NEW POEM ABOUT WORLD WAR 1...

LE SAPEUR: Waiting, Wondering, Wanting…

There was some real pleasure,

He thought, although he could never admit as such,

Just being seated upon that worn wooden chair,

Dry, solid, unencumbered, a treasure

And he pondered its surface, smooth to the touch,

As he leaned before a scored café table,

Staring into his coffee, black and sweet,

Away from The Front, during a period of leisure…

A pioneer, he would dig saps,

Tunnels through muck and mire,

Forward, towards enemy lines

And violent trenches and killing fire:

Un sapeur labouring on nocturnal fatigues

With pickaxe wielding, 

Hacking then shovelling

The cloying clay and lying water,

Prepared an advance towards enemy wire

And such excruciating but inevitable slaughter…

There was some real peace,

He thought, although he would never admit as much,

Just being waited upon in that estaminet,

Dry, safe, untroubled, at ease

And he wondered about her smile, her touch,

As he watched her glide between the tables,

Sharing a glance, a blush discreet,

A warmth up front and real, not a cruel tease…  

The pioneer, he would dig saps,

Tunnelling through mud and mire,

Forward, towards enemy lines,

The turbulent trenches and galling wire;

Le sapeur labouring on a nocturnal fatigue

With pickaxe wielding

Was choking then falling

Into sinking clay and lying in water,

Bleeding perchance from enemy rifle fire

And died, hallucinating, in the intolerable slaughter…  

Pete Ray

May 27th 2020

A  World War One French sapper, whose job was to dig a trench directly towards the enemy under the cover of darkness.

As this fictional character died he was recalling a waitress’ smile and glance his way as he sat in an estaminet drinking coffee during a rest period.

The sappers could be forced to march many hours before even beginning to dig, working until dawn, with no light shown, no cigarettes lit and not in moonlight, obviously.

Saps were covered but the very digging brought its own dangers…