---

My surroundings are bleak

Stretcher bearers do I seek

A wasteland of churned earth

Bearing pain for all I'm worth

For hours under French sun

I've lain wounded from Hun gun

In a damn shallow shell hole

From which to rid is my goal

No more water at my hip

A dead foes water do I sip

A healable wound but in this sun

Is worse than injury by gun

Of a sudden movement I see

Believing I shall soon be free

But coming closer now to see

They are Germans numbering three

They are kind, they dress my wound

Tell me Australians are coming soon

Fill my bottle, shade my face

Then they leave without a trace