Robert W. Service
Me and Ed and a stretcher
Out on the nootral ground.
(If there’s one dead corpse, I’ll betcher
There’s a ‘undred smellin’ around.)
Me and Eddie O’Brian,
Both of the R. A. M. C.
“It’s a ‘ell of a night
For a soul to take flight,”
As Eddie remarks to me.
Me and Ed crawlin’ ‘omeward,
Thinkin’ our job is done,
When sudden and clear,
Wot do we ‘ear:
‘Owl of a wounded ‘Un.
“Got to take ‘im,” snaps Eddy;
“Got to take all we can.
‘E may be a Germ
Wiv the ‘eart of a worm,
But, blarst ‘im! ain’t ‘e a man?”
So ‘e sloshes out fixin’ a dressin’
(‘E’d always a medical knack),
When that wounded ‘Un
‘E rolls to ‘is gun,
And ‘e plugs me pal in the back.
Now what would you do? I arst you.
There was me slaughtered mate.
There was that ‘Un
(I’d collered ‘is gun),
A-snarlin’ ‘is ‘ymn of ‘ate.
Wot did I do? ‘Ere, whisper . . .
‘E’d a shiny bald top to ‘is ‘ead,
But when I got through,
Between me and you,
It was ‘orrid and jaggy and red.
“‘Ang on like a limpet, Eddy.
Thank Gord! you ain’t dead after all.”
It’s slow and it’s sure and it’s steady
(Which is ‘ard, for ‘e’s big and I’m small).
The rockets are shootin’ and shinin’,
It’s rainin’ a perishin’ flood,
The bullets are buzzin’ and whinin’,
And I’m up to me stern in the mud.
There’s all kinds of ‘owlin’ and ‘ootin’;
It’s black as a bucket of tar;
Oh, I’m doin’ my bit,
But I’m ‘avin’ a fit,
And I wish I was ‘ome wiv Mar.
“Stick on like a plaster, Eddy.
Old sport, you’re a-slackin’ your grip.”
Gord! But I’m crocky already;
My feet, ‘ow they slither and slip!
There goes the biff of a bullet.
The Boches have got us for fair.
Another one—WHUT!
The son of a slut!
‘E managed to miss by a ‘air.
‘Ow! Wot was it jabbed at me shoulder?
Gave it a dooce of a wrench.
Is it Eddy or me
Wot’s a-bleedin’ so free?
Crust! but it’s long to the trench.
I ain’t just as strong as a Sandow,
And Ed ain’t a flapper by far;
I’m blamed if I understand ‘ow
We’ve managed to get where we are.
But ‘ere’s for a bit of a breather.
“Steady there, Ed, ‘arf a mo’.
Old pal, it’s all right;
It’s a ‘ell of a fight,
But are we down-‘earted? No-o-o.”
Now war is a funny thing, ain’t it?
It’s the rummiest sort of a go.
For when it’s most real,
It’s then that you feel
You’re a-watchin’ a cinema show.
‘Ere’s me wot’s a barber’s assistant.
Hey, presto! It’s somewheres in France,
And I’m ‘ere in a pit
Where a coal-box ‘as ‘it,
And it’s all like a giddy romance.
The ruddy quick-firers are spittin’,
The ‘eavies are bellowin’ ‘ate,
And ‘ere I am cashooly sittin’,
And ‘oldin’ the ‘ead of me mate.
Them gharstly green star-shells is beamin’,
‘Ot shrapnel is poppin’ like rain,
And I’m sayin’: “Bert ‘Iggins, you’re dreamin’,
And you’ll wake up in ‘Ampstead again.
You’ll wake up and ‘ear yourself sayin’:
‘Would you like, sir, to ‘ave a shampoo?’
‘Stead of sheddin’ yer blood
In the rain and the mud,
Which is some’ow the right thing to do;
Which is some’ow yer ‘oary-eyed dooty,
Wot you’re doin’ the best wot you can,
For ‘Ampstead and ‘ome and beauty,
And you’ve been and you’ve slaughtered a man.
A feller wot punctured your partner;
Oh, you ‘ammered ‘im ‘ard on the ‘ead,
And you still see ‘is eyes
Starin’ bang at the skies,
And you ain’t even sorry ‘e’s dead.
But you wish you was back in your diggin’s
Asleep on your mouldy old stror.
Oh, you’re doin’ yer bit, ‘Erbert ‘Iggins,
But you ain’t just enjoyin’ the war.”
“‘Ang on like a hoctopus, Eddy.
It’s us for the bomb-belt again.
Except for the shrap
Which ‘as ‘it me a tap,
I’m feelin’ as right as the rain.
It’s my silly old feet wot are slippin’,
It’s as dark as a ‘ogs’ead o’ sin,
But don’t be oneasy, my pippin,
I’m goin’ to pilot you in.
It’s my silly old ‘ead wot is reelin’.
The bullets is buzzin’ like bees.
Me shoulder’s red-‘ot,
And I’m bleedin’ a lot,
And me legs is on’inged at the knees.
But we’re staggerin’ nearer and nearer.
Just stick it, old sport, play the game.
I make ’em out clearer and clearer,
Our trenches a-snappin’ with flame.
Oh, we’re stumblin’ closer and closer.
‘Ang on there, lad! Just one more try.
Did you say: Put you down? Damn it, no, sir!
I’ll carry you in if I die.
By cracky! old feller, they’ve seen us.
They’re sendin’ out stretchers for two.
Let’s give ’em the hoorah between us
(‘Anged lucky we aren’t booked through).
My flipper is mashed to a jelly.
A bullet ‘as tickled your spleen.
We’ve shed lots of gore
And we’re leakin’ some more,
But—wot a hoccasion it’s been!
Ho! ‘Ere comes the rescuin’ party.
They’re crawlin’ out cautious and slow.
Come! Buck up and greet ’em, my ‘earty,
Shoulder to shoulder—so.
They mustn’t think we was down-‘earted.
Old pal, we was never down-‘earted.
If they arsts us if we was down-‘earted
We’ll ‘owl in their fyces: ‘No-o-o!'”
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This vivid and raw poem captures the brutal and surreal experience of soldiers on the battlefield during World War I. The narrator, a man named Bert Higgings, reflects on the absurdity, violence, and confusion of war, using humor and gritty language to express the contradictory emotions that arise in such a dire situation. His comrade, Eddie O’Brian, and he are working together in the Royal Army Medical Corps (R.A.M.C.), trying to carry out their duties under the constant threat of enemy fire.
From the very beginning, the poem establishes a darkly comic tone as Higgins describes the chaotic, filthy, and often absurd environment in which they operate. The image of the “wounded ‘Un” (a German soldier) being dragged in by Higgins and Eddie underscores the complex and often contradictory emotions soldiers experience. While they’re under no illusions about the enemy, they still grapple with the humanity of their work, reflecting Eddie’s remark that “ain’t ‘e a man?” even though he’s a German soldier.
As the poem progresses, we see the brutality of the conflict: Eddie is shot in the back by the very soldier they tried to help, and the chaos and violence around them are relentless. Despite the overwhelming odds and injuries, Higgins’ thoughts often shift to humor, as he tries to focus on the absurdity of the situation—such as the surreal feeling of being part of a cinematic adventure rather than a real-life bloodbath. His sense of disconnection from the violence around him is compounded by the intense, almost surreal way he describes the war, as if it’s some kind of dream.
There is also a constant pull between the harsh reality of war and the longing for home. Higgins yearns for the comfort of the mundane—his old job as a barber’s assistant, a return to normal life in “Hampstead”—but he knows that such a return is impossible. This sense of homesickness and the deep desire to escape the constant barrage of violence is palpable throughout the poem. Even when Higgins and Eddie manage to push forward through injuries and exhaustion, they’re confronted with more bloodshed, but they soldier on with grim determination and solidarity.
The final stanzas bring the narrative to a bitterly ironic and poignant close, as they realize they’ve survived and are being rescued. Yet even in the moment of rescue, the question of whether they were “down-hearted” remains, and the poem ends with a defiant declaration: “No-o-o!” Despite everything—despite the bloodshed, the trauma, and the terror—they refuse to admit defeat.
This poem is a powerful reflection of the dual nature of war: the brutality of the physical environment and the ways soldiers cope with its emotional and psychological toll. The humor, the absurdity, and the camaraderie are all part of the survival mechanism, and it paints a picture of men doing their duty in ways that are sometimes absurd, but always human.