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When the dugout air’s made thick
by yer breath and candle-wick,
and strong men sob wiv tears they can’t restrain;
when teetot’lers gulp their rum
and the noise just makes yer dumb,
ya know it’s ’eavies at their job again.

When yer nerves is knotted tight
and yer face is ghastly white,
or would be if it wasn’t for the grime;
when yer ’eart pounds while ya sit,
and yer ear drums want to split,
ya know it’s ’eavies working overtime.

When the sights and sound and smell
makes yer think yer’ve gone to ’ell,
all splashed by blood of comrades blown to bits;
when you’re living in a daze,
and the worst man of yer prays,
ya know it’s ’eavies making direct hits.

T. C. Hudson
26th September 1938

© T. C. Hudson.

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