THE REAR-GUARD
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Hindenburg Line, April 1917.) Groping along the tunnel, step by step,He winked his prying torch with patching glareFrom side to side, and sniffed the unwholesome air. Tins, boxes, bottles, shapes too vague to know,A mirror smashed, the mattress from a bed;And he, exploring fifty feet belowThe rosy gloom of battle overhead. Tripping, he grabbed the wall; saw some one lieHumped at his feet, half-hidden by a rug,And stooped to give the sleeper's arm a tug."I'm looking for headquarters." No reply."God blast your neck!" (For days he'd had no sleep,)"Get up and guide me through this stinking place."Savage, he kicked a soft, unanswering heap,And flashed his beam across the livid faceTerribly glaring up, whose eyes yet woreAgony dying hard ten days before;And fists of fingers clutched a blackening wound. Alone he staggered on until he foundDawn's ghost that filtered down a shafted stairTo the dazed, muttering creatures undergroundWho hear the boom of shells in muffled sound.At last, with sweat of horror in his hair,He climbed through darkness to the twilight air,Unloading hell behind him step by step.
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