In No Man’s Land

This week marks the centenary of the death of E Alan Mackintosh, one of the great Scottish poets of the First World War who was killed, on 21 November, 1917. Initially rejected by the army because of poor eyesight, he eventually joined the 5th Seaforth Highlanders at the end of 1914. In 1916 he won a Military Cross and was injured in action. After eight months training cadets, he got his wish to return to the Western Front. His poem ‘In No Man’s Land’ reveals Mackintosh’s humanity; in it, he finds it hard to imagine shooting an enemy soldier when he suspects he has a cold. ■

The hedge on the left, and the trench on the right, And the whispering, rustling wood between, And who knows where in the wood to-night, Death or capture may lurk unseen, The open field and the figures lying Under the shade of the apple trees – Is it the wind in the branches sighing Or a German trying to stop a sneeze.

Louder the voices of night come thronging, But over them all the sound is clear, Taking me back to the place of my longing And the cultured sneezes I used to hear, Lecture-time and my tutor’s ‘hanker’ Stopping his period’s rounded close, Like the frozen hand of a German ranker Down in a ditch with a cold in his nose.

I’m cold, too, and a stealthy shuffle From the man with a pistol covering me, And the Bosche moving off with a snap and a shuffle Break the windows of memory – I can’t make sure till the moon gets lighter – Anyway shooting is over bold, Oh, damn you, get back to your trench, you blighter, I really can’t shoot a man with a cold.