HOW RIFLEMAN BROWN CAME TO VALHALLA BY GILBERT FRANKAU NEW YORK FEDERAL PRINTING COMPANY 1916 Copyright, 1916 Gilbert Frankau _All rights reserved_ How Rifleman Brown Came to Valhalla By GILBERT FRANKAU To the lower Hall of Valhalla, to the heroes of no renown, Relieved from his spell at the listening-post, came Rifleman Joseph Brown. With never a rent in his khaki, nor smear of blood on his face, He flung his pack from his shoulders and made for an empty place. The Killer-men of Valhalla looked up from the banquet board At the unfouled breech of his rifle, at the unfleshed point of his sword, And the unsung dead of the trenches, the kings who have never a crown, Demanded his pass to Valhalla from Rifleman Joseph Brown. “_Who comes, unhit, to the party?_” A one-legged Corporal spoke, And the gashed heads nodded approval through the rings of the Endless Smoke. “_Who comes for the beer and the Woodbines of the never-closed Canteen_ _With the barrack shine on his bayonet and a full-charged magazine?_” Then Rifleman Brown looked round him at the nameless men of The Line, At the wounds of the shell and the bullet, at the burns of the bomb and the mine; At the khaki, virgin of medals but crimson-clotted of blood; At the ankle-boots and the puttees caked stiff with the Flanders mud; At the myriad short Lee-Enfields that crowded the rifle rack, Each with its blade to the sword-boss brown and its muzzle powder-black. And Rifleman Brown said never a word, but he felt in the soul of his soul His right to the beer of the lower Hall though he came to drink of it whole; His right to the fags of the free Canteen, to a seat at the banquet board, Though he came to the men who had killed their man with an unfleshed point to his sword. “_Who speaks for the stranger riflemen, O boys of the free Canteen?_ _Who passes the chap with the unmaimed limbs and the kit that is far too clean?_” The gashed heads eyed him above their beers, the gashed lips sucked at their smoke; There were three at the board of his own platoon, but not a man of them spoke. His mouth was mad for the tankard froth and the biting whiff of a fag, But he knew that he might not speak for himself to the dead men who do not brag. A gun butt crashed on the portals, a man came staggering in; His head was cleft with a great red wound from the temple bone to the chin, His blade was dyed to the bayonet boss with the clots that were scarcely dry,