Two hours on--four hours off--
The dug-out's slimy as the trench;
It stinks of leather, men, and smoke,--
You wake up dopey from the stench.

Four hours off--two hours on--
Back on the same old trick again,
The same old noth'n' to do at all
From yesterday till God knows when.
On post or not it's just the same,
The waiting is what gets your goat
And makes you want to chuck the game
Or risk a trench-knife in your throat.

Two hours on--four hours off--
I s'pose our job is not so hard,--
I s'pose sometime we're going to quit--

* * * * *

The ghosts we leave--do they stand guard?

[Illustration: ]

[Illustration: The water wagon filled with red-hot coffee...]

The water wagon filled with red-hot coffee going to the ration dump via
shell fire and not losing any time about it--
Outside Belleau wood--June '18