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