92
The Ypres Times.
The door still stood wide open, and inside, seated at the piano, some cheerful idiot was
murdering a song to his own doleful accompaniment.
Shi-ips,' he moaned, that pass in the ni-ight
That was too much. In an instant my mind was made up. Party, shun I
shouted. Half left, door of mess two fingers left, idiot sitting at pianoat the idiot,
six rounds rapidfire
And while we scrambled round the piano picking up the chocolates that we had
lately hurled at its tormentor, we heard the thud-thud of a Hun in the distance, bombing
his way merrily down the road to Pop.
HOW RIFLEMAN BROWN CAME TO VALHALLA.*
By GILBERT FRANKAU.
To the lower Hall of Valhalla, to the heroes of no renown,
Relieved from his spell at the listening-post, came Rifleman Joseph Brown.
With never a rent in his khaki nor smear of blood on his face,
He flung his pack from his shoulders, and made for an empty place.
The Killer-men of Valhalla looked up from the banquet-board
At the unfouled breech of his rifle, at the unfleshed point of his sword
And the unsung dead of the trenches, the kings who have never a crown,
Demanded his pass to Valhalla from Rifleman Joseph Brown.
Who comes, unhit, to the party A one-legged Corporal spoke,
And the gashed heads nodded approval through the rings of the Endless Smoke
"Who comes for the heer and. the Woodbines of the never-closed Canteen,
With the barrack-shine on his bayonet and a full-charged magazine
Then Rifleman Brown looked round him at the nameless men of the Line
At the wounds of the shell and the bullet, at the burns of the bomb and the mine
At the tunics, virgin of medals but crimson-clotted with blood
At the ankle-boots and the puttees, caked stiff with the Flatiders mud
At the myriad short Lee-Enfields that crowded the rifle-rack,
Each with its blade to the sword-boss brown, and its muzzle powder-black
And Rifleman Brown said never a word yet he felt in the soul of his soul
His right to the beer of the lower Hall, though he came to drink of it, whole
His right to the fags of the free Canteen, to a seat at the banquet-board,
Though he came to the men who had killed their man, with never a man to his sword.
Who speaks for the stranger Rifleman, 0 boys of the free Canteen
Who passes the chap with the unmaimed limbs and the kit that is far too clean
The gashed heads eyed him above their beers, the gashed hps sucked at their smoke
There were three at the board of his own platoon, but not a man of them spoke.
His mouth was mad for the tankard froth and the biting whiff of a fag,
But he knew that he might not speak for himself to the dead men who do not brag.
A gun-butt crashed on the gateway, a man came staggering in
His head was cleft with a great red wound from the temple-bone to the chin,
His blade was dyed to the bayonet-boss with the clots that were scarcely dry
And he cried to the men who had killed their man
Who passes the Rifleman I f
By the four I slew, by the shell I stopped, if my feet be not too late,
I speak the word for Rifleman Brown that a chap may speak for his mate."
The dead of lower Valhalla, the heroes of dumb renown,
They pricked their ears to a tale of the earth as they set their tankards down.
My mate was on sentry this evening when the General happened along
•Reprinted,by kind permission of the Author, from "The City of Fear," published by Messrs. Chatto&Windus.
