At half past two the trumpet sounds,

And Canons fire of their rounds.

Streaks and flashes-lightning in the night.

All the while gazing, and wondering of Fritz’s plight.

At 6 o clock, stand-to is called,

And chaplains rush to give absolves.

At two past seven the orders out,

And of we go to kill us krauts.

Across a swamp and through the wood,

Yet the looks upon our faces, question if we should.

At twelve past seven their guns are heard,

The front line falls, a slaughtered herd.

Second and third, are just the same.

A pitiful waste, but who’s to blame?

Above the roar and clatter of the guns,

The corporal calls us back whilst he runs.

The shouts from comrades trickle to your ear.

Yet they are left, despite having lived with them for a year.

At nine to nine we slog back to rest.

Accused and scolded for not having given our best.

Is it not enough to charge a trench?

Must we all have died to have your appetites quenched?

At ten that night, I retired to my bed.

To have sleep take me away from this day’s dread.

One must dream and forget and be glad for such bliss.

- Pvt. Charles M. Foormis

~Carlos Overstreet