XV
A man dashed in among us and caught breath.
A sergeant, resolute and silent, one
That we who knew him trusted. He had run
As men run only in the face of death,
Yet had not fled. What is it that he saith?
“The game is all but up, the end begun.
Live men we shall not see another sun.
Laventie North has fallen, a feast of death.
’Tis your turn, sir. Your left is in the air,
And through the breach, five hundred yards away,
His fours have marched on Sailly and Estaires.”
Column of fours? No! Then God save the day!
These breastwork trenches!—’Twas as if there snapped
Some devilish mechanism on us—trapped!
Rastatt, 30th April