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They plug us with their rifles An' they let their shrapnel fly, But they never takes a pot at us Exceptin' on the sly. Chorus "Fritzie w'en you comin' out? This wot you calls a fight? You won't never get to Calais Always keepin' out o' sight. "We're a goin' back to Blightey Wot's the use a-witin' 'ere Like a lot o' bloomin' mud-larks Fer old Fritzie to appear?
W'en yer convalescin', 'ave a pint of ale at the W'ite Lion fer me." "An' a good feed o' fish an' chips fer me, Sammy. Mind yer foot! There's a 'ole just 'ere!" "'Ere comes old Sid! W'ere you caught it, mate?" "In me bloomin' shoulder. It ain't 'arf givin' it to me!" "Never you mind, Sid! Blightey fer you, boy!" "Hi, Sid! Tell me old lady I'm still up an' comin', will you?
"Are we downhearted? Not likely, old son!" "Tyke a feel o' this little puffball! Smack on old Fritzie's napper she goes!" "I'm a-go'n' to arsk fer a nice Blightey one! Four months in Brentford 'ospital an' me Christmas puddin' at 'ome!" "Now, don't ferget, you blokes! County o' London War 'Ospital fer me if I gets a knock!
You'll be as keen as a w'istle in a couple o' months. An' 'ere! Christmas in Blightey, son! S'y! I'll tyke yer busted shoulder if you'll give me the chanct!" "They ain't nothin' they can't do fer you back at the base 'ospital. 'Member 'ow they fixed old Ginger up? You ain't caught it 'arf as bad!" In England, before I knew him for the man he is, I said, "How am I to endure living with him?"
I saw him rescuing wounded comrades, tending them in the trenches, encouraging them and heartening them when he himself was discouraged and sick at heart. "You're a-go'n' 'ome, 'Arry! Blimy! think o' that! Back to old Blightey w'ile the rest of us 'as got to stick it out 'ere! Don't I wish I was you! Not 'arf!" "You ain't bad 'urt! Strike me pink!
You ought to 'a' seen 'im, you blokes! Wasn't 'e a-lettin' 'em 'ave it!" Another man hobbled past on one foot, supporting himself against the side of the trench. "Got a Blightey one," he said gleefully. "So long you lads! I'll be with you again arter the 'olidays."
Those who do not know the horrors of modern warfare cannot readily understand the joy of the soldier at receiving a wound which is not likely to prove serious. A bullet in the arm or the shoulder, even though it shatters the bone, or a piece of shrapnel or shell casing in the leg, was always a matter for congratulation. These were "Blightey wounds."
When Tommy received one of this kind, he was a candidate for hospital in "Blightey," as England is affectionately called. For several months he would be far away from the awful turmoil. His body would be clean; he would be rid of the vermin and sleep comfortably in a bed at night. The strain would be relaxed, and, who knows, the war might be over before he was again fit for active service.
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