FROM THE

ON ACTIVE SERVICE

1914 - 1918

ANTHOLOGY

ContentsThe Send-Off by Wilfred Owen

Villages Démolis by Herbert Read

Bombardment by Richard Aldington

Wirers by Siegfried Sassoon

Marching (As seen from the left Side) by Isaac Rosenberg

A Lark Above the Trenches by J. W. Streets

The Battalion Is Now On Rest by Ivor Gurney

May 1916, The Veteran by Margaret Postgate Cole

Lament by W. W. Gibson

Rouen: 26 April – 25 May 1915 by May Wedderburn Cannan

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The Send-offby Wilfred Owen

Down the close, darkening lanes they sang their wayTo the siding-shed, And lined the train with faces grimly gay.

Their breasts were stuck all white with wreath and sprayAs men’s are, dead.

Dull porters watched them, and a casual trampStood staring hard, Sorry to miss them from the upland camp.Then, unmoved, signals nodded, and a lampWinked to the guard.

So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.They were not ours: We never heard to which front these were sent.

Nor there if they yet mock what women meantWho gave them flowers.

Shall they return to beatings of great bellsIn wild trainloads?A few, a few, too few for drums and yells, May creep back, silent, to still village wellsUp half-known roads.

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Villages Démolisby Herbert Read

The villages are strewnIn red and yellow heaps of rubble:

Here and there Interior walls Lie upturned and interrogate the skies amazedly.

Walls that once heldWithin their cubic confinesA soul that now lies strewn In red and yellowHeaps of rubble.

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Bombardmentby Richard Aldington

Four days the earth was rent and tornBy bursting steel,The houses fell about us;Three nights we dared not sleep,Sweating, and listening for the imminent crashWhich meant our death.

The fourth night every man,Nerve-tortured, racked to exhaustion,Slept, muttering and twitching,While the shells crashed overhead.

The fifth day there came a hush;We left our holesAnd looked above the wreckage of the earthTo where the white clouds moved in silent linesAcross the untroubled blue.

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Wirersby Siegfried Sassoon

Pass it along, the wiring party’s going out’— And yawning sentries mumble, ‘Wirers going out.’ Unravelling; twisting; hammering stakes with muffled thud, They toil with stealthy haste and anger in their blood.

The Boche sends up a flare. Black forms stand rigid there,Stock-still like posts; then darkness, and the clumsy ghosts Stride hither and thither, whispering, tripped by clutching snare Of snags and tangles. Ghastly dawn with vaporous coasts Gleams desolate along the sky, night’s misery ended.

Young Hughes was badly hit; I heard him carried away,Moaning at every lurch; no doubt he’ll die to-day. But we can say the front-line wire’s been safely mended.

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Marching (As seen from the left Side)by Isaac Rosenberg

My eyes catch ruddy necksSturdily pressed back -All a red brick moving glint.Like flaming pendulums, handsSwing across the khaki -Mustard-coloured khaki -To the automatic feet.

We husband the ancient gloryIn these bared necks and hands.Not broke is the forge of Mars;But a subtler brain beats ironTo shoe the hoofs of death,(Who paws dynamic air now).Blind fingers loose an iron cloudTo rain immortal darknessOn strong eyes.

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A Lark Above the Trenchesby J. W. Streets

Hushed is the shriek of hurtling shells: and hark!Somewhere within that bit of soft blue sky-Grand in his loneliness, his ecstasy,His lyric wild and free – carols a lark.

I in the trench, he lost in heaven afar,I dream of Love, its ecstasy he sings;Doth lure my soul to love till like a starIt flashes into Life: O tireless wings

That beat love’s message into melody –A song that touches in this place remoteGladness supreme in its undying noteAnd stirs to life the soul of memory –‘Tis strange that while you’re beating into lifeMen here below and plunged in sanguine strife!

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The Battalion Is Now On Rest (To ‘La Comtesse’) by Ivor Gurney

Walking the village street, to watch the stars and findSome peace like the old peace, some soothe for soul and mind,The noise of laughter strikes me as I move on my wayTowards England – westward – and the last glow of day.

And here is the end of houses. I turn on my heel,And stay where those voices a moment made me feelAs I were on Cotswold, with nothing else to doThan stare at the old houses, to taste the night-dew;

To answer friendly greetings from rough voices kind…Oh, one may try for ever to be calm and resigned,A red blind at evening sets the poor heart on fire – Or a child’s face, a sunset – with the old hot desire.

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May 1916, The Veteranby Margaret Postgate Cole

We came upon him sitting in the sun Blinded by war, and left. And past the fenceThere came young soldiers from the Hand and Flower, Asking advice of his experience.

And he said this, and that, and told them tales, And all the nightmares of each empty headBlew into air; then, hearing us beside, ‘Poor chaps, how’d they know what it’s like?’ he said.

And we stood there, and watched him as he sat, Turning his sockets where they went away,Until it came to one of us to ask ‘And you’re – how old?’ ‘Nineteen, the third of May.’

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Lamentby W. W. Gibson

We who are left, how shall we look againHappily on the sun or feel the rainWithout remembering how they who wentUngrudgingly and spentTheir lives for us loved, too, the sun and rain?

A bird among the rain-wet lilac sings – But we, how shall we turn to little thingsAnd listen to the birds and winds and streamsMade holy by their dreams,Nor feel the heart-break in the heart of things?

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Rouen: 26 April – 25 May 1915by May Wedderburn Cannan

Early morning over Rouen, hopeful, high, courageous morning,And the laughter of adventure and the steepness of the stair,And the dawn across the river, and the wind across the bridges,And the empty littered station, and the tired people there.

Can you recall those mornings and the hurry of awakening,And the long-forgotten wonder if we should miss the way,And the unfamiliar faces, and the coming of provisions,And the freshness and the glory of the labour of the day?

Hot noontide over Rouen, and the sun upon the city,Sun and dust unceasing, and the glare of cloudless skies,And the voices of the Indians and the endless stream of soldiers,And the clicking of the tatties, and the buzzing of the flies.

Can you recall those noontides and the reek of steam and coffee,Heavy-laden noontides with the evening’s peace to win,And the little piles of Woodbines, and the sticky soda bottles,And the crushes in the ‘Parlour’, and the letters coming in?

Quiet night-time over Rouen, and the station full of soldiers,All the youth and pride of England from the ends of all the earth;And the rifles piled together, and the creaking of the sword-belts,And the faces bent above them, and the gay, heart-breaking mirth.

Can I forget the passage from the cool white-bedded Aid PostPast the long sun-blistered coaches of the khaki Red Cross trainTo the truck train full of wounded, and the weariness and laughter,And ‘Good-bye, and thank you, Sister’, and the empty yards again?

Can you recall the parcels that we made them for the railroad,Crammed and bulging parcels held together by their string,And the voices of the sergeants who called the Drafts together,And the agony and splendour when they stood to save the King?

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Can you forget their passing, the cheering and the waving,The little group of people at the doorway of the shed,The sudden awful silence when the last train swung to darkness,And the lonely desolation, and the mocking stars o’erhead?

Can you recall the midnights, and the footsteps of night watchers,Men who came from darkness and went back to dark again,And the shadows on the rail-lines and the all-inglorious labour,And the promise of the daylight firing blue the window-pane?

Can you recall the passing through the kitchen door to morning,Morning very still and solemn breaking slowly on the town,And the early coastways engines that had met the ships at daybreak,And the Drafts just out from England, and the day shift coming down?

Can you forget returning slowly, stumbling on the cobbles,And the white-decked Red Cross barges dropping seawards for the tide,And the search for English papers, and the blessed cool of water,And the peace of half-closed shutters that shut out the world outside?

Can I forget the evenings and the sunsets on the island,And the tall black ships at anchor far below our balcony,And the distant call of bugles, and the white wine in the glasses,And the long line of the street lamps, stretching Eastwards to the sea?

… When the world slips slow to darkness, when the office fire burns lower,My heart goes out to Rouen, Rouen all the world away;When other men remember I remember our AdventureAnd the trains that go from Rouen at the ending of the day.

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WE NEED

YOUWho we areThe Reader is a national charity and social enterprise with a mission to build a world where Shared Reading - weekly informal read aloud groups, where great literature is shared and connections are made - is part of the fabric of life.

What is Shared Reading?It’s a purposeful and enjoyable experience that benefits people of all ages, backgrounds and life situations.

Group members take pleasure in getting together each week to read great literature, build social links and share experiences.

Volunteer-ledAcross the UK, our Shared Reading groups are run by a network of dedicated volunteers. You’ll find them in places as diverse as mental health wards, prisons, workplaces, high street cafés, schools, care homes and community centres.

By being part of The Reader’s story, our volunteers are actively making a difference to people’s lives by helping to build connected communities, tackle loneliness and improve health and well-being.

Our Volunteer Reader Leaders receive full training and support, beginning with our inspiring Read to Lead programme - an invigorating and thought-provoking flexible series of sessions.

“The reading groups are a different kind of medicine,

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Enriching volunteering opportunities with a difference

Volunteer with usGrowing numbers of people around the country – and the world – are experiencing the benefits of Shared Reading but we know that there are many others who we are yet to reach.

The Reader is now actively recruiting people just like you to help us to put Shared Reading into the hands of the people who need it most.

As one of our volunteers you can expect to. . .

• make a lasting difference in your local area

• meet new like-minded people and enjoy a sense of community

• gain a real sense of reward• develop new skills with high-quality

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How you can get involvedIf you have the enthusiasm and commitment to lead a Shared Reading group or read one-to-one with a looked-after-child, or if you would like to help to spread the word about The Reader and hear about our wider volunteering opportunities, we’d love to hear from you.

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