You might have done that much; from you, at least, I thought we’d get an inkling of the truth. But no; you rant and rattle, beat your drum, And blow your two-penny trumpet like the rest: “Red battle’s glory,” “honour’s utmost task,” “Gay jesting faces of undaunted boys,” ... The same old Boys’-Own-Paper balderdash! Mind you, I don’t deny that they exist, These abstract virtues which you gas about-- (_We shouldn’t stop out here long, otherwise!_)-- Honour and humour, and that sort of thing; (Though heaven knows where you found the glory-touch, Unless you picked it up at G.H.Q.); But if you’d commonsense, you’d understand That humour’s just the Saxon cloak for fear, Our English substitute for “_Vive la France_,” Or else a trick to keep the folk at home From being scared to death--as we are scared; That honour ... damn it, honour’s the one thing No soldier yaps about, except of course A soldier-_poet_--three-and-sixpence net. Honest to God, it makes me sick and tired To think that you, who lived a year with us, Should be content to write such tommy-rot. I feel as though I’d sent a runner back With news that we were being strafed like Hell ... And he’d reported: “Everything O. K.” Something’s the matter: either you can’t _see_, Or else you see, and cannot write--that’s worse. Hang it, you can’t have clean forgotten things You went to bed with, woke with, smelt and felt, All those long months of boredom streaked with fear: Mud, cold, fatigue, sweat, nerve-strain, sleeplessness, And men’s excreta viscid in the rain, And stiff-legged horses lying by the road, Their bloated bellies shimmering, green with flies.... _Have_ you forgotten? you who dine to-night In comfort at the Carlton or Savoy. (Lord, but I’d like a dart at that myself-- Oysters, _crême_ something, sole _vin blanc_, a bird, And one cold bottle of the very best-- A girl to share it: afterwards, a show-- Lee White and Alfred Lester, Nelson Keys; Supper to follow. ... Our Brigade’s in rest-- The usual farm. I’ve got the only bed. The men are fairly comfy--three good barns. Thank God, they didn’t have to bivouac After this last month in the Salient.) ... You _have_ forgotten; or you couldn’t write This sort of stuff--all cant, no guts in it, Hardly a single picture true to life. Well, here’s a picture for you: Montauban-- Last year--the flattened village on our left-- On our right flank, the razed Briqueterie, Their five-nines pounding bits to dustier bits-- Behind, a cratered slope, with batteries Crashing and flashing, violet in the dusk, And prematuring every now and then-- In front, the ragged Bois de Bernafay, Bosche whizz-bangs bursting white among its trees.