George Herbert Clarke, ed. (1873–1953). A Treasury of War Poetry. 1917.
Herbert Kaufman
The Hell-Gate of Soissons
M
Perchance it has happened, mon ami, you know of my unworthy lays.
Ah, then you must guess how my fingers are itching to talk to a pen;
For I was at Soissons, and saw it, the death of the twelve Englishmen.
Regret? I would pay with the other to witness their valor again.
A trifle, indeed, I assure you, to give for the honor to tell
How that handful of British, undaunted, went into the Gateway of Hell.
Over there a detachment of German sharpshooters lay hid in a wood.
A mitrailleuse battery planted on top of this well-chosen ridge
Held the road for the Prussians and covered the direct approach to the bridge.
(Only those who have danced to its music can know what the mitrailleuse means.)
But the bridge on the Aisne was a menace; our safety demanded its fall:
“Engineers,—volunteers!” In a body, the Royals stood out at the call.
A party was chosen—and seven survived till the powder was laid.
And they died with their fuses unlighted. Another detachment! Again
A sortie is made—all too vainly. The bridge still commanded the Aisne.
We must blow up the bridge. A lone soldier darts out from the Royals and swoops
For the fuse! Fate seems with us. We cheer him; he answers—our hopes are reborn!
A ball rips his visor—his khaki shows red where another has torn.
A second, he dies! then a third one! A fourth! Still the Germans take toll!
A fifth, magnifique! It is magic! How does he escape them? He may …
Yes, he does! See, the match flares! A rifle rings out from the wood and says “Nay!”
Six, seven, eight, nine—how we count them! But the sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth fail!
A tenth! Sacré nom! But these English are soldiers—they know how to try;
(He fumbles the place where his jaw was)—they show, too, how heroes can die.
Yet another salutes and superbly essays where the ten failed before.
God of Battles, look down and protect him! Lord, his heart is as Thine—let him live!
But the mitrailleuse splutters and stutters, and riddles him into a sieve.
And I thought of my beautiful Paris, and gave a last look at the land,
At France, my belle France, in her glory of blue sky and green field and wood.
Death with honor, but never surrender. And to die with such men—it was good.
When out of the line of the Royals (your island, mon ami, breeds men)
Burst a private, a tawny-haired giant—it was hopeless, but, ciel! how he ran!
Bon Dieu please remember the pattern, and make many more on his plan!
See, he reaches the bridge; ah! he lights it! I am dreaming, it cannot be true.
Screams of rage! Fusillade! They have killed him! Too late though, the good work is done.
By the valor of twelve English martyrs, the Hell-Gate of Soissons is won!