I wish that I were back again
In the glens of Donegal;
They'll call me coward if I return,
But a hero if I fall.
"Is it better to be a living coward,
Or thrice a hero dead?"
"It's better to go to sleep, my lad,"
The Colour Sergeant said.
Night, a grey troubled sky without moon or stars. The shadows lay on
the surface of the sea, and the waves moaned beneath the keel of the
troopship that was bearing us away on the most momentous journey of
our lives. The hour was about ten. Southampton lay astern; by dawn we
should be in France, and a day nearer the war for which we had trained
so long in the cathedral city of St. Albans.
I had never realized my mission as a rifleman so acutely before. (p. 014)
"To the war! to the war!" I said under my breath. "Out to France and
the fighting!" The thought raised a certain expectancy in my mind.
"Did I think three years ago that I should ever be a soldier?" I asked
myself. "Now that I am, can I kill a man; run a bayonet through his
body; right through, so that the point, blood red and cruelly keen,
comes out at the back? I'll not think of it."
But the thoughts could not be chased away. The month was March, and
the night was bitterly cold on deck. A sharp penetrating wind swept
across the sea and sung eerily about the dun-coloured funnel. With my
overcoat buttoned well up about my neck and my Balaclava helmet pulled
down over my ears I paced along the deck for quite an hour; then,
shivering with cold, I made my way down to the cabin where my mates
had taken up their quarters.
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