| ‘FALL in! Now get a move on.’ (Curse the rain.) | |
| We splash away along the straggling village, | |
| Out to the flat rich country, green with June... | |
| And sunset flares across wet crops and tillage, | |
| Blazing with splendour-patches. (Harvest soon, | 5 |
| Up in the Line.) ‘Perhaps the War’ll be done | |
| ‘By Christmas-Day. Keep smiling then, old son.’ | |
| |
| Here’s the Canal: it’s dusk; we cross the bridge. | |
| ‘Lead on there, by platoons.’ (The Line’s a-glare | |
| With shell-fire through the poplars; distant rattle | 10 |
| Of rifles and machine-guns.) ‘Fritz is there! | |
| ‘Christ, ain’t it lively, Sergeant? Is’t a battle?’ | |
| More rain: the lightning blinks, and thunder rumbles. | |
| ‘There’s over-head artillery!’ some chap grumbles. | |
| |
| What’s all this mob at the cross-roads? Where are the guides?... | 15 |
| ‘Lead on with number One.’ And off they go. | |
| ‘Three minute intervals.’ (Poor blundering files, | |
| Sweating and blindly burdened; who’s to know | |
| If death will catch them in those two dark miles?) | |
| More rain. ‘Lead on, Head-quarters.’ (That’s the lot.) | 20 |
| ‘Who’s that?... Oh, Sergeant-Major, don’t get shot! | |
| ‘And tell me, have we won this war or not?’ | |