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  4. Champs d’Honneur by Ernest M. Hemingway
Champs d’Honneur

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Soldiers never do die well;
         Crosses mark the places—
Wooden crosses where they fell,
         Stuck above their faces.
Soldiers pitch and cough and twitch—
         All the world roars red and black;
Soldiers smother in a ditch,
         Choking through the whole attack.

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Champs d’Honneur

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