As I was saying . . . (No, thank you; I never take cream with my tea; Cows weren't allowed in the trenches--got out of the habit, y'see.) As I was saying, our Colonel leaped up like a youngster of ten: "Come on, lads!" he shouts, "and we'll show 'em." And he sprang to the head of the men. Then some bally thing seemed to trip him, and he fell on his face with a slam. . . . Oh, he died like a true British soldier, and the last word he uttered was "Damn!" And hang it! I loved the old fellow, and something just burst in my brain, And I cared no more for the bullets than I would for a shower of rain. 'Twas an awf'ly funny sensation (I say, this is jolly nice tea); I felt as if something had broken; by gad! I was suddenly free. Free for a glorified moment, beyond regulations and laws, Free just to wallow in slaughter, as the chap of the Stone Age was. So on I went joyously nursing a Berserker rage of my own, And though all my chaps were behind me, feeling most frightf'ly alone; With the bullets and shells ding-donging, and the "krock" and the swish of the shrap; And I found myself humming "Ben Bolt" . . . (Will you pass me the sugar, old chap? Two lumps, please). . . . What was I saying? Oh yes, the jolly old dash; We simply ripped through the barrage, and on with a roar and a crash. My fellows--Old Nick couldn't stop 'em. On, on they went with a yell, Till they tripped on the Boches' sand-bags,--nothing much left to tell: A trench so tattered and battered that even a rat couldn't live; Some corpses tangled and mangled, wire you could pass through a sieve. The jolly old guns had bilked us, cheated us out of our show, And my fellows were simply yearning for a red mix-up with the foe. So I shouted to them to follow, and on we went roaring again, Battle-tuned and exultant, on in the leaden rain. Then all at once a machine gun barks from a bit of a bank, And our Major roars in a fury: "We've got to take it on flank." He was running like fire to lead us, when down like a stone he comes, As full of "typewriter" bullets as a pudding is full of plums. So I took his job and we got 'em. . . . By gad! we got 'em like rats; Down in a deep shell-crater we fought like Kilkenny cats. 'Twas pleasant just for a moment to be sheltered and out of range, With someone you _SAW_ to go for--it made an agreeable change. And the Boches that missed my bullets, my chaps gave a bayonet jolt, And all the time, I remember, I whistled and hummed "Ben Bolt".