Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, "Between the Lines"

Between the LinesWhen consciousness came back, he found he layBetween the opposing fires, but could not tellOn which hand were his friends; and either wayFor him to turn was chancy--bullet and shellWhistling and shrieking over him, as the glareOf searchlights scoured the darkness to blind day.He scrambled to his hands and knees ascare,Dragging his wounded foot through puddled clay,And tumbled in