I have been placed in a war hospital and am under the watch of a certain Dr. Rivers. We speak daily about my dreams, my thoughts on the war, everything. Though my superiors would wish for the rest of the world to think it so, I am not crazy. I am to be released back to France in the coming year (1918).
Died of Wounds...........written 1917
| HIS wet white face and miserable eyes | |
| Brought nurses to him more than groans and sighs: | |
| But hoarse and low and rapid rose and fell | |
| His troubled voice: he did the business well. | |
| The ward grew dark; but he was still complaining | 5 |
| And calling out for ‘Dickie’. ‘Curse the Wood! | |
| ‘It’s time to go. O Christ, and what’s the good? | |
| ‘We’ll never take it, and it’s always raining.’ | |
| I wondered where he’d been; then heard him shout, | |
| ‘They snipe like hell! O Dickie, don’t go out... | 10 |
| I fell asleep ... Next morning he was dead; | |
| And some Slight Wound lay smiling on the bed. |
Still bitterly opposed to this war,
Siegfried
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