{"id":487,"date":"2014-07-03T22:32:50","date_gmt":"2014-07-03T22:32:50","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/opentextbc.ca\/englishliterature\/?post_type=chapter&p=487"},"modified":"2014-09-29T04:00:23","modified_gmt":"2014-09-29T04:00:23","slug":"s-i-w","status":"publish","type":"chapter","link":"https:\/\/opentextbc.ca\/englishliterature\/chapter\/s-i-w\/","title":{"raw":"S.I.W.","rendered":"S.I.W."},"content":{"raw":"I will to the King[footnote]The Monk\u2019s words in Yeats\u2019s play, The King\u2019s Threshold<\/em>.[\/footnote],\r\nAnd offer him consolation in his trouble,\r\nFor that man there has set his teeth to die,\r\nAnd being one that hates obedience,\r\nDiscipline, and orderliness of life,\r\nI cannot mourn him.\r\n\r\n- W. B. YEATS\r\n\r\nI The Prologue<\/strong>\r\n\r\nPatting goodbye, doubtless they told the lad\r\nHe'd always show the Hun a brave man's face;\r\nFather would sooner him dead than in disgrace,\u2014\r\nWas proud to see him going, aye, and glad.\r\nPerhaps his mother whimpered how she'd fret (5)\r\nUntil he got a nice safe wound to nurse.\r\nSisters would wish girls too could shoot, charge, curse...\r\nBrothers\u2014would send his favourite cigarette.\r\nEach week, month after month, they wrote the same,\r\nThinking him sheltered in some Y. M. Hut, (10)\r\nBecause he said so, writing on his butt\r\nWhere once an hour a bullet missed its aim.\r\nAnd misses teased the hunger of his brain.\r\nHis eyes grew old with wincing, and his hand\r\nReckless with ague. Courage leaked, as sand (15)\r\nFrom the best sandbags after years of rain.\r\nBut never leave, wound, fever, trench-foot, shock,\r\nUntrapped the wretch. And death seemed still withheld\r\nFor torture of lying machinally shelled,\r\nAt the pleasure of this world's Powers who'd run amok. (20)\r\n\r\nHe'd seen men shoot their hands, on night patrol.\r\nTheir people never knew. Yet they were vile.\r\n'Death sooner than dishonour, that's the style!'\r\nSo Father said.\r\n\r\nII The Action<\/strong>\r\n\r\nOne dawn, our wire patrol\r\nCarried him. This time, Death had not missed. (25)\r\nWe could do nothing but wipe his bleeding cough.\r\nCould it be accident?\u2014Rifles go off...\r\nNot sniped? No. (Later they found the English ball[footnote]Bullet.[\/footnote].)\r\n\r\nIII The Poem<\/strong>\r\n\r\nIt was the reasoned crisis of his soul\r\nAgainst more days of inescapable thrall, (30)\r\nAgainst infrangibly wired and blind trench wall\r\nCurtained with fire, roofed in with creeping fire,\r\nSlow grazing fire, that would not burn him whole\r\nBut kept him for death's promises and scoff,\r\nAnd life's half-promising, and both their riling. (35)\r\n\r\nIV The Epilogue<\/strong>\r\n\r\nWith him they buried the muzzle his teeth had kissed,\r\nAnd truthfully wrote the mother, 'Tim died smiling.'","rendered":"

I will to the King[1]<\/sup><\/a>,
\nAnd offer him consolation in his trouble,
\nFor that man there has set his teeth to die,
\nAnd being one that hates obedience,
\nDiscipline, and orderliness of life,
\nI cannot mourn him.<\/p>\n

– W. B. YEATS<\/p>\n

I The Prologue<\/strong><\/p>\n

Patting goodbye, doubtless they told the lad
\nHe’d always show the Hun a brave man’s face;
\nFather would sooner him dead than in disgrace,\u2014
\nWas proud to see him going, aye, and glad.
\nPerhaps his mother whimpered how she’d fret (5)
\nUntil he got a nice safe wound to nurse.
\nSisters would wish girls too could shoot, charge, curse…
\nBrothers\u2014would send his favourite cigarette.
\nEach week, month after month, they wrote the same,
\nThinking him sheltered in some Y. M. Hut, (10)
\nBecause he said so, writing on his butt
\nWhere once an hour a bullet missed its aim.
\nAnd misses teased the hunger of his brain.
\nHis eyes grew old with wincing, and his hand
\nReckless with ague. Courage leaked, as sand (15)
\nFrom the best sandbags after years of rain.
\nBut never leave, wound, fever, trench-foot, shock,
\nUntrapped the wretch. And death seemed still withheld
\nFor torture of lying machinally shelled,
\nAt the pleasure of this world’s Powers who’d run amok. (20)<\/p>\n

He’d seen men shoot their hands, on night patrol.
\nTheir people never knew. Yet they were vile.
\n‘Death sooner than dishonour, that’s the style!’
\nSo Father said.<\/p>\n

II The Action<\/strong><\/p>\n

One dawn, our wire patrol
\nCarried him. This time, Death had not missed. (25)
\nWe could do nothing but wipe his bleeding cough.
\nCould it be accident?\u2014Rifles go off…
\nNot sniped? No. (Later they found the English ball[2]<\/sup><\/a>.)<\/p>\n

III The Poem<\/strong><\/p>\n

It was the reasoned crisis of his soul
\nAgainst more days of inescapable thrall, (30)
\nAgainst infrangibly wired and blind trench wall
\nCurtained with fire, roofed in with creeping fire,
\nSlow grazing fire, that would not burn him whole
\nBut kept him for death’s promises and scoff,
\nAnd life’s half-promising, and both their riling. (35)<\/p>\n

IV The Epilogue<\/strong><\/p>\n

With him they buried the muzzle his teeth had kissed,
\nAnd truthfully wrote the mother, ‘Tim died smiling.’<\/p>\n

  1. The Monk\u2019s words in Yeats\u2019s play, The King\u2019s Threshold<\/em>. ↵<\/a><\/li>
  2. Bullet. ↵<\/a><\/li><\/ol><\/div>","protected":false},"author":17,"menu_order":5,"template":"","meta":{"pb_show_title":"on","pb_short_title":"","pb_subtitle":"","pb_authors":["wilfred-owen"],"pb_section_license":"public-domain"},"chapter-type":[],"contributor":[67],"license":[78],"class_list":["post-487","chapter","type-chapter","status-publish","hentry","contributor-wilfred-owen","license-public-domain"],"part":479,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/opentextbc.ca\/englishliterature\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/487","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/opentextbc.ca\/englishliterature\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/opentextbc.ca\/englishliterature\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/chapter"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/opentextbc.ca\/englishliterature\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/17"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/opentextbc.ca\/englishliterature\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/487\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1519,"href":"https:\/\/opentextbc.ca\/englishliterature\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/487\/revisions\/1519"}],"part":[{"href":"https:\/\/opentextbc.ca\/englishliterature\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/parts\/479"}],"metadata":[{"href":"https:\/\/opentextbc.ca\/englishliterature\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/487\/metadata\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/opentextbc.ca\/englishliterature\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=487"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"chapter-type","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/opentextbc.ca\/englishliterature\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapter-type?post=487"},{"taxonomy":"contributor","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/opentextbc.ca\/englishliterature\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/contributor?post=487"},{"taxonomy":"license","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/opentextbc.ca\/englishliterature\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/license?post=487"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}