It scarcely mattered that at morn,
When manhood's hope was at its height,
We stopped a bullet in mid-flight.
It did not trouble us to lie
Forgotten 'neath the forgetting sky.
So long Sleep was our only cure
That when Death piped of rest made sure,
We cast our fleshly crutches down,
Laughing like boys in Hamelin Town.
And this we did while loving life,
Yet loving more than home or wife
The kindness of a world set free
For countless children yet to be.


III
GOD AS WE SEE HIM

For some time before I was wounded, we had been in very hot places. We
could scarcely expect them to be otherwise, for we had put on show
after show. A "show" in our language, I should explain, has nothing in
common with a theatrical performance, though it does not lack
drama. We make the term apply to any method of irritating the Hun,
from a trench-raid to a big offensive. The Hun was decidedly annoyed.
He had very good reason. We were occupying the dug-outs which he had
spent two years in building with French civilian labour. His U-boat
threats had failed. He had offered us the olive-branch, and his peace
terms had been rejected with a peal of guns all along the Western
Front. He had shown his disapproval of us by paying particular
attention to our batteries; as a consequence our shell-dressings were
all used up, having gone out with the gentlemen on stretchers who were
contemplating a vacation in Blighty. We couldn't get enough to
re-place them.


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