Explore "The Deserter" by Gilbert Frankau on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
"I'm sorry I done it, Major. " / We bandaged the livid face; / And led him out, ere the wan sun rose, / To die his death of disgrace.
The bolt-heads locked to the cartridge; / The rifles steadied to rest, / As cold stock nestled at colder cheek / And foresight lined on the breast.
"_Fire! _" called the Sergeant-Major.
The muzzles flamed as he spoke: / And the shameless soul of a nameless man / Went up in the cordite-smoke.