But Townshend got us to Kut, And the remnants stumbled in. And Hunger and Death stared from our eyes, But we counted it all a win. We dug down deep and quickly-- Next day they were all around, And our planes flew away to the southward. We were alone and battle bound. We fought them from the trenches-- We came to blows in the Fort. We fought them and we fought the floods-- And then the food ran short. Relief had been expected In two weeks, or four, at the most. So we starved, or we died by the hundred; But we stuck each man to his post. All this time the enemy, vengeful, That ringed us tightly round, Swept us with shell and rifle fire That followed us underground. Our front line gazed into the blue, Where Formless Things rode by, And followed the wake of sound and heard Them burst in the old Serai. Or sometimes it was the Hospital, And sometimes anywhere, And later came planes that bombed us-- 'Twas only luck served you there. So the months went by, and we ate husks, Chupatties, and mule, and weeds. We'd Divisional Orders for breakfast, And ribs of the silent steeds. And still the Relief kept coming-- The Staff nominated the day. Twenty times they fixed it for certain, And each time explained the delay. So we swallowed disappointments, Tommy only groused his share; But one sad day the floods came, And Destiny seemed unfair. The trenches filled with water, And the plain showed scarce a sod, And we slithered and waded, or murmured-- "On top, for the love of God!" And many's the unfortunate devil Fell to the sniper's shot Through "chancing his arm" in the open; But the others heeded it not. Once again, on that waste of waters, I gaze from the gun-pit floor, Where Tanks and I kept vigil Through each hour of the twenty-four. I see the maidan silvered With waters in the dawn-- Dark lines of distant parapets. Fresh earth against the morn, With files of khaki turbans Moving forward to relief-- I see the busy shovel, Hear the cursings underneath. Farther still, beyond the sand-hills, The trenches of our foe, Seeming silent and deserted-- But I know that they're below In lines on lines encircling Us, north, south, east, and west-- And if my glasses tell me true, They're reinforcing for the test. 'Tis moonlight, and they're sleeping, The detachments of my guns-- Here, just behind the limber, These best of England's sons. For the dug-outs are now flooded, Washed by this muddy sea-- The gun-wheels half in water, The breech-blocks scarcely free.