Robert W. Service
Humping it here in the dug-out,
Sucking me black dudeen,
I’d like to say in a general way,
There’s nothing like Nickyteen;
There’s nothing like Nickyteen, me boys,
Be it pipes or snipes or cigars;
So be sure that a bloke
Has plenty to smoke,
If you wants him to fight your wars.
When I’ve eat my fill and my belt is snug,
I begin to think of my baccy plug.
I whittle a fill in my horny palm,
And the bowl of me old clay pipe I cram.
I trim the edges, I tamp it down,
I nurse a light with an anxious frown;
I begin to draw, and my cheeks tuck in,
And all my face is a blissful grin;
And up in a cloud the good smoke goes,
And the good pipe glimmers and fades and glows;
In its throat it chuckles a cheery song,
For I likes it hot and I likes it strong.
Oh, it’s good is grub when you’re feeling hollow,
But the best of a meal’s the smoke to follow.
There was Micky and me on a night patrol,
Having to hide in a fizz-bang hole;
And sure I thought I was worse than dead
Wi’ them crump-crumps hustlin’ over me head.
Sure I thought ’twas the dirty spot,
Hammer and tongs till the air was hot.
And mind you, water up to your knees.
And cold! A monkey of brass would freeze.
And if we ventured our noses out
A “typewriter” clattered its pills about.
The field of glory! Well, I don’t think!
I’d sooner be safe and snug in clink.
Then Micky, he goes and he cops one bad,
He always was having ill-luck, poor lad.
Says he: “Old chummy, I’m booked right through;
Death and me ‘as a wrongday voo.
But . . . ‘aven’t you got a pinch of shag?—
I’d sell me perishin’ soul for a fag.”
And there he shivered and cussed his luck,
So I gave him me old black pipe to suck.
And he heaves a sigh, and he takes to it
Like a babby takes to his mammy’s tit;
Like an infant takes to his mother’s breast,
Poor little Micky! he went to rest.
But the dawn was near, though the night was black,
So I left him there and I started back.
And I laughed as the silly old bullets came,
For the bullet ain’t made wot’s got me name.
Yet some of ’em buzzed onhealthily near,
And one little blighter just chipped me ear.
But there! I got to the trench all right,
When sudden I jumped wi’ a start o’ fright,
And a word that doesn’t look well in type:
I’D CLEAN FORGOTTEN ME OLD CLAY PIPE.
So I had to do it all over again,
Crawling out on that filthy plain.
Through shells and bombs and bullets and all—
Only this time—I do not crawl.
I run like a man wot’s missing a train,
Or a tom-cat caught in a plump of rain.
I hear the spit of a quick-fire gun
Tickle my heels, but I run, I run.
Through crash and crackle, and flicker and flame,
(Oh, the packet ain’t issued wot’s got me name!)
I run like a man that’s no ideer
Of hunting around for a sooveneer.
I run bang into a German chap,
And he stares like an owl, so I bash his map.
And just to show him that I’m his boss,
I gives him a kick on the parados.
And I marches him back with me all serene,
With, TUCKED IN ME GUB, ME OLD DUDEEN.
Sitting here in the trenches
Me heart’s a-splittin’ with spleen,
For a parcel o’ lead comes missing me head,
But it smashes me old dudeen.
God blast that red-headed sniper!
I’ll give him somethin’ to snipe;
Before the war’s through
Just see how I do
That blighter that smashed me pipe.
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem is a rough, earthy portrayal of life in the trenches during war, focusing on the camaraderie and small comforts that soldiers cling to in the face of hardship and death. The speaker’s voice is casual and full of gallows humor, which gives the poem a sense of gritty realism. The constant presence of the “old dudeen” (a clay pipe) throughout the narrative acts as both a symbol of normalcy and a way for the speaker to navigate the overwhelming stress of war.
The poem opens with a lighthearted tone, humorously extolling the virtues of tobacco, making it clear that the pipe, cigars, or snipes are just as important as the ability to fight. The speaker’s first few lines set a tone of irony: even in the face of danger and discomfort, the soldier’s priorities are grounded in the simple pleasure of a smoke. This absurdity reflects the ways soldiers often cope with the brutality around them, clinging to rituals and comforts from home to retain some sense of normalcy.
As the narrative unfolds, it shifts into a more serious moment when the speaker and his companion, Micky, are on a night patrol. The humor is still present, but it’s now tinged with the reality of war: the “crump-crumps” overhead, the muck of the trenches, and the constant threat of death. The turning point comes when Micky, gravely injured, asks for a “pinch of shag,” and the speaker gives him his pipe, which serves as a moment of care and comfort before Micky dies. This moment of shared intimacy, amidst the chaos, brings a fleeting tenderness to an otherwise brutal situation.
When the speaker realizes he has left his pipe behind and goes back to retrieve it, the poem once again shifts tone. What begins as a small comic mishap becomes a journey filled with absurdity, danger, and a strange sense of defiance. The speaker runs through the chaos of war, barely avoiding bullets, with one singular mission: to retrieve his pipe. This desperate action, though it may seem trivial in the face of war, underscores the importance of the small, personal comforts that soldiers depend on to survive the emotional and physical toll of combat.
The final stanza brings the poem full circle, returning to the opening humor, but now with a more personal stake. The sniper’s bullet doesn’t just miss the speaker; it destroys his pipe, and this becomes the focus of his rage. This shift—where the speaker’s attachment to his pipe becomes the source of his anger rather than the war itself—reveals the absurdity of how the soldiers prioritize their attachments in the face of overwhelming violence.
Overall, the poem paints a vivid picture of trench warfare, where humor and ritual serve as coping mechanisms, and small comforts like a beloved pipe offer moments of solace amidst chaos. Through the speaker’s unflinching focus on his pipe, the poem captures the soldier’s complex relationship with war—where survival, humor, and loss all intertwine.