'_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,
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 shellfire through the poplars; distant rattle
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?...
'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.)
'_Who's that? ... Oh, Sergeant-Major, don't get shot!
'And tell me, have we won this war or not!_'