Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/231

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My leg, malheureusement, I left it behind on the banks of the Aisne.

Regret? I would pay with the other to witness their valour again.

A trifle, indeed, I assure you, to give for the honour to tell

How that handful of British, undaunted, went into the Gateway of Hell.

Let me draw you a plan of the battle. Here we French and your Engineers stood;

Over there a detachment of German sharpshooters lay hid in a wood.

A mitrailleuse battery planted on top of this well-chosen ridge

Held the road for the Prussians and covered the direct approach to the bridge.

It was madness to dare the dense murder that spewed from those ghastly machines.

(Only those who have danced to its music can know what the mitrailleuse means.)

But the bridge on the Aisne was a menace; our safety demanded its fall:

"Engineers,—volunteers!" In a body, the Royals stood out at the call.

Death at best was the fate of that mission—to their glory not one was dismayed.

A party was chosen—and seven survived till the powder was laid.

And they died with their fuses unlighted. Another detachment! Again

A sortie is made—all too vainly. The bridge still commanded the Aisne.

We were fighting two foes—Time and Prussia—the moments were worth more than troops.

We must blow up the bridge. A lone soldier darts out from the Royals and swoops