Curly Hatton opened his eyes again. A minute ago he had been marching, marching, Forever up and down enormous hills While his throat scratched with thirst and something howled⁠— But then there was a clear minute⁠—and he was lying In a long, crowded, strangely-churchly gloom Where lanterns bobbed like marshlights in a swamp And there was a perpetual rustling noise Of dry leaves stirred by a complaining wind. No, they were only voices of wounded men. “Water. Water. Water. Water. Water.” He heard the rain on the roof and sucked his lips. “Water. Water. Water. Water. Water.” Oh, heavy sluices of dark, sweet, Summer rain, Pour down on me and wash me free again, Cleanse me of battles, make my flesh smell sweet, I am so sick of thirst, so tired of pain, So stale with wounds and the heat! Somebody went by, a doctor with red sleeves; He stared at the red sleeves and tried to speak But when he spoke, he whispered. This was a church. He could see a dim altar now and a shadow-pulpit.