Gin And Tonic In The Mess Poem by Peter (Prof) Fox

What does the cracking of ice cubes mean to a rifleman sat in a pub?
Nothing! That's what. It's another man's life out there waiting alone in the mud.
And what does a drip down the neck mean to a rifleman prone in a scrape?
A tickle reminds him of fear creeping in under the cape.
A soft trickle of damp isn't a bullet or a mortar grenade
But when a man is a target he won't say he isn't afraid.
I once knew a reckless major and heard what happened to him.
Best we don't think of the details - just add more fizz to the gin