"But you're no mate," he added.
"You were goin' to make some poetry and I haven't got it yet."
"What kind of poetry do you want me to make?" I asked.
"Yer know it yerself, somethin' nice like!"
"About the stars--"
"Star-shells if you like."
"Shall I begin now? We can write it out later."
"Righto!"
I plunged into impromptu verse.
I lie as still as a sandbag in my dug-out shrapnel proof,
My candle shines in the corner, and the shadows dance on the roof,
Far from the blood-stained trenches, and far from the scenes of war,
My thoughts go back to a maiden, my own little guiding star.
"That's 'ot stuff," said Bill.
I was on the point of starting a fresh verse when the low rumble of an
approaching shell was heard; a messenger of death from a great German
gun out at La Bassee. This gun was no stranger to us; he often (p. 190)
played havoc with the Keep; it was he who blew in the wall a few nights
before and killed the two Engineers. The missile he flung moved slowly
and could not keep pace with its own sound. Five seconds before it
arrived we could hear it coming, a slow, certain horror, sure of its
mission and steady to its purpose. The big gun at La Bassee was
shelling the communication trench, endeavouring to stop reinforcements
from getting up to the firing lines and the red field between.
The shell burst about fifty yards away and threw a shower of dirt over
us. There was a precipitate flop, a falling backwards and forwards and
all became messed up in an intricate jumble of flesh, equipment,
clothing and rifles in the bottom of the trench.
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