Through miles of mud we travelled, and by sick valleys- <br />The Valley of Death at last – most evil alleys, <br />To Grandcourt trenches reserve – and the hell’s name it did <br />deserve. <br />Rain there was – tired and weak I was, glad for an end. <br />But one spoke to me – one I liked well as friend – <br />‘Let’s volunteer for the Front Line – many others won’t. <br />I’ll volunteer, it’s better being there than here.’ <br />But I had seen too many ditches and stood too long <br />Feeling my feet freeze, and my shoulders ache with the <br />strong <br />Pull of equipment – and too much use of pain and strain. <br />Besides he was Lance Corporal and might be full Corporal <br />Before the next straw resting might come again. <br />Before the next billet should hum with talk and song. <br />Stars looked as well from second as from first line holes. <br />There were fatigues for change, and a thought less danger – <br />But five or six there were followed Army with their souls – <br />Took five days’ dripping rain without let of finish again - <br />With dysentery and bodies of heroic ghouls. <br />Till at last their hearts feared nothing of the brazen anger, <br />(Perhaps of death little) but once more again to drop on straw <br />bed-serving. <br />And to have heaven of dry feeling after the damps and fouls.<br /><br />Ivor Gurney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/of-grandcourt/
