Father was trained by the soldiers of WWI.
Grey stars agleam in a blank, dead sky
Grey guns agrowl below.
Grey clad men out beyond the wire.
Grey fields in the star-shells glow.
The barrage is a pounding symphony
That ears attuned cannot hear.
There’s something flicking the parapet
There’s something above you fear!
Not fear of “stopping one” above,
Or fear for the man beside.
There’s something flicking the parapet
There’s a fear that you cannot hide.
“Stand By!” The rifle is cool in your hand
And your heart pounds hard and quick.
There’s something flicking the parapet
Number Three of the squad is sick.
The rifle hurts the palm of your hand
Like gripping a stiff wire brush
There’s something flicking the parapet
“Walk slow through the wire, then rush!”
The whistle! The ladders! Up over the edge!
And your legs seem stiff and sore.
There’s something flicking the parapet
Number Three is sick no more!
Grey stars agleam in a blank dead sky
Grey guns agrowl below.
Grey faces turned to the glowing stars
Where men lie dead in a row.
Quite moving.
P. S. And yet other men stand ready to go!