especially not in the casual, detached way he’d approached it at first.
This is a poem about the violence of war, but it’s also about the way it forces soldiers to confront uncomfortable truths about themselves. The recognition of the shared humanity between the narrator and the enemy soldier is a small, fleeting moment of empathy in the chaos, but it’s enough to disrupt the narrator’s ability to continue in the same way. War might strip away the outward appearance of individuality, but at the core, it reveals the deep and painful connections between all human beings.