And he'd liked Dick . . . and yet when Dick was hit, He hadn't turned a hair. The meanest skunk

He should have thought would feel it when his mate
Was blown to smithereens - Dick, proud as punch,
Grinning like sin, and holding up the plate
But he had gone on munching his dry hunch,
Unwinking, till he swallowed the last crumb.
Perhaps 't was just because he dared not let
His mind run upon Dick, who'd been his chum.
He dared not now, though he could not forget.

Dick took his luck. And, life or death, 't was luck
From first to last; and you'd just got to trust
Your luck and grin. It wasn't so much pluck
As knowing that you'd got to, when needs must,
And better to die grinning.

Quiet now

Had fallen on the night. On either hand
The guns were quiet. Cool upon his brow
The quiet darkness brooded, as he scanned
The starry sky. He'd never seen before
So many stars. Although, of course, he'd known
That there were stars, somehow before the war
He'd never realized them - so thick-sown,
Millions and millions. Serving in the shop,
Stars didn't count for much; and then at nights
Strolling the pavements, dull and fit to drop,
You didn't see much but the city lights.
He'd never in his life seen so much sky
As he'd seen this last fortnight. It was queer
The things war taught you. He'd a mind to try
To count the stars they shone so bright and clear.

One, two, three, four. . . . Ah, God, but he was tired.

Five, six, seven, eight.

Yes, it was number eight.

And what was the next thing that she required?

(Too bad of customers to come so late,

At closing time!) Again within the shop

He handled knots of tape and reels of thread,
Politely talking weather, fit to drop. . .

When once again the whole sky overhead

Flared blind with searchlights, and the shriek of shell
And scream of shrapnel roused him. Drowsily
He stared about him, wondering. Then he fell
Into deep dreamless slumber

He could see

Two dark eyes peeping at him, ere he knew
He was awake, and it again was day —
An August morning, burning to clear blue.
The frightened rabbit scuttled. . . .

Far away,
A sound of firing. . . . Up there, in the sky
Big dragon-flies hung hovering. . . . Snowballs burst
About them. . . . Flies and snowballs. With a cry
He crouched to watch the airmen pass- the first
That he'd seen under fire. Lord, that was pluck
Shells bursting all about them - and what nerve!
They took their chance, and trusted to their luck.
At such a dizzy height to dip and swerve,

Dodging the shell-fire.

Thank Heaven,

And tumbling like a pigeon, plump. . . .

It righted, and then turned; and after it

The whole flock followed safe four, five, six, seven,

Yes, they were all there safe.
Back to their lines in safety.
Even if they were Germans.

He hoped they'd win They deserved,

'T was no sin

To wish them luck. Think how that beggar swerved Just in the nick of time!

He, too, must try

To win back to the lines, though, likely as not,
He'd take the wrong turn: but he couldn't lie
Forever in that hungry hole and rot,

He'd got to take his luck, to take his chance
Of being sniped by foes or friends. He'd be
With any luck in Germany or France
Or Kingdom-come, next morning..

Drearily

The blazing day burnt over him, shot and shell
Whistling and whining ceaselessly. But light
Faded at last, and as the darkness fell
He rose, and crawled away into the night.

-Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

THE MESSAGES

"I cannot quite remember. . . . There were five Dropt dead beside me in the trench - and three Whispered their dying messages to me.

Back from the trenches, more dead than alive,
Stone-deaf and dazed, and with a broken knee
He hobbled slowly, muttering vacantly:

"I cannot quite remember. . There were five Dropt dead beside me in the trench - and three Whispered their dying messages to me. . . .

"Their friends are waiting, wondering how they thrive Waiting a word in silence patiently.

But what they said, or who their friends may be

"I cannot quite remember.. . . . There were five Dropt dead beside me in the trench - and three Whispered their dying messages to me....

- Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

BATTLE: HIT

Out of the sparkling sea

I drew my tingling body clear, and lay
On a low ledge the livelong summer day,

Basking, and watching lazily

White sails in Falmouth Bay.

My body seemed to burn

Salt in the sun that drenched it through and through,

Till every particle glowed clean and new

And slowly seemed to turn

To lucent amber in a world of blue.

I felt a sudden wrench

A trickle of warm blood

And found that I was sprawling in the mud

Among the dead men in the trench.

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

THE ROAD1

The Road is thronged with women: soldiers pass
And halt, but never see them: yet they're here,
A patient crowd along the sodden grass,
Silent, worn out with waiting, sick with fear.
The Road goes crawling up a long hillside

All ruts and stones and sludge, and the emptied dregs
Of battle thrown in heaps: here, where they died,
Are stretched big-bellied horses with stiff legs;
And dead men, bloody-fingered from the fight,
Stare up at cavern'd darkness winking white.

You in the bomb-scorched kilt, poor sprawling Jock,
You tottered here and fell, and stumbled on,
Half-dazed for want of sleep: no dream could mock
Your reeling brain with comforts lost and gone.
You did not feel her arms about your knees,
Her blind caress, her lips upon your head:
Too tired for thoughts of home and love and ease,
The Road would serve you well enough for bed.
Siegfried Sassoon

ATTACK2

At dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun

In the wild purple of the glowering sun,

Smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud
The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one,
Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire.

The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed
With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear,

By permission, from The Old Huntsman and Other Poems. Copyright by E. P. Dutton & Company.

2 By permission, from Counter-Attack. Copyright by E. P. Dutton & Company.