When the "rapid," like fireflies in the dark, And you drop for cover to keep your head The man who ranges in No-Man's Land Captain J. H. Knight-Adkin THE PATROL Five men over the parapet, with a one-star loot in charge, Stumbling along through the litter and muck and cursing blind and large, Hooking their gear in the clutching wire as they wriggle through the gap, For an hour's patrol in No-Man's Land, and take what chance may hap. Over the sodden parapet and through the rusty wire, Out of touch with all good things, fellowship, light, and fire; Every clattering bully-tin a Judas as we pass, At every star-shell, face to earth upon the sodden grass. From Misery Farm to Seven Trees it's safe enough to go, But it's belly-crawl down Dead Man's Ditch, half choked with grimy snow. Then back beside the grass-grown road - Watch out! They've got it set! To where B Company's listening post lies shivering in the wet. All the dark's a mystery, and every breath's a threat - A crawl by night in No-Man's Land, with never a sight or sound, Except the flares and the rifle-flash and the blind death whimpering round. And I've failed at many a task, but this one thing I've learned: It's little things make Paradise - like three hours' doss well earned, A fire of coke in a battered pail, a gulp of ration rum, Or a gobbled meal of bully and mud, with the guns for a moment dumb. And horror's not from the terrible things men torn to rags by a shell, And the whole trench swimming in blood and slush, like a butcher's shop in hell; It's silence and night and the smell of the dead that shakes a man to the soul, From Misery Farm to Dead Man's Ditch on a "Nil report" patrol. Five men back to the trench again, with a one-star loot in charge, Stumbling over the rusty tins and cursing blind and large. Enter the trench-log up to date by a guttering candle's flare! "No report" (save that hell is dark, and we have just been there). - Captain J. H. Knight-Adkin IT'S A QUEER TIME It's hard to know if you're alive or dead One moment you'll be crouching at your gun Traversing, mowing heaps down half in fun: The next, you choke and clutch at your right breast — You're charging madly at them yelling "Fag!" Oh, springy hay, and lovely beams to climb! Or you'll be dozing safe in your dug-out A great roar the trench shakes and falls aboutYou're struggling, gasping, struggling, then . . . hullo! Elsie comes tripping gaily down the trench, Hanky to nose that lyddite makes a stench Getting her pinafore all over grime. Funny! because she died ten years ago! The trouble is, things happen much too quick; You stagger, and the whole scene fades away: To Alleluiah-chanting, and the chime Of golden harps and . . . I'm not well today The beating of the guns grows louder. Not long, boys, now. My heart burns whiter, fearfuller, prouder, Hurricanes grow As guns redouble their fire. Through the shaken periscope peeping, Black earth, fountains of earth rise, leaping, Shells like shrieking birds rush over; Crash and din rises higher. A stream of lead raves Over us from the left. . (We safe under cover!) Crash! Reverberation! Crash! Acrid smoke billowing. Flash upon flash. Black smoke drifting. The German line Vanishes in confusion, smoke. Cries, and cry Of our men, Gah, yer swine! Ye're for it, die In a hurricane of shell. One cry: We're comin' soon! look out! There is opened hell Over there; fragments fly, Rifles and bits of men whirled at the sky: Of machine guns chattering. As if in fury at their daring! . No good staring. Time soon now Gone like a flickered page: Time soon now A sudden thrill Fix bayonets! zero... My heart burns hot, whiter and whiter, Contracts tighter and tighter, Until I stifle with the will Long forged, now used (Though utterly strained) O pounding heart, Baffled, confused, Heart panged, head singing, dizzily pained To do my part. Blindness a moment. There the men are! Sick. |