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Sonnets from a prison camp

Chapter 13: VIII
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About This Book

A sequence of sonnets composed by a soldier in enemy captivity during the First World War, recording frontline violence, the suddenness of bombardment, marches and captures, the strain of waiting and the loss of comrades, and the solace found in memory and poetic labour. Many poems juxtapose immediate scenes—exploding shrapnel, crowded billets, marches, and internment camps—with reveries of homeland landscapes and classical or moral reflections. Sections move between field incidents, the nadir of imprisonment, thoughts of home and influences, and short epigrams or maxims, showing how verse acted as a mental bulwark against despair while exploring themes of fate, endurance, and the persistence of inner freedom.

VIII

Still waiting! And the oozing hours have crept
The morning out in vapour shot with fire,
That struck now here now there in random ire
Bloodily something human down, yet kept
Alone stagnation at arm’s length. Men leapt
Suddenly to their feet, smit with a dire
Surmise, collapsed, and huddled in the mire.
No whisper passed. Some seemed as though they slept.
Only the stolid bearers wound about,
Shouldering their still and dabbled burdens white;
Or sharply a familiar voice rang out,
Comfortingly peremptory: “All right?
Then keep together. Lie low. Do not doubt.
The hour will surely come when we shall fight.”

Rastatt, 29th April