Soldiers never do die well;
Crosses mark the places -
Wooden crosses where they fell,
Stuck above their faces.
Soldiers pitch and cough and twitch -
All the world roars red and black;
Soldiers smother in a ditch,
Choking through the whole attack.
Ernest Hemingway
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/champs-d-honneur/
