I buckled my helmet tight.
I remember you watched me, Billy, as I took my cane in my hand;
I vaulted over the sandbags into the pitchy night,
Into the pitted valley that served us as No Man's Land.

I strode out over the hollow of hate and havoc and death,
From the heights the guns were angry, with a vengeful snarling of steel;
And once in a moment of stillness I heard hard panting breath,
And I turned . . . it was you, old rascal, following hard on my heel.

I fancy I cursed you, Billy; but not so much as I ought!
And so we went forward together, till we came to the valley rim,
And then a star-shell sputtered . . . it was even worse than I thought,
For the trench they told me to move in was packed with Boche to the brim.

They saw me too, and they got me; they peppered me till I fell;
And there I scribbled my message with my life-blood ebbing away;
"Now, Billy, you fat old duffer, you've got to get back like hell;
And get them to cancel that order before it's the dawn of day.

"Billy, old boy, I love you, I kiss your shiny black nose;
Now, home there. . . . Hurry, you devil,
or I'll cut you to ribands. . . . See . . ."
Poor brute! he's off! and I'm dying. . . . I go as a soldier goes.
I'm happy. My Boys, God bless 'em! . . . It had to be them or me.

Ah! I never was intended for a job like this. I realize it more and
more every day, but I will stick it out till I break down. To be
nervous, over-imaginative, terribly sensitive to suffering, is a poor
equipment for the man who starts out to drive wounded on the
battlefield. I am haunted by the thought that my car may break down
when I have a load of wounded. Once indeed it did, and a man died while
I waited for help. Now I never look at what is given me. It might
unnerve me.

I have been at it for over six months without a rest. When an attack
has been going on I have worked day and night, until as I drove I wanted
to fall asleep at the wheel.

The winter has been trying; there is rain one day, frost the next. Mud
up to the axles. One sleeps in lousy barns or dripping dugouts. Cold,
hunger, dirt, I know them all singly and together. My only consolation
is that the war must soon be over, and that I will have helped. When I
have time and am not too tired, I comfort myself with scribbling.

The Booby-Trap

I'm crawlin' out in the mangolds to bury wot's left o' Joe--
Joe, my pal, and a good u