In the 1990s, in the UK, my secondary school English teacher, who had Shakespearian actor vibes and wore dark tweed trousers and a plain white shirt—imagine Patrick Stewart if you may—brought this poem to life in my class by vividly reenacting a soldier dying from mustard gas poisoning by falling onto a desk and flailing about in front of the stunnned students sitting at it. I've never forgotten the closing line since.
We did the poem in secondary school as well. While we didn’t have the acting skills of your teacher, we deconstructed and reviewed each line and it really had a powerful impact on the class. The tortured helplessness of the dying soldier was a lasting memory.
Later, I thought that the job of a soldier wasn’t to die for their country but to make someone else die for theirs. Perhaps that more cynical view was influenced by the poem and the other war poets that we covered.