148 HERBERT KAUFMAN
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 ! Sacre 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 the ten are no more I
Yet another salutes and superbly essays where the ten failed before.
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