Jack Ellyat, least of any, expected attack. He woke about five with a dazzle struck in his eyes Where a long dawn-ray slid through a crack in the tent. He cursed at the ray and tried to go back to sleep But he couldn’t do it, although he was tired enough, Something ate at his mind as soon as he wakened And kept on eating. This morning was Sunday morning. The bells would be jangling for church back home, pretty soon, The girls would be going to church in white Sunday dresses, No, it was too early for that⁠—they’d be muffled up In coats and galoshes. Their cheeks would be pink as apples. He wanted to see a girl who washed her hair, Not a flat old woman sucking a yellow snuffstick Or one of the girls in the dirty blue silk wrappers With flags on their garters. He wanted to see a girl.