"_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-time. 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
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 overhead artillery," some chap grumbles.
"_What's all this mob, by the cross-road?_" (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, Headquarters_."
(That's the lot.)
"_Who's that? O, Sergeant-major; don't get shot!_
_And tell me, have we won this war or not?_"