Up a disconsolate straggling village street I saw the tired troops trudge: I heard their feet. The cheery Q.M.S. was there to meet And guide our Company in.... I watched them stumble. Into some crazy hovel, too beat to grumble; Saw them file inward, slipping from their backs Rifles, equipment, packs.
On filthy straw they sit in the gloom, each face Bowed to patched, sodden boots they must unlace, While the wind chills their sweat through chinks and cracks.
I'm looking at their blistered feet; young Jones Stares up at me, mud-splashed and white and jaded; Out of his eyes the morning light has faded. Old soldiers with three winters in their bones Puff their damp Woodbines, whistle, stretch their toes _They_ can still grin at me, for each of 'em knows That I'm as tired as they are.... Can they guess The secret burden that is always mine?-- Pride in their courage; pity for their distress; And burning bitterness That I must take them to the accursèd Line.
I cannot hear their voices, but I see Dim candles in the barn: they gulp their tea, And soon they'll sleep like logs. Ten miles away The battle winks and thuds in blundering strife. And I must lead them nearer, day by day, To the foul beast of war that bludgeons life.
Down in the hollow there's the whole Brigade Camped in four groups: through twilight falling slow I hear a sound of mouth-organs, ill-played, And murmur of voices, gruff, confused, and low. Crouched among thistle-tufts I've watched the glow Of a blurred orange sunset flare and fade; And I'm content. To-morrow we must go To take some cursèd Wood.... O world God made!
"_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.