THE RACE TO PARIS: 1914
The French poilu, foot-soldier, packs his kit
with everything he needs to live and kill
the other man. He forms a pyramid:
spare socks in case his boots chafe - and they will!
entrenching tool, field dressing, bayonet,
his rifle, ammunition pouch. He's filled
his chargement de campagne and so he sets
his metal cooking pot on top - and smiles:
his dinner is the last thing he'll forget.
His brodequins must march for twenty miles
each sky-blue day: he plods on bleeding feet
through heavy August. One warm night he piles
an earthy cassoulet in his marmite,
eats mightily, then scrubs it mirror-clean.
His regiment tramps on; the ears of wheat
rise, hide the men, but shafts of sunlight beam,
reflected on the pots. A sniper shoots,
(it's young Lieutenant Rommel) hits the gleam.
They all marched on their stomachs in pursuit
of schedules that would lead them to Verdun.
Some will get there ... while quick success en route
fires up the junior marksman with his gun
as he reflects on victory in the sun.
