POETRY.
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 sha'n'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 have 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, and 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 shake 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).
J. IT. KNIGHT-.A MIN, Capt. Gloster&
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