A Stretcher Bearer Poem

I recently read Emily Mayhew’s book “Wounded” about the British Army’s medical corps during WWI.  I read a poem that a royal army chaplain attached to a field hospital wrote based on what he heard from stretcher bearers attached to his unit.  Reading it brought tears to my eyes.   After finishing it, I felt almost like I’d walked a couple of miles in foot-deep mud, smelling dead bodies, and cringing at the sound of incoming artillery rounds.  Can you imagine how badly a man would have to be injured to require a year’s worth of hospitalization and how hellish an environment he would be in for other men to regard that as an extraordinary bit of good luck?  It is my opinion that anyone who cannot make a rhyme does not qualify as a poet.  About the only bit of explanation this needs is that M.O. stands for medical officer. 

“Easy does it – a bit o’ trench ‘ere

Mind that blinkin’ bit of wire

There’s shell ‘ole on your left there

Lift ‘em up a little ‘igher

Stick it, lad, ye’ll soon be there now

Want best ‘ere for a while?

Let ‘im down then – gently, gently

There you are, lad, that’s the style

Want a drink mate? ‘Ere’s me bottle

Lift ‘is head up for ‘im, Jack

Put my tunic underneath ‘im

‘Ows that chummy?  That’s the tack!

Guess we’d better make a start now

Ready for another spell?

Best be goin’, we won’t ‘urt ye

But ‘e might just start to shell

Are you right, mate? Off we goes then

That well over on the right

Gawd almighty, that’s a near ‘un!

‘Old your end up good and tight

Nigh mind, lad, you’re for blighty

Mind this rotten bit of board

We’ll soon ‘ave ye tucked in bed, lad

‘Opes ye gets to my old ward

No more war for you my ‘earty

This’ll get ye well away

12 good months in dear old blighty

12 good months if you’re a day

M.O. got a bit of something

What’ll stop that blasted pain

Ere’s a rotten bit o’ ground, mate

Lift of ‘igher – up again

Wish ‘ed stop ‘is blasted shellin’

Makes it rotten for the lad

When a feller’s been and got it

It affects ‘im twice as bad

Ow’s it goin’ now then sonny?

‘Ere that narrow bit of trench

Careful, mate, ther’s some dead jerries

Lawd almighty, what a stench!

‘Ere we are now, stretcher case boys

Bring him aht a cup o’ tea

Inasmuch as ye have done it

Ye have done it unto me.”

Emily Mayhew