Passchendaele, 1917

I try not to remember, and it's hard to describe,
The feeling in the battered trench, as the enemies
Came tumbling in for murder, and if only to survive,
We had to resort to all kinds of fighting, with
Clubs, knives, bullets, teeth, "kill them to stay alive"
Was the only violent instinctive force in the mud,
Where you looked in the eyes of the man you killed,
And after it finally ended, all was shit and blood...