They posted us to battle camp.
Three years since the war,
We had not thought to kill.

At first each day seemed Boy Scout stuff,
Tramping the English hills,
Shaving in streams at dawn,
Absorbed by women, peace-time plans:

Until the meadow lined with posts.
Strung up by the neck,
A troop of cardboard faces,
The straw men smiled at us.

We yielded to the drill.
Two by two we charged,
Ordered to whoop and yell
And jab their ragged hearts.

We marched away. Behind us
...