The Sentry
We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew,
And gave us hell, for shell on frantic
Hammered on top, but never quite burst through.
Rain, guttering down in waterfalls of slime,
Kept slush waist-high and rising hour by hour,
And choked the steps too thick with clay to climb.
What murk of air remained stank old, and
With fumes of whizz-bangs, and the smell of
Who'd lived there years, and left their curse in the den,
If not their corpses…There we herded from the
Of whizz-bangs, but one found our door at last,
Buffeting eyes and breath, snuffing the candles,
And thud! flump! thud! down the steep steps came
And sploshing in the flood, deluging muck -The sentry's body; then his rifle,
Of old Boche bombs, and mud in ruck on ruck.
We dredged him up, for killed, until he whined'O sir, my eyes - I'm blind, - I'm blind,
I'm blind!'Coaxing,
I held a flame against his
And said if he could see the least blurred
He was not blind; in time he'd get all right.'I can't' he sobbed.
Eyeballs, huge-bulged like squids',
Watch my dreams still; but I forgot him
In posting Next for duty, and sending a
To beg a stretcher somewhere, and flound'ring
To other posts under the shrieking air.
Those other wretches, how they bled and spewed,
And one who would have drowned himself for good, -I try not to remember these things now.
Let dread hark back for one word only:
Half-listening to that sentry's moans and jumps,
And the wild chattering of his broken teeth,
Renewed most horribly whenever
Pummelled the roof and slogged the air beneath, -Through the dense din,
I say, we heard him shout'I see your lights!' But ours had long died out.
Owen draws upon his own experiences in writing this poem.
This is an extract from a letter of his to his mother about eighteen months before the poem was writen."In the Platoon on my left the sentries over the dug-out were blown to nothing.
One of these poor fellows was my first servant whom I rejected.
If I had kept him he would have lived, for servants don't do Sentry Duty.
I kept my own sentries half way down the stairs during the more terrific bombardment.
In spite of this one lad was blown down and,
I am afraid, blinded."
Wilfred Owen
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If ever I had dreamed of my dead High in the heart of London, By Time for ever, and the Fugitive, Fame,
S I W
I will to the King, And offer him consolation in his trouble, For that man there has set his teeth to die, And being one that hates obedience,
Insensibility
Happy are men who yet before they are Can let their veins run cold Whom no compassion Or makes their
A Terre being the philosophy of many soldiers
Sit on the bed I'm blind, and three parts shell Be careful; can't shake hands now; never shall Both arms have mutinied against me,-brutes