'Twas in the days of front attack; <br />This glorious truth we'd yet to learn it -- <br />That every "front" has got a back. <br />And French was just the man to turn it. <br />A wounded soldier on the ground <br />Was lying hid behind a hummock; <br />He proved the good old proverb sound -- <br />An army travels on its stomach. <br /> <br />He lay as flat as any fish; <br />His nose had worn a little furrow; <br />He only had one frantic wish, <br />That like an ant-bear he could burrow. <br /> <br />The bullets whistled into space, <br />The pom-pom gun kept up its braying, <br />The fout-point-seven supplied the bass -- <br />You'd think the devil's band was playing. <br /> <br />A valiant comrade crawling near <br />Observed his most supine behaviour, <br />And crept towards him; "Hey! what cheer? <br />Buck up," said he, "I've come to save yer. <br /> <br />"You get up on my shoulders, mate, <br />And, if we live beyond the firing, <br />I'll get the V.C. sure as fate, <br />Because our blokes is all retiring. <br /> <br />"It's fifty pound a year," says he, <br />"I'll stand you lots of beer and whisky." <br />"No," says the wounded man, "not me, <br />I'll not be saved -- it's far too risky. <br /> <br />"I'm fairly safe behind this mound, <br />I've worn a hole that seems to fit me; <br />But if you lift me off the ground <br />It's fifty pounds to one they'll hit me." <br /> <br />So back towards the firing-line <br />Our friend crept slowly to the rear-oh! <br />Remarking "What a selfish swine! <br />He might have let me be a hero."<br /><br />Andrew Barton Paterson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/that-v-c/
