John Allan Wyeth

Regimental Headquarters

Steep prickly slopes in shadow from the moon
sagging behind us down the strident sky.
Guns blaze and slam. The stars burn fever bright.
A low white ridge ahead, and the crumpled sound
of shelling.

"Jerry's out--"

A snarling croon
wheels over us--quick glittering tracers fly
down a pale searchlight, and along the ground
bombs blast into smoky yellow shot with light.

"These runners will get you up there pretty soon.
--Take them up to the Second Battalion."

My tongue goes dry
and scrapy, and my lips begin to jerk--

--"Look out for the gas--they been pumping it in all night."

"Let's go, Tommy."

"0 God wait a minute--I've found
something wrong with my mask--the damn thing doesn't work."

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John Allan Wyeth