We struggle through the dirt with exhaustion.
All coughing with pain as we move along.
Pushing and shoving away from the battle,
Avoiding flames and shells, to get back to base.
Each one of us is moving slowly away. The lost boots left behind.
Painfully walking; so painful, it’s painful to watch.
Heads turn as we approach, ignoring our empty faces;
We have no energy to show emotion.
I realise at last that gas has hit us: “Get down men, quick, onto the ground”
We manage to shove our gas masks on,
But one man doesn’t succeed. He cries out.
We sadly watch him die, but have no strength to do anything.
The gas swarm over us like stream to a kettle,
Unable to see my comrades, I search for there scared cries.
Helplessness fills me as I see ma comrade run towards us,
We know he will not make it, and this memory will live with us forever.
How would you feel, watching and hearing the man slowly die?
He screeches in pain, tearing his clothes away from his chest.
Can you imagine walking behind his, not able to help,
Following the cart as they take him away, another comrade lost.
Hear the sound – it’s horrific;
Of the man coughing up blood and mucus
As the gas eventually dissolves the organ,
Making it all worse is the wagon, jolting across the path.
Would they have said it’s glorious to die for your country?
If they had experienced what we have?
What we have been through is another hell.
This is not a glorious way to die for your country. Its torture.
