---

Robert W Service - Afternoon Tea
Work rating: Medium

As I was saying . . . (No, thank you; I never take cream with my tea;
Cows weren`t allowed in the trenches — got out of the habit, y`see.)
As I was saying, our Colonel leaped up like a youngster of ten:
"Come on, lads!" he shouts, "and we`ll show `em," and he sprang to the head of the men.
Then some bally thing seemed to trip him, and he fell on his face with a slam. . . .
Oh, he died like a true British soldier, and the last word he uttered was "Damn!"
And hang it! I loved the old fellow, and something just burst in my brain,
And I cared no more for the bullets than I would for a shower of rain.
`Twas an awf`ly funny sensation (I say, this is jolly nice tea);
I felt as if something had broken; by gad! I was suddenly free.
Free for a glorified moment, beyond regulations and laws,
Free just to wallow in slaughter, as the chap of the Stone Age was.

So on I went joyously nursing a Berserker rage of my own,
And though all my chaps were behind me, feeling most frightf`ly alone;
With the bullets and shells ding-donging, and the "krock" and the swish of the shrap;
And I found myself humming "Ben Bolt" . . . (Will you pass me the sugar, old chap?
Two lumps, please). . . . What was I saying? Oh yes, the jolly old dash;
We simply ripped through the barrage, and on with a roar and a crash.
My fellows — Old Nick couldn`t stop `em. On, on they went with a yell,
Till they tripped on the Boches` sand-bags, — nothing much left to tell:
A trench so tattered and battered that even a rat couldn`t live;
Some corpses tangled and mangled, wire you could pass through a sieve.

The jolly old guns had bilked us, cheated us out of our show,
And my fellows were simply yearning for a red mix-up with the foe.
So I shouted to them to follow, and on we went roaring again,
Battle-tuned and exultant, on in the leaden rain.
Then all at once a machine gun barks from a bit of a bank,
And our Major roars in a fury: "We`ve got to take it on flank."
He was running like fire to lead us, when down like a stone he comes,
As full of "typewriter" bullets as a pudding is full of plums.
So I took his job and we got `em. . . . By gad! we got `em like rats;
Down in a deep shell-crater we fought like Kilkenny cats.
`Twas pleasant just for a moment to be sheltered and out of range,
With someone you saw to go for — it made an agreeable change.

And the Boches that missed my bullets, my chaps gave a bayonet jolt,
And all the time, I remember, I whistled and hummed "Ben Bolt".
Well, that little job was over, so hell for leather we ran,
On to the second line trenches, — that`s where the fun began.
For though we had strafed `em like fury, there still were some Boches about,
And my fellows, teeth set and eyes glaring, like terriers routed `em out.
Then I stumbled on one of their dug-outs, and I shouted: "Is anyone there?"
And a voice, "Yes, one; but I`m wounded," came faint up the narrow stair;
And my man was descending before me, when sudden a cry! a shot!
(I say, this cake is delicious. You make it yourself, do you not?)
My man? Oh, they killed the poor devil; for if there was one there was ten;
So after I`d bombed `em sufficient I went down at the head of my men,
And four tried to sneak from a bunk-hole, but we cornered the rotters all right;
I`d rather not go into details, `twas messy that bit of the fight.

But all of it`s beastly messy; let`s talk of pleasanter things:
The skirts that the girls are wearing, ridiculous fluffy things,
So short that they show. . . . Oh, hang it! Well, if I must, I must.
We cleaned out the second trench line, bomb and bayonet thrust;
And on we went to the third one, quite calloused to crumping by now;
And some of our fellows who`d passed us were making a deuce of a row;
And my chaps — well, I just couldn`t hold `em; (It`s strange how it is with gore;
In some ways it`s just like whiskey: if you taste it you must have more.)
Their eyes were like beacons of battle; by gad, sir! they couldn`tbe calmed,
So I headed `em bang for the bomb-belt, racing like billy-be-damned.
Oh, it didn`t take long to arrive there, those who arrived at all;
The machine guns were certainly chronic, the shindy enough to appal.
Oh yes, I omitted to tell you, I`d wounds on the chest and the head,
And my shirt was torn to a gun-rag, and my face blood-gummy and red.

I`m thinking I looked like a madman; I fancy I felt one too,
Half naked and swinging a rifle. . . . God! what a glorious "do".
As I sit here in old Piccadilly, sipping my afternoon tea,
I see a blind, bullet-chipped devil, and it`s hard to believe that it`s me;
I see a wild, war-damaged demon, smashing out left and right,
And humming "Ben Bolt" rather loudly, and hugely enjoying the fight.
And as for my men, may God bless `em! I`ve loved `em ever since then:
They fought like the shining angels; they`re the pick o` the land, my men.
And the trench was a reeking shambles, not a Boche to be seen alive —
So I thought; but on rounding a traverse I came on a covey of five;
And four of `em threw up their flippers, but the fifth chap, a sergeant, was game,
And though I`d a bomb and revolver he came at me just the same.
A sporty thing that, I tell you; I just couldn`t blow him to hell,
So I swung to the point of his jaw-bone, and down like a ninepin he fell.
And then when I`d brought him to reason, he wasn`t half bad, that Hun;
He bandaged my head and my short-rib as well as the Doc could have done.
So back I went with my Boches, as gay as a two-year-old colt,
And it suddenly struck me as rummy, I still was a-humming "Ben Bolt".
And now, by Jove! how I`ve bored you. You`ve just let me babble away;
Let`s talk of the things that matter — your car or the newest play. . . .
Source
The script ran 0.002 seconds.