They told us about a boy who disappeared br when the convoy went through. Search br as they might there was no sign until word br was sent of ‘residue’ between the wheel and the wheel-arch. br br * br br News arrived of the woman who went mad, br who kicked-in the windows of every billet, br who ran shrieking through the Street of Locks, who shed br their semmits and stays to dance a carcan in the market. br br * br br This one’s got legs: the man who went down to the river br under fire, searching among that day’s dead for his only brother, br turning the bodies, one by one, to discover br his wife, son, uncles, sister, father, mother. br br * br br The Surgeon General, they say it was, who went back br to drink the last of his Roffignac, to sit in a dry bath br and open a vein: a man, for sure, on the right track. br One for the road. One for the primrose path. br br * br br Hardly a day goes by but someone boasts br of having been there when those men downed weapons br with hardly a word, and walked through their own lines, br later reported as slips of the tongue, or ghosts. br br * br br How’s this for a tale of slaughter: br a man who slew his herd, then drew a hood br over the trembling head of each blonde daughter br and shot them where they stood? br br * br br Word of mouth has a gut-shot man walk all of ten br miles from the front to his own front-door, lift the latch, br find them dead, dig seven graves, fire the thatch, br fill his bottle, sling his gun, walk back again. br br * br br Here’s one about the raw recruit who crawled out from beneath br the corpses of his comrades, like a dinner guest br emerging from a bun-fight scrum, to charge the machine-gun nest br armed with only a shovel, with only a trowel, with only a toothpick, with only his teeth.