Squire nagged and bullied till I went to fight, (Under Lord Derby's scheme). I died in hell - (They called it Passchendaele). My wound was slight, And I was hobbling back; and then a shell Burst slick upon the duckboards: so I fell Into the bottomless mud, and lost the light

At sermon-time, while Squire is in his pew, He gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare; For, though low down upon the list, I'm there; "In proud and glorious memory" ... that's my due. Two bleeding years I fought in France, for Squire: I suffered anguish that he's never guessed. I came home on leave: and then went west... What greater glory could a man desire?

Siegfried Sassoon