The poem
'FALL in! Now get a move on.' (Curse the rain.) We splash away along the straggling village, Out to the flat rich country, green with June... And sunset flares across wet crops and tillage, Blazing with splendour-patches. (Harvest soon, Up in the Line.) 'Perhaps the War'll be done 'By Christmas-Day. Keep smiling then, old son.'
Here's the Canal: it's dusk; we cross the bridge. 'Lead on there, by platoons.' (The Line's a-glare With shell-fire through the poplars; distant rattle Of rifles and machine-guns.) 'Fritz is there! 'Christ, ain't it lively, Sergeant? Is't a battle?' More rain: the lightning blinks, and thunder rumbles. 'There's over-head artillery!' some chap grumbles.
What's all this mob at the cross-roads? Where are the guides?... 'Lead on with number One.' And off they go. 'Three minute intervals.' (Poor blundering files, Sweating and blindly burdened; who's to know If death will catch them in those two dark miles?) More rain. 'Lead on, Head-quarters.' (That's the lot.) 'Who's that?... Oh, Sergeant-Major, don't get shot! 'And tell me, have we won this war or not?'