"Oui, ça ne dure pas longtemps, tu sais."
"Here, cover him up—he's cold!
Shove the stretcher—it's stuck! That's it—he's in!"
Poor chap, not twenty years old.
"Bon-soir, messieurs—à tout à l'heure!"
And you feel for the hell-struck road.
It's ten miles off to the surgery,
With Death and a boy for your load.
Praise God for that rocket in the trench,
Green on the ghastly sky—