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Sonnets from a prison camp

Chapter 20: XV
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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.

XV

A man dashed in among us and caught breath.
A sergeant, resolute and silent, one
That we who knew him trusted. He had run
As men run only in the face of death,
Yet had not fled. What is it that he saith?
“The game is all but up, the end begun.
Live men we shall not see another sun.
Laventie North has fallen, a feast of death.
’Tis your turn, sir. Your left is in the air,
And through the breach, five hundred yards away,
His fours have marched on Sailly and Estaires.”
Column of fours? No! Then God save the day!
These breastwork trenches!—’Twas as if there snapped
Some devilish mechanism on us—trapped!

Rastatt, 30th April