Words From the Front

January twenty third
There's no road
It's been raining now for three days
We're in mud up to our knees

If luck prevails and I'm given leave
I should be home by the 17th
One word I hear all the time
This word I hear
Blind

John died last night,
He had no chance
Beneath the surgeon's drunken hands
It's hard to see
Who's about
The fires we light
Soon smolder out

Up on the ridge
They're dug in deep
We move in waves,
As if asleep
And there they lay
Four thousand men
The general orders "Attack again"