In memory of the many who died, but in particular of James Leslie, of Dunedin, who was 25.
Passchendaele
12th October 1917
These hills, these hills, are pressing down – like mud upon my mind
The slopes that Belgium folk called home – are guns and pillbox lined
The stumps cry out of beauty hewn – to clear this field of fire
and friends with whom I’d crossed the seas – hang torn upon the wire
The smell that fills my aching head – mix cordite, blood and fear
The cursing of the wounded dies – and I no longer hear
This crater is my refuge now – from hostile flying lead
a shell that at the Hun was aimed – has dropped on us instead
Eyes tightly closed and ears immune – I see Dunedin’s trees
I hear the lunchtime horn at Greggs – and feel the harbour breeze
and yes, a line of laughing men – stand queueing to enlist
‘For King and Country’ sounded grand – of Flanders never wist
To sail the seas and have a wage – for these Otago boys
The cheering crowd, in Octagon – a regiment deploys
The tendril fog from off the sea – envelops Harbour Cone
The mists of pain that swirl my mind – cling numbly to the bone
The lightning flicks across the dawn – of new artillery
preceding ranks of running men – reserve auxiliary
I hear a whistle blasting shrill – to start another wave
The line is thin, if drawn at all – between the fools and brave
The warlike cry is barbarous – two hundred roaring throats
Machine gun rounds oblivious – strike earth and khaki coats
The call “Retreat” so desperate – but just the lucky few
are part of this retrenchment drive – for General review
They say that hope eternal springs – within the human breast
I see a stretcher party come – and empathise their quest
They run across the torn-up ground – seem heedless to the harm
in place of gun and bandolier – they’ve crosses on the arm
a single Maxim opens up – their prospect, scythed and downed
the stretcher, load, and carriers – fall limply to the ground
the concrete walls and tearing wire – all mock the optimist
confusion counterpunching, this – antipodean fist
A darkness falls on Passchendaele – of death and suff’ring blind
no longer sure if it is real – or only in my mind
I melt into its warm embrace – my fighting days are o’er
like flotsam on St Kilda’s beach – lies death, behind, before
The rightness of the cause is dim – that once was clearly seen
a numbered one of broken cogs – in Allied War Machine
Perhaps they’ll speak for years to come – of this great sacrifice
Whatever we have bought today – has come at fearful price!
- Roger Leslie - 12/10/2017
