Battalion-Relief

 ‘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 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 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?’

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