Pluck*
(by Eva Dobell, a nurse in World war 1)
Crippled
for life at seventeen,
His great
eyes seem to question why:
With both
legs smashed it might have been
Better in
that grim trench to die
Than drag
maimed years out helplessly.
A child -
so wasted and so white,
He told a
lie to get his way,
To march, a
man with men, and fight
While other
boys are still at play.
A gallant
lie your heart will say.
So broke
with pain, he shrinks in dread
To see the
"dresser" drawing near;
And winds
the clothes about his head
That none
may see his heart-sick fear.
His
shaking, strangled sobs you hear.
But when
the dreaded moment's there
He'll face
us all, a soldier yet,
Watch his
bared wounds with unmoved air,
(Though
tell-tale lashes still are wet),
And smoke
his Woodbine cigarette.
