Chapter I: Front Matter

PICTURE-SHOW

BY

SIEGFRIED SASSOON

AUTHOR OF
"THE OLD HUNTSMAN," "COUNTER-ATTACK," ETC.

NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
681 FIFTH AVENUE

COPYRIGHT, 1920,
BY E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY

_All Rights Reserved_

Printed in the United States of America

TO
JOHN MASEFIELD

CONTENTS

PICTURE-SHOW
RECONCILIATION
CONCERT PARTY
NIGHT ON THE CONVOY
THE DUG-OUT
BATTALION-RELIEF
IN AN UNDERGROUND DRESSING STATION
I STOOD WITH THE DEAD
MEMORIAL TABLET
ATROCITIES
TO LEONIDE MASSINE
MEMORY
TO A VERY WISE MAN
EARLY CHRONOLOGY
ELEGY
MIRACLES
THE GOLDSMITH
DEVOTION TO DUTY
ANCIENT HISTORY
SPORTING ACQUAINTANCES
WHAT THE CAPTAIN SAID AT THE POINT-TO-POINT
CINEMA HERO
FANCY DRESS
MIDDLE-AGES
THE PORTRAIT
BUTTERFLIES
WRAITHS
PHANTOM
THE DARK HOUSE
IDYLL
PARTED
LOVERS
SLUMBER-SONG
THE IMPERFECT LOVER
VISION
TO A CHILDLESS WOMAN
AFTERMATH
FALLING ASLEEP
PRELUDE TO AN UNWRITTEN MASTERPIECE
LIMITATIONS
EVERYONE SANG

PICTURE-SHOW

PICTURE-SHOW

And still they come and go: and this is all I know--
That from the gloom I watch an endless picture-show,
Where wild or listless faces flicker on their way,
With glad or grievous hearts I'll never understand
Because Time spins so fast, and they've no time to stay
Beyond the moment's gesture of a lifted hand.

And still, between the shadow and the blinding flame,
The brave despair of men flings onward, ever the same
As in those doom-lit years that wait them, and have been...
And life is just the picture dancing on a screen.

RECONCILIATION

When you are standing at your hero's grave,
Or near some homeless village where he died,
Remember, through your heart's rekindling pride,
The German soldiers who were loyal and brave.

Men fought like brutes; and hideous things were done;
And you have nourished hatred, harsh and blind.
But in that Golgotha perhaps you'll find
The mothers of the men who killed your son.

_November, 1918._

CONCERT PARTY

(EGYPTIAN BASE CAMP)

They are gathering round...
Out of the twilight; over the grey-blue sand,
Shoals of low-jargoning men drift inward to the sound--
The jangle and throb of a piano ... tum-ti-tum...
Drawn by a lamp, they come
Out of the glimmering lines of their tents, over the shuffling sand.

O sing us the songs, the songs of our own land,
You warbling ladies in white.
Dimness conceals the hunger in our faces,
This wall of faces risen out of the night,
These eyes that keep their memories of the places
So long beyond their sight.

Jaded and gay, the ladies sing; and the chap in brown
Tilts his grey hat; jaunty and lean and pale,
He rattles the keys.... Some actor-bloke from town...
God send you home; and then _A long, long trail_;
_I hear you calling me_; and _Dixieland_....
Sing slowly ... now the chorus ... one by one
We hear them, drink them; till the concert's done.
Silent, I watch the shadowy mass of soldiers stand.
Silent, they drift away, over the glimmering sand.

KANTARA. _April, 1918_.

NIGHT ON THE CONVOY

(ALEXANDRIA-MARSEILLES)

Out in the blustering darkness, on the deck
A gleam of stars looks down. Long blurs of black,
The lean Destroyers, level with our track,
Plunging and stealing, watch the perilous way
Through backward racing seas and caverns of chill spray.
One sentry by the davits, in the gloom
Stands mute: the boat heaves onward through the night.
Shrouded is every chink of cabined light:
And sluiced by floundering waves that hiss and boom
And crash like guns, the troop-ship shudders ... doom.

Now something at my feet stirs with a sigh;
And slowly growing used to groping dark,
I know that the hurricane-deck, down all its length,
Is heaped and spread with lads in sprawling strength--
Blanketed soldiers sleeping. In the stark
Danger of life at war, they lie so still,
All prostrate and defenceless, head by head...
And I remember Arras, and that hill
Where dumb with pain I stumbled among the dead.

We are going home. The troopship, in a thrill
Of fiery-chamber'd anguish, throbs and rolls.
We are going home ... victims ... three thousand souls.

_May, 1918_.

THE DUG-OUT

Why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddled,
And one arm bent across your sullen, cold,
Exhausted face? It hurts my heart to watch you,
Deep-shadow'd from the candle's guttering gold;
And you wonder why I shake you by the shoulder;
Drowsy, you mumble and sigh and turn your head....

_You are too young to fall asleep for ever;
And when you sleep you remind me of the dead_.

ST. VENANT. _July, 1918_.

BATTALION-RELIEF

'_Fall in! Now get a move on._' (Curse the rain.)
We splash away along the straggling village,
Out to the flat rich country, green with June....
And sunset flares across wet crops and tillage,
Blazing with splendour-patches. (Harvest soon,
Up in the Line.) '_Perhaps the War'll be done
'By Christmas-Day. Keep smiling then, old son._'

Here's the Canal: it's dusk; we cross the bridge.
'Lead on there, by platoons.' (The Line's a-glare
With shellfire through the poplars; distant rattle
Of rifles and machine-guns.) '_Fritz is there!
'Christ, ain't it lively, Sergeant? Is't a battle?_'
More rain: the lightning blinks, and thunder rumbles.
'_There's over-head artillery!_' some chap grumbles.

What's all this mob at the cross-roads? Where are the guides?...
'Lead on with number One.' And off they go.
'Three minute intervals.' (Poor blundering files,
Sweating and blindly burdened; who's to know
If death will catch them in those two dark miles?)
More rain. 'Lead on, Head-quarters.' (That's the lot.)

'_Who's that? ... Oh, Sergeant-Major, don't get shot!
'And tell me, have we won this war or not!_'

IN AN UNDERGROUND DRESSING-STATION

Quietly they set their burden down: he tried
To grin; moaned; moved his head from side to side.
* * * * * * *
He gripped the stretcher; stiffened; glared; and screamed,

'O put my leg down, doctor, do!' (He'd got
A bullet in his ankle; and he'd been shot
Horribly through the guts.) The surgeon seemed
So kind and gentle, saying, above that crying,
'You must keep still, my lad.' But he was dying.