When the "rapid," like fireflies in the dark,
Flits down the parapet spark by spark,

And you drop for cover to keep your head
With your face on the breast of the four-months' dead.

The man who ranges in No-Man's Land
Is dogged by the shadows on either hand
When the star-shell's flare, as it bursts o'erhead,
Scares the gray rats that feed on the dead,
And the bursting bomb or the bayonet-snatch
May answer the click of your safety-catch,
For the lone patrol, with his life in his hand,
Is hunting for blood in No-Man's Land.

Captain J. H. Knight-Adkin

THE PATROL

Five men over the parapet, with a one-star loot in charge, Stumbling along through the litter and muck and cursing blind and large,

Hooking their gear in the clutching wire as they wriggle through the gap,

For an hour's patrol in No-Man's Land, and take what chance may hap.

Over the sodden parapet and through the rusty wire,

Out of touch with all good things, fellowship, light, and fire; Every clattering bully-tin a Judas as we pass,

At every star-shell, face to earth upon the sodden grass.

From Misery Farm to Seven Trees it's safe enough to go, But it's belly-crawl down Dead Man's Ditch, half choked with grimy snow.

Then back beside the grass-grown road - Watch out! They've got it set!

To where B Company's listening post lies shivering in the

wet.

All the dark's a mystery, and every breath's a threat -
I've forgotten many a thing, but this I shan't forget,

A crawl by night in No-Man's Land, with never a sight or sound,

Except the flares and the rifle-flash and the blind death whimpering round.

And I've failed at many a task, but this one thing I've learned:

It's little things make Paradise - like three hours' doss well

earned,

A fire of coke in a battered pail, a gulp of ration rum, Or a gobbled meal of bully and mud, with the guns for a moment dumb.

And horror's not from the terrible things men torn to rags by a shell,

And the whole trench swimming in blood and slush, like a butcher's shop in hell;

It's silence and night and the smell of the dead that shakes a man to the soul,

From Misery Farm to Dead Man's Ditch on a "Nil report" patrol.

Five men back to the trench again, with a one-star loot in charge, Stumbling over the rusty tins and cursing blind and large. Enter the trench-log up to date by a guttering candle's flare! "No report" (save that hell is dark, and we have just been there). - Captain J. H. Knight-Adkin

IT'S A QUEER TIME

It's hard to know if you're alive or dead
When steel and fire go roaring through your head.

One moment you'll be crouching at your gun

Traversing, mowing heaps down half in fun:

The next, you choke and clutch at your right breast —
No time to think - leave all - and off you go..
To Treasure Island where the Spice winds blow,
To lovely groves of mango, quince and lime
Breathe no good-bye, but ho, for the Red West!
It's a queer time.

You're charging madly at them yelling "Fag!"
When somehow something gives and your feet drag.
You fall and strike your head; yet feel no pain
And find . . . you're digging tunnels through the hay
In the Big Barn, 'cause it's a rainy day.

Oh, springy hay, and lovely beams to climb!
You're back in the old sailor suit again.
It's a queer time.

Or you'll be dozing safe in your dug-out

A great roar the trench shakes and falls aboutYou're struggling, gasping, struggling, then . . . hullo!

Elsie comes tripping gaily down the trench,

Hanky to nose that lyddite makes a stench

Getting her pinafore all over grime.

Funny! because she died ten years ago!
It's a queer time.

The trouble is, things happen much too quick;
Up jump the Boches, rifles thump and click,

You stagger, and the whole scene fades away:
Even good Christians don't like passing straight
From Tipperary or their Hymn of Hate

To Alleluiah-chanting, and the chime

Of golden harps and . . . I'm not well today
It's a queer time.

The beating of the guns grows louder.

Not long, boys, now.

My heart burns whiter, fearfuller, prouder,

Hurricanes grow

As guns redouble their fire.

Through the shaken periscope peeping,
I glimpse their wire:

Black earth, fountains of earth rise, leaping,
Spouting like shocks of meeting waves,
Death's fountains are playing,

Shells like shrieking birds rush over;

Crash and din rises higher.

A stream of lead raves

Over us from the left. .

(We safe under cover!)

Crash! Reverberation! Crash!

Acrid smoke billowing. Flash upon flash.

Black smoke drifting. The German line

Vanishes in confusion, smoke. Cries, and cry

Of our men, Gah, yer swine!

Ye're for it, die

In a hurricane of shell.

One cry:

We're comin' soon! look out!

There is opened hell

Over there; fragments fly,

Rifles and bits of men whirled at the sky:
Dust, smoke, thunder! A sudden bout

Of machine guns chattering.
And redoubled battering,

As if in fury at their daring! .

No good staring.

Time soon now

Gone like a flickered page:

Time soon now

A sudden thrill

Fix bayonets!

zero...
. . will engage.

My heart burns hot, whiter and whiter,

Contracts tighter and tighter,

Until I stifle with the will

Long forged, now used

(Though utterly strained)

O pounding heart,

Baffled, confused,

Heart panged, head singing, dizzily pained

To do my part.

Blindness a moment.

There the men are!

Sick.