Seeing men walk along the avenue,
One would not think of soldiers under fire;
Grey spats, a cane, a tidy scarf of blue
Would hardly seem a fighting man’s attire.
No hidden gunner tries to snipe them down,
No batteries compel a crazed retreat,
And safely through the traffic of the town
They move about on pleasure-seeking feet.
But even these, who seem so safe and free,
Are men cut off before the enemy,
Lost and alone and limited in power.
Finding them dead, their faces free of pain,
One knows they met the spirit’s zero hour
And blindly charged some little hill in vain.