Counter-Attack and Other Poems | Page 5

dead? As many as ever you wish.
Don't count
'em; they're too many.
Who'll buy my nice fresh corpses, two a
penny?"_
TWELVE MONTHS AFTER

Hullo! here's my platoon, the lot I had last year.
"The war'll be over
soon."
"What 'opes?"
"No bloody fear!"

Then, "Number Seven, 'shun! All present and correct."
They're
standing in the sun, impassive and erect.
Young Gibson with his grin;
and Morgan, tired and white;
Jordan, who's out to win a D.C.M. some
night;
And Hughes that's keen on wiring; and Davies ('79),
Who
always must be firing at the Boche front line.

"Old soldiers never die; they simply fide a-why!"
That's what they used to sing along the roads last spring;
That's what they used to say before the push began;
That's where they are to-day, knocked over to a man.
THE FATHERS
Snug at the club two fathers sat,
Gross, goggle-eyed, and full of chat.

One of them said: "My eldest lad
Writes cheery letters from
Bagdad.
But Arthur's getting all the fun
At Arras with his nine-inch
gun."
"Yes," wheezed the other, "that's the luck!
My boy's quite
broken-hearted, stuck
In England training all this year.
Still, if
there's truth in what we hear,
The Huns intend to ask for more

Before they bolt across the Rhine."
I watched them toddle through the
door--
These impotent old friends of mine.
BASE DETAILS
If I were fierce, and bald, and short of breath,
I'd live with scarlet
Majors at the Base,
And speed glum heroes up the line to death.

You'd see me with my puffy petulant face,
Guzzling and gulping in
the best hotel,
Reading the Roll of Honour. "Poor young chap,"
I'd

say--"I used to know his father well;
Yes, we've lost heavily in this
last scrap."
And when the war is done and youth stone dead,
I'd
toddle safely home and die--in bed.
THE GENERAL
"Good-morning; good-morning!" the General said
When we met him
last week on our way to the line.
Now the soldiers he smiled at are
most of 'em dead,
And we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine.

"He's a cheery old card," grunted Harry to Jack
As they slogged up
to Arras with rifle and pack.

But he did for them both by his plan of attack.
LAMENTATIONS
I found him in the guard-room at the Base.
From the blind darkness I
had heard his crying
And blundered in. With puzzled, patient face

A sergeant watched him; it was no good trying
To stop it; for he
howled and beat his chest.
And, all because his brother had gone
West,
Raved at the bleeding war; his rampant grief
Moaned,
shouted, sobbed, and choked, while he was kneeling
Half-naked on
the floor. In my belief
Such men have lost all patriotic feeling.
DOES IT MATTER?
Does it matter?--losing your leg? ...
For people will always be kind,

And you need not show that you mind
When the others come in
after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.
Does it matter?--losing your sight? ...
There's such splendid work for
the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace
remembering
And turning your face to the light.
Do they matter?--those dreams from the pit? ...
You can drink and

forget and be glad,
And people won't say that you're mad;
For
they'll know that you've fought for your country,
And no one will
worry a bit.
FIGHT TO A FINISH
The boys came back. Bands played and flags were flying,
And
Yellow-Pressmen thronged the sunlit street
To cheer the soldiers
who'd refrained from dying,
And hear the music of returning feet.

"Of all the thrills and ardours War has brought,
This moment is the
finest." (So they thought.)
Snapping their bayonets on to charge the mob,
Grim Fusiliers broke
ranks with glint of steel.
At last the boys had found a cushy job.

I heard the Yellow-Pressmen grunt and squeal;
And with my trusty bombers turned and went
To clear those Junkers out of Parliament.
EDITORIAL IMPRESSIONS
He seemed so certain "all was going well,"
As he discussed the
glorious time he'd had
While visiting the trenches.
"One can tell
You've gathered big impressions!" grinned the lad

Who'd been severely wounded in the back
In some wiped-out
impossible Attack.
"Impressions? Yes, most vivid! I am writing
A
little book called Europe on the Rack,
Based on notes made while
witnessing the fighting.
I hope I've caught the feeling of 'the Line'

And the amazing spirit of the troops.
By Jove, those flying-chaps of
ours are fine!
I watched one daring beggar looping loops,
Soaring
and diving like some bird of prey.
And through it all I felt that
splendour shine
Which makes us win."
The soldier sipped his wine.
"Ah, yes, but it's the Press that leads the

way!"
SUICIDE IN THE TRENCHES
I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty