For the fuse! Fate seems with us. We cheer him; he
answers—our hopes are reborn!
A ball rips his visor—his khaki shows red where another has torn.
Will he live—will he last—will he make it? Helas! And so near to the goal!
A second, he dies! then a third one! A fourth! Still the Germans take toll!
A fifth, magnifique! It is magic! How does he escape them? He may . . .
Yes, he does! See, the match flares! A rifle rings out from the wood and says "Nay!"
Six, seven, eight, nine take their places, six, seven, eight, nine brave their hail;
Six, seven, eight, nine—how we count them! But the sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth fail!
A tenth! Sacré nom! But these English are soldiers—they know how to try;
(He fumbles the place where his jaw was)—they show, too, how heroes can die.
Ten we count—ten who ventured unquailing—ten there
were—and ten are no more!
Yet another salutes and superbly essays where the ten failed before.
God of Battles, look down and protect him! Lord, his heart is as Thine—let him live!
But the mitrailleuse splutters and stutters, and riddles him into a sieve.
Then I thought of my sins, and sat waiting the charge that we could not withstand.
And I thought of my beautiful Paris, and gave a last look at the land,
At France, my belle France, in her glory of blue sky and green field and wood.
Death with honour, but never surrender. And to die with such men—it was good.
