What's all this mob at the cross-roads? Where are the guides?... 'Lead on with number One.' And off they go. 'Three minute intervals.' (Poor blundering files, Sweating and blindly burdened; who's to know If death will catch them in those two dark miles?) More rain. 'Lead on, Head-quarters.' (That's the lot.) '_Who's that? ... Oh, Sergeant-Major, don't get shot! 'And tell me, have we won this war or not!_' IN AN UNDERGROUND DRESSING-STATION Quietly they set their burden down: he tried To grin; moaned; moved his head from side to side. * * * * * * * He gripped the stretcher; stiffened; glared; and screamed, 'O put my leg down, doctor, do!' (He'd got A bullet in his ankle; and he'd been shot Horribly through the guts.) The surgeon seemed So kind and gentle, saying, above that crying, 'You must keep still, my lad.' But he was dying. I STOOD WITH THE DEAD I stood with the Dead, so forsaken and still: When dawn was grey I stood with the Dead. And my slow heart said, 'You must kill, you must kill: 'Soldier, soldier, morning is red.' On the shapes of the slain in their crumpled disgrace, I stared for a while through the thin cold rain.... 'O lad that I loved, there is rain on your face, 'And your eyes are blurred and sick like the plain.' I stood with the Dead.... They were dead; they were dead; My heart and my head beat a march of dismay: And gusts of the wind came dulled by the guns. 'Fall in!' I shouted; 'Fall in for your pay!' MEMORIAL TABLET (GREAT WAR) Squire nagged and bullied till I went to fight, (Under Lord Derby's Scheme). I died in hell-- (They called it Passchendaele). My wound was slight, And I was hobbling back; and then a shell Burst slick upon the duck-boards: so I fell Into the bottomless mud, and lost the light. At sermon-time, while Squire is in his pew, He gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare; For, though low down upon the list, I'm there; '_In proud and glorious memory_' ... that's my due. Two bleeding years I fought in France, for Squire: I suffered anguish that he's never guessed. Once I came home on leave: and then went west... What greater glory could a man desire? ATROCITIES You told me, in your drunken-boasting mood, How once you butchered prisoners. That was good! I'm sure you felt no pity while they stood Patient and cowed and scared, as prisoners should. How did you do them in? Come, don't be shy: You know I love to hear how Germans die, Downstairs in dug-outs. 'Kamerad!' They cry; Then squeal like stoats when bombs begin to fly. * * * * * * * And you? I know your record. You went sick When orders looked unwholesome: then, with trick And lie, you wangled home. And here you are, Still talking big and boozing in a bar. TO LEONIDE MASSINE IN 'CLEOPATRA'