  UN BLESSÉ À MONTAUVILLE "Un blessÉ À Montauville—urgent!" Calls the sallow-faced tÉlÉphoniste. The night is as black as hell's black pit, There's snow on the wind in the East. There's snow on the wind, there's rain on the wind, The cold's like a rat at your bones; You crank your car till your soul caves in, But the engine only moans. The night is as black as hell's black pit; You feel your crawling way Along the shell-gutted, gun-gashed road— How—only God can say. The 120's and 75's Are bellowing on the hill; They're playing at bowls with big trench-mines Down at the Devil's mill. Christ! Do you hear that shrapnel tune Twang through the frightened air? The Boches are shelling on Montauville— They're waiting for you up there! "Un blessÉ—urgent? Hold your lantern up While I turn the damned machine! Easy, just lift him easy now! Why, the fellow's face is green!" "Oui, Ça ne dure pas longtemps, tu sais." "Here, cover him up—he's cold! Shove the stretcher—it's stuck! That's it—he's in!" Poor chap, not twenty years old. "Bon-soir, messieurs—À tout À l'heure!" And you feel for the hell-struck road. It's ten miles off to the surgery, With Death and a boy for your load. Praise God for that rocket in the trench, Green on the ghastly sky— That camion was dead ahead! Let the ravitaillement by! "Courage, mon brave! We're almost there!" God, how the fellow groans— And you'd give your heart to ease the jolt Of the ambulance over the stones. Go on, go on, through the dreadful night— How—only God He knows! But now he's still! Aye, it's terribly still On the way a dead man goes. "Wake up, you swine asleep! Come out! Un blessÉ—urgent—damned bad!" A lamp streams in on the blood-stained white And the mud-stained blue of the lad. "Il est mort, m'sieu!" "So the poor chap's dead?" Just there, then, on the road You were driving a hearse in the hell-black night, With Death and a boy for your load. O dump him down in that yawning shed, A man at his head and feet; Take off his ticket, his clothes, his kit, And give him his winding-sheet. It's just another poilu that's dead; You've hauled them every day Till your soul has ceased to wonder and weep At war's wild, wanton play. He died in the winter dark, alone, In a stinking ambulance, With God knows what upon his lips— But on his heart was France! Emery Pottle |
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