No Man's land is an eerie sight
At early dawn in the pale gray light ...
And never a living soul walks there
To taste the fresh of the morning air;
Only some lumps of rotting clay,
that were friends or foemen yesterday ...

But No Man's Land is a goblin sight
When patrols crawl over at dead o' night;
Boche or British, Belgian or French,
You dice with death when you cross the trench.
When the "rapid," like fireflies in the dark,
Flits down the parapet spark by spark,
And you drop for cover to keep your head
With your face on the breast of the four month's dead.

The man who ranges in No Man's Land
is dogged by shadows on either hand
When the star-shell's flare, as it bursts o'erhead,
Scares the gray rats that feed on the dead,
And the bursting bomb or the bayonet-snatch
May answer the click of your safety-catch,
For the lone patrol, with his life in his hand,
Is hunting for blood in No Man's Land.

-James H. Knight
WWI Veteran