August 10, 1916 LAND & WATER 33 
How Rifleman Brown came to Valhalla 
By Gilbert Frankau 
To the lower Hall of Valhalla, to the heroes of no renown, , 
Relieved from his spell at the listening-post, came Rifleman Joseph Brown. 
With never a rent in his khaki nor smear of blood on his face, 
He flung his pack from his shoulders, and made for an empty place. 
The Killer-men of Valhalla looked up from the banquet-board 
At the unfouled breech of his rifle, at the unfleshed point of his sword ; 
And the unsung dead of the trenches, th? kings who have never a crown, 
Demanded his pass to Valhalla from Rifleman Joseph Brown. 
" Who comes, unhit, to the party ? " A one-legged Corporal spoke. 
And the gashed heads nodded approval through the rings of the Endless Smoke, 
Who comss for the beer and the Woodbines of the never-closed Canteen, 
," With the barrack-shine on his bayonet and ajull-charged magazine? " 
Then Rifleman Brown Ipoked round him at the nameless men of the Line- — 
At the wounds of the shell and the bullet, at the burns of the bomb and the mme ; 
At the tunics, virgin of medals but crimson-clotted with blood ; 
At the ankle-boots and the puttees, caked stiff with the Flanders mud ; 
At the myriad short Lee-Enfields that crowded the rifle-rack. 
Each with its blade to the sword-boss brown, and its muzzle powder-black : 
And Rifleman Brown said never a word ; yet he felt in the soul of his soul 
His right to the beer of the lower Hall, though he came to drink of it, whole J 
His right to the fags of the free Canteen, to a seat at the banquet-board. 
Though he cam3 to the men who had killed their man, with never a man to liis sword. 
" Who speaks for the stranger Riflemin, boys of the free Canteen ? 
Who passes the cho-p wiih the unmximed limbs and the kit that is far too clean ? " 
The gashed heads eyed him above 'their beers, the gashed Ups sucked at their smoke ; 
There were three at the board of his own platoon, but not a man of them spoke. 
His mouth was mad for the tankard froth and the biting whiff of a fag, 
But he knew that he might not speak for himself to the^dead men who do not brag. 
A gun-butt crashed on the gateway, a man came staggering in ; 
His head was cleft with a great red wound from the temple-bone to the chin. 
His blade was dyed to the bayonet-boss with the clots that were scarcely dry ; 
And he cried to the men who had killed their man : 
" Who passes the Rifleman ? I ! 
By the four I slew, by the shell I stopped, if my feet be not too late, 
I speak the word for Rifleman Brown that a chap may speak for his mate." 
The dead of lower Valhalla, the heroes of dumb renown. 
They pricked their ears to a tale of the earth as they set their tankards down. 
" My mate was on sentry this evening when the General happened along. 
And asked what he'd do in a gas-attack. Joe told him : f Beat on the gong.' 
.' What else ? ' 
'Open fire, Sir,' Joe answered. 
' Good God, man,' our General said, 
' By the time you'd beaten that bloodstained gong the chances are you'd be dead. 
Just think, lad.' ' Gas helmet, of course. Sir.' ' ' Yes, damn it, and gas helmet first.' 
So Joe stood dumb to attention, and wondered why he'd been cursed." 
The gashed heads turned to the Rifleman, and now it seemed tha^t they knew 
Why the face that had never a smear of blood was stained to the jawbones, blue. 
"He was posted again at midnight." The scarred heads craned to the voice. 
As the man with the blood-red bayonet spoke up for the mate of his choice. 
" You know what it's like in a listening-post, the Very candles aflare. 
Their bullets smacking the sand-bags, our Vickers combing your hair. 
How your ears and your eyes get jumpy, till each known tuft that you scan 
Moves and crawls in the shadows till you'd almost swear it was man ; 
