Tom Skeyhill
I was sittin’ in me dug-out,
An’ was feelin’ dinkum good,
Chewin’ Queensland bully beef,
An’ biscuits ’ard as wood.
Me dixie was full up with tea—
It wasn’t lady’s brand—
But there ain’t no tea plantations
In this bloomin’ ’eathen land.
I was just about to ’ave a drink,
An’ was thinkin’ of the day
When we used to sink the pints,
An’ bust up all our pay,
When, boom! I nearly choked meself,
I spilt me bloomin’ tea;
I saw about a million stars,
An’ me dug-out fell on me.
They dug me out with picks and spades—
I felt an awful wreck—
By that bloomin’ Turkish shrapnel
I was buried to the neck.
Me mouth was full of bully beef,
Me eyes were full of dust;
I rose up to me bloomin’ feet,
An’ shook me fist an’ cussed.
A Sergeant says, “You’re lucky, lad,
It might ’ave got your ’ead;
You ought to thank your lucky stars.”
I says, “Well, strike me dead.”
Some bloomin’ Turk gunlayer
’Ad slapped that shell at me;
’E spoilt me Queensland bully,
An’ spilt me bloomin’ tea.
’E smashed me bally dug-out,
An’ buried all me kit;
I swore if I reached “Connie”
I’d revenge that little bit.
I was walkin’ to the water barge,
Along the busy shore,
An’ was listenin’ to the Maxims bark
An’ our Big Lizzie’s roar;
I could see that khaki cluster
Around the water tap,
An’ was kiddin’ I was ’ome and dried,
When down comes the bloomin’ shrap.
I ’eard a loud explosion,
Above me bally ’ead,
An’ a bloke, not ten yards distant,
Flopped sudden down—stone dead.
’Ave you ever seen a tiger snake
A-dartin’ from its coil?
’Ave you ever seen the brown fox
A-dashin’ through the toil?
’Ave you ever seen the lightnin’
When it flashes all around?
Well, they were slow beside me
As I flattened to the ground.
I crawled be’ind some boxes,
But got an awful scare
When a shell lobbed fair among ’em
An’ there was timber in the air.
I crawled from out the debris,
An’ lay pantin’ in the sand;
Then I cussed the Turkish shrapnel,
Every Turk upon the land.
But when they knocked off firin’,
An’ I’d recovered from me fear,
I started for the trenches
Like a bloomin’ prairie deer.
I’ve ’ad some narrow shaves, but that
’Ad fairly took the peach;
I bet I’d rather die o’ thirst
Than risk that Shrapnel Beach.
We were sittin’ in the firin’ line
A-playin’ Auction Bridge,
As we took a spell from fightin’
Just in front of Walker’s Ridge,
When a shell burst on the parapet—
It made us feel quite ill.
The sentry on look-out says,
“One over to ‘Beachy Bill.’ ”
We scattered just like rabbits,
An’ lay along the sap,
Then when we got our scattered wits
We cussed the bloomin’ “shrap.”
We cussed it when it busted
A yard or so outside;
We cussed it when it missed us,
A ’undred yards out wide.
With shrapnel an’ with cusses
The air was pretty thick,
With oaths an’ sand an’ bullets,
That’d make a navvy sick.
A captain crawled up swearing,
His oaths were worse than “Damn;”
When a shell case clipped ’is ’ead off,
An’ the sentry says, “Grand Slam!”
It’s always bloomin’ shrapnel
Wherever you may be,
A-sittin’ in yer dug-out,
Or bathin’ in the sea.
If in support you’re lyin’,
Fightin’ in the firin’ line,
Or sleepin’ in reserve,
You’ll catch it every time.
Shrapnel and Deadman’s Gully,
At Courtney’s Post, and Quinn’s,
Pope’s Hill, and Johnson’s Jolly,
That deadly shrapnel spins.
There’s “Beachy Bill” in Olive Grove,
Somewhere an armoured train;
The guns on Achi Baba,
They cause us grief and pain.
Khelet-Bahr, an’ Sahr-el Bahr,
At us they ’ave a slap,
An’ if they catch us nappin’
Down comes their bloomin’ shrap.
The Goeben and the Breslau,
They try to knock us silly;
An’ Chanak, ’on the Asian side,
Sends down her Willy-Willy.
I don’t mind bombs and rifles,
An’ I like a bay’net charge.
But I’m ’anging out the white flag
When the shrapnel is at large.
An’ when I gets to ’Stralia,
An’ ’ears the whistlin’ train,
It’s the nearest pub, for shelter
From shrapnel once again;
But until I gets back safely
I’ll bet me biggest nap
That I’m ’anging to me dug-out
When I ’ears the bloomin’ shrap.
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem captures the raw, chaotic energy of war through the lens of dark humor and vivid storytelling. The speaker uses conversational language and sardonic wit to relay his harrowing experiences with shrapnel, crafting a voice that is both resilient and deeply human. What makes this poem compelling is its mix of grim reality and defiant humor, a combination that mirrors the soldier’s psychological armor against the relentless dangers of war.
The first-person narrative draws the reader into the daily life of the speaker, starting with a scene of temporary comfort: tea, biscuits, and a moment of reflection. This small, mundane pleasure is shattered by a sudden shell explosion, setting the tone for the rest of the poem. The humor here is biting—the speaker’s complaint about spilled tea and ruined bully beef masks the sheer terror and physical toll of being buried alive by debris. This balance between humor and horror runs throughout the poem, reflecting the absurdity of finding moments of normalcy in the middle of chaos.
The poem’s rhythm and rhyme give it a sing-song quality, almost like a soldier’s marching tune, which contrasts sharply with the brutal content. This structure emphasizes the soldier’s ability to maintain a sense of order and levity amidst disorder. The repetitive references to “bloomin’ shrapnel” become a kind of refrain, underscoring how omnipresent and unpredictable this danger is. Shrapnel isn’t just a weapon here—it’s a character, an ever-present antagonist that shapes the soldier’s every move and thought.
The descriptions of shrapnel attacks are visceral and dynamic. Comparisons to lightning, tiger snakes, and foxes capture the speed and ferocity of the explosions. The speaker’s instinctive reaction—to flatten, crawl, and run—paints a vivid picture of survival in its most primal form. Yet, the humor doesn’t let up; even moments of terror are punctuated with sardonic commentary, like the absurdity of a captain swearing moments before losing his head or the speaker likening himself to a “prairie deer” fleeing the chaos.
What stands out most is the speaker’s unvarnished honesty. He doesn’t glorify war or his role in it. Instead, he offers a grounded account of the relentless grind of survival. There’s no romanticism in his words—just a soldier’s perspective on the absurdities and horrors of trench warfare. The humor, while sharp, never feels detached. It’s a survival mechanism, a way to process the unthinkable and keep going.
The closing stanza ties the poem together, bringing the focus back to the shrapnel as the ultimate enemy. While the speaker claims not to mind bombs or bayonet charges, the shrapnel remains his undoing. The image of a train whistle evoking memories of shrapnel perfectly captures the lingering trauma of war. Even in thoughts of home, safety isn’t absolute; the experience of constant danger leaves a lasting mark.
Overall, this poem excels in showing how soldiers use humor and resilience to cope with the unrelenting dangers of war. The speaker’s voice is relatable, his language simple but effective, and his humor sharp but never dismissive of the stakes. It’s a vivid, grounded look at the absurdities and horrors of life on the front lines, with shrapnel as its ever-present, chaotic thread.