Page:Poems of the Great War - Cunliffe.djvu/174

 148 HERBERT KAUFMAN

For the fuse ! Fate seems with us. We cheer him ; he answers — our hopes are reborn !

A ball rips his visor — his khaki shows red where another has torn.

Will he live — will he last — will he make it ?

Helas ! And so near to the goal ! A second, he dies ! Then a third one ! A fourth !

Still the Germans take toll ! A fifth, magnifique ! It is magic ! How does he

escape them ? He may. . . Yes, he does! See, the match flares ! A rifle rings

out from the wood and says "Nay !"

Six, seven, eight, nine take their places, six, seven,

eight, nine, brave their hail ; Six, seven, eight, nine — how we count them !

But the sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth fail ! A tenth ! Sacre nom ! But these English are

soldiers — they know how to try ; (He fumbles the place where his jaw was) — they

show, too, how heroes can die.

Ten we count — ten who ventured unquailing — ten there were — and the ten are no more I

Yet another salutes and superbly essays where the ten failed before.

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