Vi.--Out Of Trenches: The Barn, Twilight

In the raftered barn we lie, Sprawl, scrawl postcards, laugh and speak-- Just mere men a trifle weary, Worn in heart, a trifle weak: Because alway At close of day Thought steals to England far away.... "Alf!" "O ay." "Gi' us a tune, mate." "Well, wot say?" "Swipe 'The Policeman's 'Oliday'...." "Tiddle-iddle-um-tum, Tum-TUM."

Sprawling on my aching back, Think I nought; but I am glad-- Dear, rare lads of pick and pack! Aie me too! I'm sad.... I'm sad: Some must die (Maybe I): O pray it take them suddenly! "Bill!" "Wot ho!" "Concertina: let it go-- 'If you were the Only Girl.'" "Cheero!" "If you were the Only Girl."

Damn. 'Abide with Me....' Not now!-- Well ... if you must: just your way. It racks me till the tears nigh flow. The tune see-saws. I turn, I pray Behind my hand, Shaken, unmanned, In groans that God may understand: Miracle! "Let, let them all survive this hell." Hear 'Trumpeter, what are you sounding?' swell. (My God! I guess indeed too well: The broken heart, eyes front, proud knell!) Grant but mine sound with their farewell. "It's the Last Post I'm sounding."

VII.--BATTERY MOVING UP TO A NEW POSITION FROM REST CAMP: DAWN

Not a sign of life we rouse In any square close-shuttered house That flanks the road we amble down Toward far trenches through the town.

The dark, snow-slushy, empty street.... Tingle of frost in brow and feet.... Horse-breath goes dimly up like smoke. No sound but the smacking stroke

Of a sergeant flings each arm Out and across to keep him warm, And the sudden splashing crack Of ice-pools broken by our track.

More dark houses, yet no sign Of life.... An axle's creak and whine.... The splash of hooves, the strain of trace.... Clatter: we cross the market place.

Deep quiet again, and on we lurch Under the shadow of a church: Its tower ascends, fog-wreathed and grim; Within its aisles a light burns dim....

When, marvellous! from overhead, Like abrupt speech of one deemed dead, Speech-moved by some Superior Will, A bell tolls thrice and then is still.

And suddenly I know that now The priest within, with shining brow, Lifts high the small round of the Host. The server's tingling bell is lost

In clash of the greater overhead. Peace like a wave descends, is spread, While watch the peasants' reverent eyes....

The bell's boom trembles, hangs, and dies.

O people who bow down to see The Miracle of Calvary, The bitter and the glorious, Bow down, bow down and pray for us.

Once more our anguished way we take Toward our Golgotha, to make For all our lovers sacrifice. Again the troubled bell tolls thrice.

And slowly, slowly, lifted up Dazzles the overflowing cup.

O worshipping, fond multitude, Remember us too, and our blood.

Turn hearts to us as we go by, Salute those about to die, Plead for them, the deep bell toll: Their sacrifice must soon be whole.

Entreat you for such hearts as break With the premonitory ache Of bodies, whose feet, hands, and side, Must soon be torn, pierced, crucified.

Sue for them and all of us Who the world over suffer thus, Who have scarce time for prayer indeed, Who only march and die and bleed.

* * * * *

The town is left, the road leads on, Bluely glaring in the sun, Toward where in the sunrise gate Death, honour, and fierce battle wait.