August 8th, 1918
What brought him here to yield his life,
To lie upon a foreign field, the cold, drab, muddy clay?
No need now for loved ones to wait the day of his return.
His sweetheart, daughter, son must hear the dirge and live to mourn.
His hand is raised in mock salute to me
As sitting on my steed to guide them on
Each limber of the column presses free
The muscles of that now dead arm.
His form must lie, no time to move.
The word is ‘forward’ and each wheel must turn
As we press on our battle line.
Sitting, watching, musing as the caissons pass,
Before this day is out, what fate is mine?
Shall I too lie as cold as he?
A silent prayer goes out to Him, who guides our fate,
That no more need the power of might be used
And that it be not now too late.
And that I throughout my later years,
Forgive, and be forgiven, for all this hell within this vale of tears.
~ Bartlet John Dingwall Ellis (WW1 Canadian Army)
“Written after the attack in front of Amiens, August 8th, 1918 as we advanced. I sat my horse directing my unit into a road between the fields where the German dead lay.”