Over the top, over we go.
Rifle in hand, gaze cast to the sky.
Will we return? Who will know?
Struggling over the wire, we try and try and try...
NGp
She smiles when you clean her, carry her in your hand.
Your rifle by your side, care for. Loved for.
She is your friend, your lover. The key part of your band.
You trust her with your life, as do your comrades by the score.

The slow march towards death, met with grim determination.
Your friends fall around you, their rifles cry out.
The great chatter of guns, screaming their vindication.
The noise of hell, fills a man with doubt.

Unknown British Soldier, western front 1916.

March across the land, under the winters sky.
The struggles of a soldier as they try.
His rifle smiles, singing her encouragement.
Man and giest, filled with intent.

Forwards and further, marching under the heavens.
Mother of Rifles and Father of Men, wonder of soldiers and weapons.
Are they safe, marching over the snow?
Will the soldier reach his destination, rifle in tow?

Attributed to unknown American Solider, 1944