Upturned Face

by Stephen Crane

"What will we do now?" said the adjutant, troubled and excited.

"Bury him," said Timothy Lean.
The two officers looked down close to their toes where lay the body of their comrade. The face
was chalk-blue; gleaming eyes stared at the sky. Over the two upright figures was a windy sound
of bullets, and on the top of the hill Lean's prostrate company of Spitzbergen infantry was firing
measured volleys.
"Don't you think it would be better--" began the adjutant. "We might leave him until tomorrow."
"No," said Lean. "I can't hold that post an hour longer. I've got to fall back, and we've got to bury
old Bill."
"Of course," said the adjutant, at once. "Your men got intrenching tools?"
Lean shouted back to his little line, and two men came slowly, one with a pick, one with a
shovel. They started in the direction of the Rostina sharp-shooters. Bullets cracked near their
ears. "Dig here," said Lean gruffly. The men, thus caused to lower their glances to the turf,
became hurried and frightened merely because they could not look to see whence the bullets
came. The dull beat of the pick striking the earth sounded amid the swift snap of close bullets.
Presently the other private began to shovel.
"I suppose," said the adjutant, slowly, "we'd better search his clothes for--things."
Lean nodded. Together in curious abstraction they looked at the body. Then Lean stirred his
shoulders suddenly, arousing himself.

"Yes," he said, "we'd better see what he's got." He dropped to his knees, and his hands
approached the body of the dead officer. But his hands wavered over the buttons of the tunic. The
first button was brick- red with drying blood, and he did not seem to dare touch it.
"Go on," said the adjutant, hoarsely.
Lean stretched his wooden hand, and his fingers fumbled the blood- stained buttons. At last he
rose with ghastly face. He had gathered a watch, a whistle, a pipe, a tobacco pouch, a
handkerchief, a little case of cards and papers. He looked at the adjutant. There was a silence.
The adjutant was feeling that he had been a coward to make Lean do all the grisly business.
"Well," said Lean, "that's all, I think. You have his sword and revolver?"
"Yes," said the adjutant, his face working, and then he burst out in a sudden strange fury at the
two privates. "Why don't you hurry up with that grave? What are you doing, anyhow? Hurry, do
you hear? I never saw such stupid--"
Even as he cried out in his passion the two men were laboring for their lives. Ever overhead the
bullets were spitting.
The grave was finished, It was not a masterpiece--a poor little shallow thing. Lean and the
adjutant again looked at each other in a curious silent communication.
Suddenly the adjutant croaked out a weird laugh. It was a terrible laugh, which had its origin in
that part of the mind which is first moved by the singing of the nerves. "Well," he said,
humorously to Lean, "I suppose we had best tumble him in."
"Yes," said Lean. The two privates stood waiting, bent over their implements. "I suppose," said
Lean, "it would be better if we laid him in ourselves."
"Yes," said the adjutant. Then apparently remembering that he had made Lean search the body,
he stooped with great fortitude and took hold of the dead officer's clothing. Lean joined him.
Both were particular that their fingers should not feel the corpse. They tugged away; the corpse

lifted, heaved, toppled, flopped into the grave, and the two officers, straightening, looked again
at each other--they were always looking at each other. They sighed with relief.
The adjutant said, "I suppose we should--we should say something. Do you know the service,
Tim?"
"They don't read the service until the grave is filled in," said Lean, pressing his lips to an
academic expression.
"Don't they?" said the adjutant, shocked that he had made the mistake.
"Oh, well," he cried, suddenly, "let us--let us say something--while he can hear us."
"All right," said Lean. "Do you know the service?"
"I can't remember a line of it," said the adjutant.
Lean was extremely dubious. "I can repeat two lines, but--"
"Well, do it," said the adjutant. "Go as far as you can. That's better than nothing. And the beasts
have got our range exactly."
Lean looked at his two men. "Attention," he barked. The privates came to attention with a click,
looking much aggrieved. The adjutant lowered his helmet to his knee. Lean, bareheaded, he
stood over the grave. The Rostina sharpshooters fired briskly.
"Oh, Father, our friend has sunk in the deep waters of death, but his spirit has leaped toward
Thee as the bubble arises from the lips of the drowning. Perceive, we beseech, O Father, the little
flying bubble, and--".
Lean, although husky and ashamed, had suffered no hesitation up to this point, but he stopped
with a hopeless feeling and looked at the corpse.

The adjutant moved uneasily. "And from Thy superb heights--" he began, and then he too came
to an end.
"And from Thy superb heights," said Lean.
The adjutant suddenly remembered a phrase in the back part of the Spitzbergen burial service,
and he exploited it with the triumphant manner of a man who has recalled everything, and can go
on.
"Oh, God, have mercy--"
"Oh, God, have mercy--" said Lean.
"Mercy," repeated the adjutant, in quick failure.
"Mercy," said Lean. And then he was moved by some violence of feeling, for he turned suddenly
upon his two men and tigerishly said, "Throw the dirt in."
The fire of the Rostina sharpshooters was accurate and continuous.
*****
One of the aggrieved privates came forward with his shovel. He lifted his first shovel-load of
earth, and for a moment of inexplicable hesitation it was held poised above this corpse, which
from its chalk- blue face looked keenly out from the grave. Then the soldier emptied his shovel
on--on the feet.
Timothy Lean felt as if tons had been swiftly lifted from off his forehead. He had felt that
perhaps the private might empty the shovel on--on the face. It had been emptied on the feet.
There was a great point gained there--ha, ha!--the first shovelful had been emptied on the feet.
How satisfactory!

The adjutant began to babble. "Well, of course--a man we've messed with all these years-impossible--you can't, you know, leave your intimate friends rotting on the field. Go on, for
God's sake, and shovel, you!"
The man with the shovel suddenly ducked, grabbed his left arm with his right hand, and looked
at his officer for orders. Lean picked the shovel from the ground. "Go to the rear," he said to the
wounded man. He also addressed the other private. "You get under cover, too; I'll finish this
business."
The wounded man scrambled hard still for the top of the ridge without devoting any glances to
the direction whence the bullets came, and the other man followed at an equal pace; but he was
different, in that he looked back anxiously three times.
This is merely the way--often--of the hit and unhit.
Timothy Lean filled the shovel, hesitated, and then in a movement which was like a gesture of
abhorrence he flung the dirt into the grave, and as it landed it made a sound--plop! Lean
suddenly stopped and mopped his brow--a tired laborer.
"Perhaps we have been wrong," said the adjutant. His glance wavered stupidly. "It might have
been better if we hadn't buried him just at this time. Of course, if we advance to-morrow the
body would have been--"
"Damn you," said Lean, "shut your mouth!" He was not the senior officer.
He again filled the shovel and flung the earth. Always the earth made that sound--plop! For a
space Lean worked frantically, like a man digging himself out of danger.
Soon there was nothing to be seen but the chalk-blue face. Lean filled the shovel. "Good God,"
he cried to the adjutant. "Why didn't you turn him somehow when you put him in? This--" Then
Lean began to stutter.

The adjutant understood. He was pale to the lips. "Go on, man," he cried, beseechingly, almost in
a shout. Lean swung back the shovel. It went forward in a pendulum curve. When the earth
landed it made a sound --plop!
***
Last Stand
My last day in the desert
My last day in this sand
I hope I never come back
To this tragic barren land
Many hot days
And many moons have passed
I dont want to fight this war anymore
My sanity wont last
Towns have been taken
Towns have been lost
Towns have been taken back again
How many lives has it cost?
This war will not end
The stakes are far too high
A few friends are gone already
How many more will die?
-Alex Cockers

To Germany, by Charles Hamilton Sorley

You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed,
And no man claimed the conquest of your land.
But gropers both through fields of thought confined
We stumble and we do not understand.
You only saw your future bigly planned,
And we, the tapering paths of our own mind,

And in each others dearest ways we stand,

And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind.
When it is peace, then we may view again
With new won eyes each other's truer form
And wonder. Grown more loving kind and warm
We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain,
When it is peace. But until peace, the storm,
The darkness and the thunder and the rain.

Name:

War Poetry Worksheet: Discussing To Germany and Last Stand.

1. In what ways are the two poems similar?

2. In what ways are they different?

3. Who do you think the speaker is in each poem, and what evidence do you have that
supports this?

4. Both authors mention weather in their poems. How do they use weather to symbolize
what the speakers are going through?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zCxOp2VRRY0
(Link to video on Last Letters Home Sample -- HBO)
***
http://noglory.org/index.php/multimedia/poetry-and-spoken-word/221-vera-brittain-perhaps
(Perhaps audio)
Perhaps, by Vera Brittain
(Dedicated to her fiance Roland Aubrey Leighton, who was killed at the age of 20 by a sniper in
1915, four months after she had accepted his marriage proposal)
Perhaps some day the sun will shine again,
And I shall see that still the skies are blue,
And feel once more I do not live in vain,
Although bereft of You.
Perhaps the golden meadows at my feet
Will make the sunny hours of spring seem gay,
And I shall find the white May-blossoms sweet,
Though You have passed away.
Perhaps the summer woods will shimmer bright,
And crimson roses once again be fair,
And autumn harvest fields a rich delight,
Although You are not there.
Perhaps some day I shall not shrink in pain
To see the passing of the dying year,
And listen to Christmas songs again,
Although You cannot hear.
But though kind Time may many joys renew,
There is one greatest joy I shall not know
Again, because my heart for loss of You
Was broken, long ago.

Guidelines for found poem:

5 words from each poem.
Use at least 10/15 words in a found poem.
Work individually.
(not a handout, just notes for instruction).

The Sniper
by Liam O'Flaherty (1897-1984)
Approximate Word Count: 1619
The long June twilight faded into night. Dublin lay enveloped in darkness but for the dim light of
the moon that shone through fleecy clouds, casting a pale light as of approaching dawn over the
streets and the dark waters of the Liffey. Around the beleaguered Four Courts the heavy guns
roared. Here and there through the city, machine guns and rifles broke the silence of the night,
spasmodically, like dogs barking on lone farms. Republicans and Free Staters were waging civil
war.
On a rooftop near O'Connell Bridge, a Republican sniper lay watching. Beside him lay his rifle
and over his shoulders was slung a pair of field glasses. His face was the face of a student, thin
and ascetic, but his eyes had the cold gleam of the fanatic. They were deep and thoughtful, the
eyes of a man who is used to looking at death.
He was eating a sandwich hungrily. He had eaten nothing since morning. He had been too
excited to eat. He finished the sandwich, and, taking a flask of whiskey from his pocket, he took
a short drought. Then he returned the flask to his pocket. He paused for a moment, considering
whether he should risk a smoke. It was dangerous. The flash might be seen in the darkness, and
there were enemies watching. He decided to take the risk.
Placing a cigarette between his lips, he struck a match, inhaled the smoke hurriedly and put out
the light. Almost immediately, a bullet flattened itself against the parapet of the roof. The sniper
took another whiff and put out the cigarette. Then he swore softly and crawled away to the left.

Cautiously he raised himself and peered over the parapet. There was a flash and a bullet whizzed
over his head. He dropped immediately. He had seen the flash. It came from the opposite side of
the street.
He rolled over the roof to a chimney stack in the rear, and slowly drew himself up behind it, until
his eyes were level with the top of the parapet. There was nothing to be seen--just the dim outline
of the opposite housetop against the blue sky. His enemy was under cover.
Just then an armored car came across the bridge and advanced slowly up the street. It stopped on
the opposite side of the street, fifty yards ahead. The sniper could hear the dull panting of the
motor. His heart beat faster. It was an enemy car. He wanted to fire, but he knew it was useless.
His bullets would never pierce the steel that covered the gray monster.
Then round the corner of a side street came an old woman, her head covered by a tattered shawl.
She began to talk to the man in the turret of the car. She was pointing to the roof where the sniper
lay. An informer.
The turret opened. A man's head and shoulders appeared, looking toward the sniper. The sniper
raised his rifle and fired. The head fell heavily on the turret wall. The woman darted toward the
side street. The sniper fired again. The woman whirled round and fell with a shriek into the
gutter.
Suddenly from the opposite roof a shot rang out and the sniper dropped his rifle with a curse. The
rifle clattered to the roof. The sniper thought the noise would wake the dead. He stooped to pick
the rifle up. He couldn't lift it. His forearm was dead. "I'm hit," he muttered.
Dropping flat onto the roof, he crawled back to the parapet. With his left hand he felt the injured
right forearm. The blood was oozing through the sleeve of his coat. There was no pain--just a
deadened sensation, as if the arm had been cut off.
Quickly he drew his knife from his pocket, opened it on the breastwork of the parapet, and
ripped open the sleeve. There was a small hole where the bullet had entered. On the other side
there was no hole. The bullet had lodged in the bone. It must have fractured it. He bent the arm
below the wound. the arm bent back easily. He ground his teeth to overcome the pain.
Then taking out his field dressing, he ripped open the packet with his knife. He broke the neck of
the iodine bottle and let the bitter fluid drip into the wound. A paroxysm of pain swept through
him. He placed the cotton wadding over the wound and wrapped the dressing over it. He tied the
ends with his teeth.
Then he lay still against the parapet, and, closing his eyes, he made an effort of will to overcome
the pain.
In the street beneath all was still. The armored car had retired speedily over the bridge, with the
machine gunner's head hanging lifeless over the turret. The woman's corpse lay still in the gutter.
The sniper lay still for a long time nursing his wounded arm and planning escape. Morning must
not find him wounded on the roof. The enemy on the opposite roof coverd his escape. He must

kill that enemy and he could not use his rifle. He had only a revolver to do it. Then he thought of
a plan.
Taking off his cap, he placed it over the muzzle of his rifle. Then he pushed the rifle slowly
upward over the parapet, until the cap was visible from the opposite side of the street. Almost
immediately there was a report, and a bullet pierced the center of the cap. The sniper slanted the
rifle forward. The cap clipped down into the street. Then catching the rifle in the middle, the
sniper dropped his left hand over the roof and let it hang, lifelessly. After a few moments he let
the rifle drop to the street. Then he sank to the roof, dragging his hand with him.
Crawling quickly to his feet, he peered up at the corner of the roof. His ruse had succeeded. The
other sniper, seeing the cap and rifle fall, thought that he had killed his man. He was now
standing before a row of chimney pots, looking across, with his head clearly silhouetted against
the western sky.
The Republican sniper smiled and lifted his revolver above the edge of the parapet. The distance
was about fifty yards--a hard shot in the dim light, and his right arm was paining him like a
thousand devils. He took a steady aim. His hand trembled with eagerness. Pressing his lips
together, he took a deep breath through his nostrils and fired. He was almost deafened with the
report and his arm shook with the recoil.
Then when the smoke cleared, he peered across and uttered a cry of joy. His enemy had been hit.
He was reeling over the parapet in his death agony. He struggled to keep his feet, but he was
slowly falling forward as if in a dream. The rifle fell from his grasp, hit the parapet, fell over,
bounded off the pole of a barber's shop beneath and then clattered on the pavement.
Then the dying man on the roof crumpled up and fell forward. The body turned over and over in
space and hit the ground with a dull thud. Then it lay still.
The sniper looked at his enemy falling and he shuddered. The lust of battle died in him. He
became bitten by remorse. The sweat stood out in beads on his forehead. Weakened by his
wound and the long summer day of fasting and watching on the roof, he revolted from the sight
of the shattered mass of his dead enemy. His teeth chattered, he began to gibber to himself,
cursing the war, cursing himself, cursing everybody.
He looked at the smoking revolver in his hand, and with an oath he hurled it to the roof at his
feet. The revolver went off with a concussion and the bullet whizzed past the sniper's head. He
was frightened back to his senses by the shock. His nerves steadied. The cloud of fear scattered
from his mind and he laughed.
Taking the whiskey flask from his pocket, he emptied it a drought. He felt reckless under the
influence of the spirit. He decided to leave the roof now and look for his company commander,
to report. Everywhere around was quiet. There was not much danger in going through the streets.
He picked up his revolver and put it in his pocket. Then he crawled down through the skylight to
the house underneath.
When the sniper reached the laneway on the street level, he felt a sudden curiosity as to the
identity of the enemy sniper whom he had killed. He decided that he was a good shot, whoever
he was. He wondered did he know him. Perhaps he had been in his own company before the split

in the army. He decided to risk going over to have a look at him. He peered around the corner
into O'Connell Street. In the upper part of the street there was heavy firing, but around here all
was quiet.
The sniper darted across the street. A machine gun tore up the ground around him with a hail of
bullets, but he escaped. He threw himself face downward beside the corpse. The machine gun
stopped.
Then the sniper turned over the dead body and looked into his brother's face.

Student name:
Questions for All Is Quiet on the Western Front:
Weve been discussing how the individual is affected by war in this unit. How is the
individual soldier portrayed in this movie?

How is this portrayal similar to the poems and short stories weve read? Different?

How did the movie change your perception of war? If it didnt, why

not?

Weve seen and heard from characters in wars across various time periods. What common
themes have you noticed?