Issue 8, Spring 1955
Helmet and rifle, pack and overcoat,
Marched through a forest. Somewhere up ahead
Guns thudded. Like the circle of a throat
The night on every side was turning red.
They halted and they dug. They sank like moles
Into the clammy earth between the trees,
And slept. The sentries, standing in their holes,
Felt the first snow. Their feet began to freeze.