Jaded and gay, the ladies sing; and the chap in brown Tilts his grey hat; jaunty and lean and pale, He rattles the keys.... Some actor-bloke from town... God send you home; and then _A long, long trail_; _I hear you calling me_; and _Dixieland_.... Sing slowly ... now the chorus ... one by one We hear them, drink them; till the concert's done. Silent, I watch the shadowy mass of soldiers stand. Silent, they drift away, over the glimmering sand. KANTARA. _April, 1918_. NIGHT ON THE CONVOY (ALEXANDRIA-MARSEILLES) Out in the blustering darkness, on the deck A gleam of stars looks down. Long blurs of black, The lean Destroyers, level with our track, Plunging and stealing, watch the perilous way Through backward racing seas and caverns of chill spray. One sentry by the davits, in the gloom Stands mute: the boat heaves onward through the night. Shrouded is every chink of cabined light: And sluiced by floundering waves that hiss and boom And crash like guns, the troop-ship shudders ... doom. Now something at my feet stirs with a sigh; And slowly growing used to groping dark, I know that the hurricane-deck, down all its length, Is heaped and spread with lads in sprawling strength-- Blanketed soldiers sleeping. In the stark Danger of life at war, they lie so still, All prostrate and defenceless, head by head... And I remember Arras, and that hill Where dumb with pain I stumbled among the dead. We are going home. The troopship, in a thrill Of fiery-chamber'd anguish, throbs and rolls. We are going home ... victims ... three thousand souls. _May, 1918_. THE DUG-OUT Why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddled, And one arm bent across your sullen, cold, Exhausted face? It hurts my heart to watch you, Deep-shadow'd from the candle's guttering gold; And you wonder why I shake you by the shoulder; Drowsy, you mumble and sigh and turn your head.... _You are too young to fall asleep for ever; And when you sleep you remind me of the dead_. ST. VENANT. _July, 1918_. BATTALION-RELIEF '_Fall in! Now get a move on._' (Curse the rain.) We splash away along the straggling village, Out to the flat rich country, green with June.... And sunset flares across wet crops and tillage, Blazing with splendour-patches. (Harvest soon, Up in the Line.) '_Perhaps the War'll be done 'By Christmas-Day. Keep smiling then, old son._' Here's the Canal: it's dusk; we cross the bridge. 'Lead on there, by platoons.' (The Line's a-glare With shellfire through the poplars; distant rattle Of rifles and machine-guns.) '_Fritz is there! 'Christ, ain't it lively, Sergeant? Is't a battle?_' More rain: the lightning blinks, and thunder rumbles. '_There's over-head artillery!_' some chap grumbles.