Shippy, the little man with the…

Shippy, the little man with the sharp rat-eyes, Saw someone run in front of them waving a sword; Then they were going along toward a whining sound That ran like cold spring-water along his spine. God, he was in for it now! His sharp rat-eyes Flickered around and about him hopelessly. If a fellow could only drop out, if a fellow could only Pretend he was hurt a little and then drop out Behind a big, safe oak-tree—no use—no use— He was in for it, now. He couldn’t get away. “Come on, boys—come on, men—clean them out with the bayonet!” He saw a rail-fence ahead, a quiet rail-fence, But men were back of it—grey lumps—a million bees Stinging the air—Oh Jesus, the corporal’s got it!— He couldn’t shoot, even—he was too scared to shoot— His legs took him on—he couldn’t stop his legs Or the weak urine suddenly trickling down them.

Curly Hatton, toiling along the slow Crest of the Henry Hill, over slippery ground, Glanced at the still-blue sky that lay so deep Above the little pines, so pooled, so calm. He thought, with the slow drowsiness of fatigue, Of Lucy feeding the white, greedy swans On the blue pool by Weatherby’s Retreat. They stretched their necks, and chattered with their wings. There was a fragrance sleeping in her hair. “Close up, folks—don’t straggle—we’re going into action!” His butterball-legs moved faster—Lucy—Lucy—