Refugees of Reason

August 1918

Lights out! The men are silent, though each is wrapped in a special kind of restless;
     Only those unloved will dream tonight.
'What is to become of me? Oh Lord please, please protect me!'
But silence is not rest; all is agitation, anxiousness
     Until the morning light.

Across the Channel and across a countryside ravaged a full four years by interminable strife,
     There is a special kind of Hell.
The mud, the limbs, the guts of man and beast are mixed as stew
And each from each, blood from oil and ooze, that is,
     'I canna begin to tell.'

Among this mass of men collected through conviction, allegiance, and conscription —
     It's for others to argue right or wrong,
Plenty long for home many months past and many miles distant,
Some consider the events that unfolded today,
     Others recollect a prayer or song.

The barrage began hours ago. The heavy guns expel their load from muted salvos behind,
     The shells whine above our head,
Exploding on the enemy hunkered in their bunkers over there;
Soon still and quiet will stir us from wakeful slumber
     To our destiny to which we're led.

Today we learned we would embark for the continent tomorrow; it was no surprise,
     We've been moving forward for days.
Everyone wants this war to run out, human fuel is in short supply.
Most were certain that it would end before we were needed on the front;
     At least, 'This is what everyone says!'

My heart races and my hand vibrates like a telegraph wire on frozen prairie —
     Ever since Passchendaele.
Behind closed eyelids the explosions erupt – brightly and vividly,
Sending me spiralling backwards only to shake myself from one nightmare,
     And return to this present tale.

I've been trained to kill, but the enemy till now was a sack stuffed with straw,
     'Will I be able to pull the trigger?
Will I be able to thrust my dagger?' I'm not sure of myself,
And here amongst this mass of men I shake in my cot in this cold canvas tent,
     'Who will avoid the grave digger?'

I've been trained to kill by this war machine and by this war machine I was ordained
     To pull and pull the trigger,
To thrust my dagger into my enemy, and feel him clutch me in his expiring embrace.
And here among this mass of men I shake in this bunker, awaiting together, knowing,
     'We cannot avoid the grave digger.'

It's cold and quiet before the dawn, there's occasional snorts and some are snoring.
     The time is near, still I'm shaking.

It's cold and quiet before the dawn, the shelling has stopped, occasional snorts, but no one's snoring.
     The time is near, can't still this shaking.

And there it is, the bugle sounds, I'm awake among this horde of soldiers,

And there it is, the whistle sounds, I'm alone among this horde of soldiers,

Surely no lonelier place upon this planet there can be found.
     Except perhaps this hole in the ground.

~gtk