(“The outbreak is in full swing and our death-rate would sicken Napoleon. . . . Dr. M— died last week, and C— on Monday, but some more medicines are coming. . . We don’t seem to be able to check it at all . . . . Villages panicking badly . . . . In some places not a living soul . . . . But at any rate the experience gained may come in useful, so I am keeping my notes written up to date in case of accidents. . . Death is a queer chap to live with for steady company.”
—Extract from a private letter from Manchuria.)
THERE are no leaders to lead us to honour, and yet with out leaders we sally,
Each man reporting for duty alone, out of sight, out of reach, of his fellow.
There are no bugles to call the battalions, and yet without bugle we rally
From the ends of the earth to the ends of the earth, to follow the Standard of Yellow!
Fall in! O fall in! O fall in!
Not where the squadrons mass,
Not where the bayonets shine,
Not where the big shell shout as they pass
Over the firing-line;
Not where the wounded are,
Not’ where the nations die,
Killed in the cleanly game of war—
That is no place for a spy!
O Princes, Thrones and Powers, your work is less than ours—
Here is no place for a spy!
Trained to another use,
The dropping shots begin,
“Go where his pickets hide—
“What does he next prepare?
“Does he feint or strike in force?
“Ride with him girth to girth