Hail, soldier, huddled in the rain,
Hail, soldier, squelching through the mud,
Hail, soldier, sick of dirt and pain,
The sight of death, the smell of blood.
New men, new weapons, bear the brunt;
New slogans gild the ancient game:
The infantry are still in front,
And mud and dust are much the same.
Hail, humble footman, poised to fly
Across the West, or any, Wall!
Proud, plodding, peerless P.B.I.-
The foulest, finest job of all.
March 26, 1944
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem