He'd like to know how many of the chaps Had won back to the trench alive, when he Had fallen wounded and been left for dead, If any!... This was different, certainly, From selling knots of tape and reels of thread And knots of tape and reels of thread and knots Of tape and reels of thread and knots of tape, Day in, day out, and answering "Have you got"'s And "Do you keep"'s till there seemed no escape From everlasting serving in a shop, Inquiring what each customer required, Politely talking weather, fit to drop, With swollen ankles, tired.... But he was tired Now. Every bone was aching, and had ached For fourteen days and nights in that wet trench-- Just duller when he slept than when he waked-- Crouching for shelter from the steady drench Of shell and shrapnel.... That old trench, it seemed Almost like home to him. He'd slept and fed And sung and smoked in it, while shrapnel screamed And shells went whining harmless overhead-- Harmless, at least, as far as he.... But Dick-- Dick hadn't found them harmless yesterday, At breakfast, when he'd said he couldn't stick Eating dry bread, and crawled out the back way, And brought them butter in a lordly dish-- Butter enough for all, and held it high, Yellow and fresh and clean as you would wish-- When plump upon the plate from out the sky A shell fell bursting.... Where the butter went, God only knew!... And Dick.... He dared not think Of what had come to Dick.... or what it meant-- The shrieking and the whistling and the stink He'd lived in fourteen days and nights. 'T was luck That he still lived.... And queer how little then He seemed to care that Dick.... perhaps 't was pluck That hardened him--a man among the men-- Perhaps.... Yet, only think things out a bit, And he was rabbit-livered, blue with funk! 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.