IT was thick with Prussian troopers, it was foul with German guns;
Every tree that cast a shadow was a sheltering place for Huns.
Death was guarding every roadway, death was watching every field,
And behind each rise of terrain was a rapid-fire concealed
But Uncle Sam's Marines had orders: 'Drive the Boche from where they're hid.
For the honor of Old Glory, take the woods!' and so they did.
I fancy none will tell it as the story should be told-
None will ever do full justice to those Yankee troopers bold.
How they crawled upon their stomachs through the fields of golden wheat
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem