Counter-Attack and Other Poems | Page 5

"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 joy,?Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,?And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum,?With crumps and lice and lack of rum,?He put a bullet through his brain.?No one spoke of him again.

You snug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.
GLORY OF WOMEN
You love us when we're heroes, home on leave,?Or wounded in a mentionable place.?You worship decorations; you believe?That chivalry redeems the war's disgrace.?You make us shells. You listen with delight,?By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled.?You crown our distant ardours while we fight,?And mourn our laurelled memories when we're killed.?You can't believe that British troops