"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.
Dark clouds are smouldering into red While down the craters morning burns. The dying soldier shifts his head To watch the glory that returns: He lifts his fingers toward the skies Where holy brightness breaks in flame; Radiance reflected in his eyes, And on his lips a whispered name.
You'd think, to hear some people talk, That lads go West with sobs and curses, And sullen faces white as chalk, Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses. But they've been taught the way to do it Like Christian soldiers; not with haste And shuddering groans; but passing through it With due regard for decent taste.
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!"
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.