Читать книгу Writ in Barracks - Wallace Edgar - Страница 1

A tent that is pitched at the base:

A wagon that comes from the night:

A stretcher – and on it a Case:

A surgeon, who's holding a light.

The Infantry's bearing the brunt —

O hark to the wind-carried cheer!

A mutter of guns at the front:

A whimper of sobs at the rear.

And it's War! 'Orderly, hold the light.

You can lay him down on the table: so.

Easily – gently! Thanks – you may go.'

And it's War! but the part that is not for show.

A tent, with a table athwart,

A table that's laid out for one;

A waterproof cover – and nought

But the limp, mangled work of a gun.

A bottle that's stuck by the pole,

A guttering dip in its neck;

The flickering light of a soul

On the wondering eyes of The Wreck,

And it's War! 'Orderly, hold his hand.

I'm not going to hurt you, so don't be afraid.

A ricochet! God! what a mess it has made!'

And it's War! and a very unhealthy trade.

The clink of a stopper and glass:

A sigh as the chloroform drips:

A trickle of – what? on the grass,

And bluer and bluer the lips.

The lashes have hidden the stare…

A rent, and the clothes fall away…

A touch, and the wound is laid bare…

A cut, and the face has turned grey…

And it's War! 'Orderly, take It out.

It's hard for his child, and it's rough on his wife,

There might have been – sooner – a chance for his life.

But it's War! And – Orderly, clean this knife!'