“I’m sorry I done it, Major.” We bandaged the livid face; And led him out, ere the wan sun rose, To die his death of ignorance.
The bolt-heads locked to the cartridges; The rifles stead to rest, As cold stock nestled at colder cheek And foresight lined on the breast.
“Fire” called the Sergeant-Major. The muzzles flamed as he spoke: And the shameless soul of a nameless man Went up in cordite-smoke.
Dan Stevens
Max Irons