We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew, And gave us hell, for shell on frantic2 shell Hammered on TOP, but never quite burst through. Rain, guttering3 down in waterfalls of slime Kept slush waist high, that rising hour by hour, Choked up the steps too thick with clay to climb. What murk of air remained stank4 old, and sour With fumes5 of whizz-bangs, and the smell of men Who'd lived there years, and left their curse in the den6, If not their corpses7. . . . There we herded8 from the blast Of whizz-bangs, but one found our door at last. Buffeting9 eyes and breath, snuffing the candles. And thud！ flump！ thud！ down the steep steps came thumping10 And splashing in the flood, deluging11 muck The sentry's body； then his rifle, handles Of old Boche bombs, and mud in ruck on ruck. We dredged him up, for killed, until he whined12 O sir, my eyes I'm blind I'm blind, I'm blind！ Coaxing13, I held a flame against his lids And said if he could see the least blurred14 light He was not blind； in time he'd get all right. I can't, he sobbed15. Eyeballs, huge-bulged like squids Watch my dreams still； but I forgot him there In posting next for duty, and sending a scout17 To beg a stretcher somewhere, and floundering about To other posts under the shrieking18 air.
Those other wretches19, how they bled and spewed, And one who would have drowned himself for good, I try not to remember these things now. Let dread20 hark back for one word only： how Half-listening to that sentry's moans and jumps, And the wild chattering21 of his broken teeth, Renewed most horribly whenever crumps Pummelled the roof and slogged the air beneath Through the dense22 din16, I say, we heard him shout I see your lights！ But ours had long died out.