Siegfried Sassoon
The rank stench of those bodies haunts me still
And I remember things I’d best forget.
For now we’ve marched to a green, trenchless land
Twelve miles from battering guns: along the grass
Brown lines of tents are hives for snoring men;
Wide, radiant water sways the floating sky
Below dark, shivering trees. And living-clean
Comes back with thoughts of home and hours of sleep.
To-night I smell the battle; miles away
Gun-thunder leaps and thuds along the ridge;
The spouting shells dig pits in fields of death,
And wounded men, are moaning in the woods.
If any friend be there whom I have loved,
God speed him safe to England with a gash.
It’s sundown in the camp; some youngster laughs,
Lifting his mug and drinking health to all
Who come unscathed from that unpitying waste:
(Terror and ruin lurk behind his gaze.)
Another sits with tranquil, musing face,
Puffing his pipe and dreaming of the girl
Whose last scrawled letter lies upon his knee.
The sunlight falls, low-ruddy from the west,
Upon their heads. Last week they might have died
And now they stretch their limbs in tired content.
One says ‘The bloody Bosche has got the knock;
‘And soon they’ll crumple up and chuck their games.
‘We’ve got the beggars on the run at last!’
Then I remembered someone that I’d seen
Dead in a squalid, miserable ditch,
Heedless of toiling feet that trod him down.
He was a Prussian with a decent face,
Young, fresh, and pleasant, so I dare to say.
No doubt he loathed the war and longed for peace,
And cursed our souls because we’d killed his friends.
One night he yawned along a haIf-dug trench
Midnight; and then the British guns began
With heavy shrapnel bursting low, and ‘hows’
Whistling to cut the wire with blinding din.
He didn’t move; the digging still went on;
Men stooped and shoveled; someone gave a grunt,
And moaned and died with agony in the sludge.
Then the long hiss of shells lifted and stopped.
He stared into the gloom; a rocket curved,
And rifles rattled angrily on the left
Down by the wood, and there was noise of bombs.
Then the damned English loomed in scrambling haste
Out of the dark and struggled through the wire,
And there were shouts and curses; someone screamed
And men began to blunder down the trench
Without their rifles. It was time to go:
He grabbed his coat; stood up, gulping some bread;
Then clutched his head and fell.
I found him there
In the gray morning when the place was held.
His face was in the mud; one arm flung out
As when he crumpled up; his sturdy legs
Were bent beneath his trunk; heels to the sky.
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem provides a stark, evocative portrayal of war’s impact on the psyche of a soldier. Through vivid imagery and emotional tension, it captures the complexity of returning to a place of apparent safety after experiencing the horrors of the battlefield. It contrasts the tranquil, almost pastoral setting of a camp with the haunting memories of the battlefield, forcing the reader to confront the emotional weight that soldiers carry, even in moments of respite.
The first few lines immediately establish the lingering effects of war, with the “rank stench” of bodies still haunting the narrator. The phrase “things I’d best forget” suggests that the memories of the war are intrusive, something the soldier wishes to leave behind, but cannot. The contrast between the “green, trenchless land” of the camp and the horrific violence just a few miles away is sharp, highlighting the dissonance between the brief reprieve the soldiers experience and the ongoing brutality of war. The camp, with its “hives for snoring men” and the “radiant water” beneath “dark, shivering trees,” seems peaceful in comparison to the war’s violence. Yet even in this calm, the soldier’s senses are assaulted by the distant sounds of battle — “Gun-thunder leaps and thuds along the ridge” — reminding him that the war is never truly over, even when one is far from the front lines.
The narrative then shifts from the external violence of war to the internal lives of the soldiers. The “youngster” who drinks to those “unscathed from that unpitying waste” is ironically unaware of the terror that lingers in his gaze. The joviality of the soldier contrasts with his internal fear, revealing that even in moments of celebration, soldiers are deeply scarred. Another soldier, sitting with a “tranquil, musing face,” appears to be escaping into thoughts of home, specifically a girl whose letter he holds. This quiet moment, filled with the warmth of personal memories, offers a temporary escape from the horrors of war. It’s poignant how the sunlight, falling “low-ruddy from the west,” seems to offer a kind of peace, but the soldier’s recollection of the “bloody Bosche” (the German enemy) and the potential victory over them is short-lived.
The shift to the dead Prussian soldier marks a significant turn in the poem. The soldier recalls a vivid image of a “young, fresh, and pleasant” Prussian, one who, just like them, must have longed for peace. His death is described in detail: the “squalid, miserable ditch,” the chaos of artillery and gunfire, and the surreal imagery of the “damned English loomed in scrambling haste.” The Prussian’s last moments are depicted with remarkable clarity, from his death in the mud, his body contorted, to the poignant detail of him “clutching his head and falling.” This image forces the reader to recognize the shared humanity of both sides, a bitter reminder that, despite the flag they fight under, the soldier’s death is no less tragic.
The soldier who recalls this scene, presumably the narrator, reflects on the dead Prussian with empathy. He describes the man as “fresh and pleasant” with a “decent face,” emphasizing that, though they were enemies, the Prussian was just another human being caught in the machinery of war. The act of remembering this soldier, coupled with the way his death is described in a moment of quiet reflection, reveals a deep sense of sorrow and guilt. There is an implicit recognition that both sides — the British and the German — are victims of the same war, and that each soldier is, in a sense, equally “damned” by the violence they partake in.
The poem’s closing lines, where the Prussian’s body is discovered “in the gray morning when the place was held,” evoke a powerful, almost surreal image of death. The Prussian soldier is described in the most brutal way, with his “face in the mud,” “legs bent beneath his trunk,” and “heels to the sky,” evoking the grotesque, unceremonious nature of death in war. The soldier is left as a broken figure, unable to defend himself or even to escape. His death is a symbol of the futility of war, of men reduced to nothing more than bodies in a landscape of mud, blood, and destruction.
Ultimately, the poem is a reflection on the deep, lasting trauma that war leaves in its wake. It juxtaposes moments of seeming peace with the relentless violence that soldiers must constantly confront. The stark contrast between the camp’s idyllic atmosphere and the horrors that lie just beyond it creates an overwhelming sense of unease. The narrator’s empathy for the dead Prussian and his meditations on the futility of war suggest a longing for peace, a desire to reconcile the violence with the basic human need for connection and understanding. Yet, the haunting image of the dead soldier underscores the impossibility of such reconciliation.