ARDOURS AND ENDURANCES – Reviewed
Robert Nichols
COMRADES: AN EPISODE
Before, before he was aware
The ‘Verey’ light had risen … on the air
It hung glistering….
And he could not stay his hand
From moving to the barbed wire’s broken strand.
A rifle cracked.
He fell.
Night waned. He was alone. A heavy shell
Whispered itself passing high, high overhead.
His wound was wet to his hand: for still it bled
On to the glimmering ground.
Then with a slow, vain smile his wound he bound,
Knowing, of course, he’d not see home again—
Home whose thought he put away.
His men
Whispered: “Where’s Mister Gates?” “Out on the wire.”
“I’ll get him,” said one….
Dawn blinked, and the fire
Of the Germans heaved up and down the line.
“Stand to!”
Too late! “I’ll get him.” “O the swine!
When we might get him in yet safe and whole!”
“Corporal didn’t see ‘un fall out on patrol,
Or he’d ‘a got ‘un.” “Sssh!”
“No talking there.”
A whisper: “‘A went down at the last flare.”
Meanwhile the Maxims toc-toc-tocked; their swish
Of bullets told death lurked against the wish.
No hope for him!
His corporal, as one shamed,
Vainly and helplessly his ill-luck blamed.
Then Gates slowly saw the morn
Break in a rosy peace through the lone thorn
By which he lay, and felt the dawn-wind pass
Whispering through the pallid, stalky grass
Of No-Man’s Land….
And the tears came
Scaldingly sweet, more lovely than a flame.
He closed his eyes: he thought of home
And grit his teeth. He knew no help could come….
The silent sun over the earth held sway,
Occasional rifles cracked and far away
A heedless speck, a ‘plane, slid on alone,
Like a fly traversing a cliff of stone.
“I must get back,” said Gates aloud, and heaved
At his body. But it lay bereaved
Of any power. He could not wait till night….
And he lay still. Blood swam across his sight.
Then with a groan:
“No luck ever! Well, I must die alone.”
Occasional rifles cracked. A cloud that shone,
Gold-rimmed, blackened the sun and then was gone….
The sun still smiled. The grass sang in its play.
Someone whistled: “Over the hills and far away.”
Gates watched silently the swift, swift sun
Burning his life before it was begun….
Suddenly he heard Corporal Timmins’ voice:
“Now then,
‘Urry up with that tea.”
“Hi Ginger!” “Bill!” His men!
Timmins and Jones and Wilkinson (the ‘bard’),
And Hughes and Simpson. It was hard
Not to see them: Wilkinson, stubby, grim,
With his “No, sir,” “Yes, sir,” and the slim
Simpson: “Indeed, sir?” (while it seemed he winked
Because his smiling left eye always blinked)
And Corporal Timmins, straight and blonde and wise,
With his quiet-scanning, level, hazel eyes;
And all the others … tunics that didn’t fit….
A dozen different sorts of eyes. O it
Was hard to lie there! Yet he must. But no:
“I’ve got to die. I’ll get to them. I’ll go.”
Inch by inch he fought, breathless and mute,
Dragging his carcase like a famished brute….
His head was hammering, and his eyes were dim;
A bloody sweat seemed to ooze out of him
And freeze along his spine…. Then he’d lie still
Before another effort of his will
Took him one nearer yard.
The parapet was reached.
He could not rise to it. A lookout screeched:
“Mr. Gates!”
Three figures in one breath
Leaped up. Two figures fell in toppling death;
And Gates was lifted in. “Who’s hit?” said he.
“Timmins and Jones.” “Why did they that for me?—
I’m gone already!” Gently they laid him prone
And silently watched.
He twitched. They heard him moan
“Why for me?” His eyes roamed round, and none replied.
“I see it was alone I should have died.”
They shook their heads. Then, “Is the doctor here?”
“He’s coming, sir; he’s hurryin’, no fear.”
“No good….
Lift me.” They lifted him.
He smiled and held his arms out to the dim,
And in a moment passed beyond their ken,
Hearing him whisper, “O my men, my men!”
In Hospital, London,
Autumn, 1915.
© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes
You may find the complete collection preserved as a part of the Gutenberg project here.
These poems are a part of the collection ARDOURS AND ENDURANCES, and can be found on Goodreads here, with this review posted here.
Analysis
Robert Nichols’ Ardours and Endurances is a vivid and unflinching poetry collection that captures the emotional and physical realities of war. Nichols, a soldier himself, writes from direct experience, and this gives the collection a rawness that feels immediate. The poems reflect the chaos, pain, and fleeting moments of beauty that arise in wartime, creating a body of work that is both personal and universal.
The central theme of the collection is the duality of war: its horrors and its strange, fleeting beauty. Nichols doesn’t shy away from the brutality of combat, describing the fear, destruction, and loss that define life on the battlefield. Yet, he also finds moments of transcendence—an appreciation for comradeship, the resilience of the human spirit, and the stark beauty of nature even in the midst of devastation. This tension between suffering and endurance is at the heart of the collection, as seen in poems like “The Assault,” which captures the frenzied energy and terror of an attack.
Nichols’ use of structure varies throughout the collection. Some poems follow traditional forms, with tight rhyme schemes and regular rhythms, while others adopt free verse, reflecting the unpredictability and fragmentation of war. The formal poems, like sonnets, create a sense of order and control, while the looser structures convey disarray and raw emotion. This variety mirrors the highs and lows of wartime experience, from moments of reflection to the chaos of battle.
The tone shifts across the collection, but there is always an undercurrent of intensity. At times, Nichols writes with a sense of awe, as if overwhelmed by the magnitude of what he’s witnessing. Other times, the tone becomes stark and almost detached, as if the speaker is trying to process events too vast to comprehend fully. There are also moments of tenderness, especially when Nichols reflects on the relationships between soldiers or the fragile beauty of life amidst destruction.
Nichols’ language is direct and evocative, often painting vivid images of the battlefield and its surroundings. He uses sound and rhythm effectively, with pounding cadences that mimic the roar of artillery or the adrenaline of a charge. Even in quieter moments, there’s a sense of urgency, as if the speaker is driven to capture fleeting impressions before they are lost to time.
What makes Ardours and Endurances stand out is its honesty. Nichols doesn’t romanticize war or present it as a noble adventure. Instead, he shows its complexity—the way it strips humanity bare, revealing both its worst and best aspects. The poems are deeply personal, yet they speak to a shared experience, making the collection feel both intimate and expansive.
This is a collection that doesn’t just recount war; it grapples with what it means to endure it. Nichols’ poems are powerful because they confront the reader with the stark realities of conflict while also finding moments of hope and meaning in the endurance of the human spirit.
Photo by National Library of Scotland on Unsplash
