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diff --git a/40379-0.txt b/40379-0.txt index 19df4e5..93370b2 100644 --- a/40379-0.txt +++ b/40379-0.txt @@ -1,38 +1,4 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Trench Ballads and Other Verses, by -Erwin Clarkson Garrett - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Trench Ballads and Other Verses - -Author: Erwin Clarkson Garrett - -Release Date: July 31, 2012 [EBook #40379] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRENCH BALLADS AND OTHER VERSES *** - - - - -Produced by Michael McDermott, from scans obtained at the -Internet Archive - - - - - - - - - +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 40379 *** Trench Ballads and Other Verses @@ -3385,359 +3351,4 @@ M P End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Trench Ballads and Other Verses, by Erwin Clarkson Garrett -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRENCH BALLADS AND OTHER VERSES *** - -***** This file should be named 40379-0.txt or 40379-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/3/7/40379/ - -Produced by Michael McDermott, from scans obtained at the -Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Trench Ballads and Other Verses - -Author: Erwin Clarkson Garrett - -Release Date: July 31, 2012 [EBook #40379] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRENCH BALLADS AND OTHER VERSES *** - - - - -Produced by Michael McDermott, from scans obtained at the -Internet Archive - - - - - - - - - - -Trench Ballads and Other Verses - - - - - -[Portrait of Erwin Clarkson Garrett] - -Trench Ballads -and Other Verses - -By -Erwin Clarkson Garrett -Author of "Army Ballads and Other Verses" - -PHILADELPHIA -THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY -1919 - -Copyright, 1919, -by The John C. Winston Co. - -THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF -MY FATHER, -the late Captain George L. Garrett, of the Union -Army, during the Civil War -AND TO -MY MOTHER, -whose lifelong devotion, unselfishness, tenderness -and loyalty to me, as to all her family and -friends, make this dedication a pleasure -and a joy only commensurate -with my thought of her. - - - - - -PREFACE - - - - -I have divided this book into three distinct parts. Part I, Trench -Ballads, consists of forty American soldier poems of America's -participation in the World War, 1917-19, based entirely on actual facts -and incidents, and almost exclusively on my own personal experiences and -observations, when a private in Company G, 16th Infantry, First -Division, of the American Expeditionary Forces in France. Part II, -Pre-war Poems, consists of three sets of verses written just before the -active entry of America in the war, and appertaining to, but not an -integral part of, it, and therefore grouped separately. Part III, Other -Poems, contains those of a general and non-military character. - -It is highly desirable the "Notes" at the end of this volume should be -consulted, and that it be realized that with few exceptions, all these -Trench Ballads were written in France, many scribbled on odd pieces of -paper or on old envelopes in the trenches themselves, and consequently, -when present locality is intimated, it is always France, that is to say, -from the standpoint that I am speaking in and from the seat of -operations. For example, when I use the term "over here," it really -means what the people at home in America would call "over there." -Hyperbole or little characteristic anecdotes that really never occurred, -except in the brain of an author, I have absolutely shunned, and have -endeavored to adhere strictly to "the truth, the whole truth and nothing -but the truth," and to set forth the vicissitudes; the dangers, joys and -tribulations of the army man, and especially the man in the ranks, and -more especially the man in the ranks of the Infantry, as these latter -formed the actual front-line or combat troops that bore the brunt in -this greatest of all wars. - -Absolute continuity or sequence would seem superfluous, but it will be -observed that I have endeavored to maintain it to a certain extent, -i.e., by gradually leading from a number of military verses, without any -strict inter-relation, to the day of being wounded, then on to several -poems concerning the military hospital, and finally bringing the Trench -Ballads to a close with those having to do with the returning home of -the soldier. - -My previous book, "Army Ballads and Other Verses," is the result of my -experiences when serving as a private in Companies "L" and "G," 23rd -Infantry and Troop "I," 5th Cavalry (Regulars), during the Philippine -Insurrection of 1899-1902, and if "Army Ballads and Other Verses" is -taken in conjunction with this volume, it is my hope together they may -prove a fairly comprehensive anthology of the American soldier of recent -times. - -E. C. G. -Philadelphia, -November 1st, 1919. - - - - - -CONTENTS - - - - - - - -PART I--TRENCH BALLADS - - - -_Trenches_ -_Barb-Wire Posts_ -_Feet_ -_Your Gas-Mask_ -_Slum and Beef Stew_ -_Shell-Fire_ -_Mr. Fly_ -_The Salvation Army with the A. E. F._ -_Shell-Holes_ -_Food_ -_Over the Top_ -_The Battle Mother_ -_Song of the Volunteers of 1917_ -_O. D._ -_Artillery Registering_ -_Reciprocity_ -_Trucks_ -_Mademoiselle_ -_The First Division_ -_Little Gold Chevrons on My Cuffs_ -_A Trip-Wire_ -_The Favorite Song_ -_Captain Blankburg_ -_Little War Mothers_ -_Interrupted Chow_ -_S. O. S._ -_The Gas-Proof Mule_ -_Infantry of the World War_ -_The Flowers of France_ -_A First-Class Private_ -_Birds of Battle_ -_Only for You_ -_Cooties_ -_Old Fusee_ -_The Colors of Blighty_ -_When Nurse Comes in_ -_Charlie Chaplin in Blighty_ -_Two Worlds_ -_Embarkation Home_ -_The Statue of Liberty_ - - - - -PART II--PRE-WAR POEMS - - - -_To France--1917_ -_The Pacifist_ -_Battle Hymn of '17_ - - - - -PART III--OTHER VERSES - - - -_My Sapphire_ -_The Twins_ -_On Sending My Book to an English Friend_ -_Immortal Keats_ -_To a Little Girl_ -_God_ -_The Golden Day_ - _Notes_ - - - - -MY COMRADES IN THE RANKS. - - - -_You chose no easy Service, - No safe job, friends of mine, -But the mud of the shell-torn, trenches - And the foremost battle-line. -No camouflage patriotism-- - Though you had from a wealth to choose -But the wicked work of No Man's Land, - Filling a man's-size shoes._ - -_You didn't say you wouldn't play - If you got no shoulder bars-- -You even placed your Country - Above a general's stars: -For shocking, very shocking, - You didn't give a damn -About your "social status," - When you fought for Uncle Sam._ - -_Friends of mine, friends of mine, - I've shared your toil and tears-- -Your dangers and your little woes, - When days were turned to years. -I may not make them understand - The things that you have done, -But God bless you and God keep you-- - Every blessed mother's son._ - - - - - -PART I. TRENCH BALLADS. - - - - - - - -TRENCHES. - - - -Trenches dripping, wet and cold-- - Trenches hot and dry-- -Long, drab, endless trenches - Stretching far and nigh. - -Zigzag, fretted, running sere - From the cold North Sea, -'Cross the muddy Flanders plain - And vales of Picardy. - -Through the fields of new, green wheat - Filled with poppies red, -While abandoned plow-shares show - Whence the peasants fled. - -Past the great cathedral towns, - Where each gorgeous spire -Torn and tottering, slowly wilts - 'Neath the Vandals' ire. - -Hiding in the shadows - Of the hills of French Lorraine, -And bending south through rugged heights - To the land of sun again. - -Trenches, endless trenches, - Shod with high desire-- -All that man holds more than life, - And touched with patriot fire. - -Trenches, endless trenches, - Where tightening draws the cord -'Round the throat of brutal Kultur, - And its red and dripping sword. - -Trenches, endless trenches, - Bleached and choked with rain, -Could ye speak what tales ye'd tell - Of honor, death and pain. - -Could ye speak, what tales ye'd tell - Of shame and golden worth, -To the glory and damnation - Of the spawn of all the Earth. - - - - -BARB-WIRE POSTS. - - - -Five o 'clock; the shadows fall - In mist and gloom and cloud; -And No Man's Land is a sullen waste, - Wrapped in a sodden shroud; -And the click of Big Mac's moving foot - Is a dangerous noise and loud. - -Ten o'clock; the wind moans low-- - Each tree is a phantom gray: -And the wired posts are silent ghosts - That move with a drunken sway; -(But never a gleam in No Man's Land - Till the dawn of another day). - -Twelve o 'clock; the heavens yawn - Like the mouth of a chasm deep; -And see--that isn't the fence out there-- - It's a Boche--and he stoops to creep-- -I'll take a shot--oh hell, a post-- - (Oh God, for a wink o' sleep). - -Two o 'clock; the cold wet fog - Bears down in dripping banks: -Ah, here they come--the dirty hounds-- - In swinging, serried ranks! -Why don't the automatics start? . . . - Or do my eyes play pranks? - -It doesn't seem a column now, - But just two sneaking there: -And one is climbing over, - While the other of the pair -Is clipping at the wires - With exasperating care. - -(I'm sober as a gray-beard judge - I'm calm as the morning dew-- -I'm wide awake and I'll stake - My eyes with the best of you; -But I can't explain just how or why - Posts do the things they do.) - -Three o'clock; they're on the move-- - Well, let the beggars come. . . . -A crash -- a hush -- a spiral shriek-- - And a noise like a big bass drum-- -(I hope that Hun shot hasn't found - Our kitchen and the slum). - -. . . . . . . . . . - -Five o'clock; the first faint streak - Of a leaden dawn lifts gray; -And the barb-wire posts are sightless ghosts - That swagger, click and sway, -And seem to grin, in their blood-stained sin, - In a most unpleasant way. - - - - -FEET. - - - -Some say this war was fought and won - With gleaming bayonets, -That lift and laugh with Death's own chaff - And leave no fond regrets: -Some, by the long lean foul-lipped guns - Where the first barrages meet, -But I, by the poor old weary limping - Tired broken feet. - -Some say this war was fought and won - By the crawling, reeking gas; -Some, by the flitting birdmen, - That dip and pause and pass: -Some, by the splitting hand-grenades-- - But I, I hear the beat -Of the poor old faithful worn limping - Tired broken feet. - -Some say the war was fought and won - By This or That or Those-- -But I, by heel and sunken arch - And blistered, bleeding toes. -Drag on, drag on, oh weary miles, - Through mire, slush and sleet, -To the glory of the rhythm - Of the poor old broken feet. - - - - -YOUR GAS-MASK. - - - -When over your shoulders your "full-field" you fling, -And you curse the whole load for a horrible thing, -What is it you reach for, as outward you swing? - Your gas-mask. - -If you head for a bath by the small river's flow-- -Though only a distance of fifty or so-- -What is it you carefully grab ere you go? - Your gas-mask. - -When in full marching-order, where mules _might_ suffice, -And you count your equipment, each having its price, -What is it you feel for and count over twice? - Your gas-mask. - -In morning and afternoon, evening and night-- -In first or support lines, in sleep or in fight, -What is it you cherish and cling to so tight? - Your gas-mask. - -What is it you never leave thoughtless behind? -What is it you clutch for with fingers that bind -As you sniff that first odor that comes on the wind? - Your gas-mask. - - - - -SLUM AND BEEF STEW. - - - -It's a lot of dirty water - And some little dabs of spuds, -And dubious hunks of gristly meat - And divers other duds. - -Served up to us in trenches, - Our hunger made it good, -But elsewhere--when we got it-- - "We ate it, if we could. - -And now about the time Josephus - Tells his gobs to call -Port and Starboard, left and right, - We're ordered, one and all, - -To most respectfully address - Our slum as "beef stew"--Gosh, -Methinks the Brains of the Army - Has dished-up awful bosh. - -For slum is slum, and your Tummy-tum - Has called it so for aye; -As 'twas when Thotmes III marched north - To check the Hittites' sway. - -As 'twas when Cyrus' doughboys swept - Through the Cilician Gates-- -And as 'twill ever be so long - As a weary mess-line waits. - -So long as Nations fight and eat-- - Though all don't feed as well-- -For the Colonel is Sitting on the World-- - While we are S. O. L. - -Perhaps, kind friend, our logic may - Strike you as on the bum-- -But as we're Pershing's slum-hounds, - We'll call the damn thing "slum". - - - - -SHELL-FIRE. - - - -_The Hun he taught us Gas and things-- - But the high explosive shell -Was born of the Devil's mirth - And the reddest forge in Hell._ - -Now one hits the village church, - And the ancient, wavering wall -And the little pointed tower swing - And stagger and sway and fall. - -Now one hits a red-slag roof, - And eighty feet on high -Towers a monstrous, salmon cloud - Against an azure sky. - -Now one hits in a field of wheat, - Fresh planted, fair and green, -And a mighty, thundering crater bursts - Where abandoned plows careen. - -Now one nears with spiral shriek - And strikes in the long white road, -And the Lord ha' mercy on the Red Cross truck, - And its helpless, weary load. - -Now one comes where you crouching wait - In the trench's far-flung line, -And you know there is never shelter against - The voice of that deadly whine. - -Now one pierces the dugout's roof, - And when the foul smokes pass, -What once was there a dozen men - Is a crimson, clotted mass. - -In the pale moonlight or the black of night-- - When the sunset fires flare-- -In the noontime's calm, without alarm, - The Great Arch Fiend is there, -With his frightful cry as he rushes nigh - On his errand of despair. - - - - -MR. FLY. - - - -There's a nice stiff breeze ablowing, - Mr. Fly; -That keeps from out my trench. -The decomposing stench -Of a soldier, Boche or French, - Mr. Fly. - -So please run off and play, - Mr. Fly. -So please run off and play -Like a good fly, right away, -For I want to sleep today, - Mr. Fly. - -I'm dozing like a bull-finch, - Mr. Fly, -When you hop me, unaware, -And I wake and swat and swear, -And you return with thoughtful care, - Mr. Fly. - -Can't you see I'm _very_ tired, - Mr. Fly? -That the G. I. Cans don't bust, -And I've nibbled on a crust, -And deserve a snooze, I trust, - Mr. Fly. - -Do you think it's square and decent, - Mr. Fly, -When the Cooties cease to bite, -(And there is no sleep at night) -That you give me no respite, - Mr. Fly? - -An hour's calm is with us, - Mr. Fly; -And the endless battle strain, -And the shelling and the rain, -Ought to make it very plain, - Mr. Fly-- - -That I need a little nap, - Mr. Fly. -That I do need mighty well -Just to sun and rest a spell, -And to sleep here where I fell, - Mr. Fly. - -So have a heart, oh have a heart! - Mr. Fly. -If you're looking for a fight -And you _must_ come 'round and bite, -Make your visit in the night, - Mr. Fly. - - - - -THE SALVATION ARMY WITH THE A. E. F. - - - -You kept no roped-off rows of chairs - Or clubs "For Officers Only," -But you toiled for John Doe when he was - Cold, tired, wet and lonely. - -You didn't squander millions - On soldiers warming benches, -But you worked like blazes for the ones - That frequented the trenches. - -You didn't stick to cast-iron rules - Of business most punctilious, -And you never treated Private Doe - With manner supercilious. - -You had no boundless backing-- - But just inside your doors -It seemed like, "Feel to home, Bill-- - Sit down, the place is yours." - -Some things we fain remember-- - Some things we fain forget-- -But you, oh kindly people, - Live in our memory yet. - - - - -SHELL-HOLES. - - - -They're ugly, jagged, cone-shaped holes - That litter up the ground, -That ruin all the landscape - For miles and miles around. - -That pock-mark fertile fields of green-- - That rip the hard French roads, -And catch the lumbering trucks at night - Agroan beneath their loads. - -And some of them are little uns - The shrill one-pounders plow-- -About a meter--edge to edge-- - But large enough, I trow. - -And some of them nigh twice as broad, - And rather more straight down, -The "77" Boches' gift, - Of dubious renown. - -And some of them a dozen feet - From rim to ragged rim, -And deep enough to hide a horse-- - A crater, gaunt and grim. - -And some of them are yellow-black, - Where clings the reek of gas, -(But here we do not pause to gaze, - Nor linger as we pass). - -And some of them are water-fouled-- - Or dried and parched and dun; -And some of them are newly turned-- - Fresh blotches 'neath the sun. - -But all spell red destruction, - Blind rage and blinding hate, -To them who charge the shell-swept zone - Or in the trenches wait. - -Should we say "all," or modify - Our statement? Any fool -Knows that exceptions always rise - To prove an iron-clad rule. - -And so in this case we can name - _Some_ shell-holes we have met, -The thought of whose engulfing sides - Clings in our memory yet. - -They were the holes we rolled into-- - When iron or bullet struck-- -Cursing the cursed Prussian, - And blessing our blesséd luck. - -Oh lovely, beauteous shell-hole, - Wherein we helpless lay, -A wondrous couch of velvet - Ye seemed to us that day. - -Our blood it stained your cushions - A deep and richer red, -As shrieking messengers of death - Sped harmless overhead. - -Swept whining in their blood-lust, - Hell's music, bleak and grim, -Splitting in rage the edges - Of your all-protecting rim. - -Oh shell-holes, murderous shell-holes, - In vales of grass and wheat-- -On hillside and in forest, - In road and village street-- - -Your toll of suffering and death - Is flashed to East and West-- -But tell they of the wounded - Ye've sheltered in your breast? - - - - -FOOD. - - - -We've eaten at the Plaza, at Sherry's and the Ritz-- -The Bellevue and the Willard and the Ponce de Leon - too. -We've sampled all the cooking of the Savoy and - Meurice, -Through a palate-tickling riot that Lucullus never - knew. - -From tables where the Northern Fires greet the - coming night-- -To Raffles out in Singapore and the Palace in Bombay; -From Shepheard's (which means Cairo) to that little - hostelry -Way down in Trinchinopoly where purring punkahs - sway. - -We've traveled north, we've traveled south by all - routes known to man-- -We've traveled east, we 've traveled west by some they - scarcely came: -From canvasback and terrapin to Russian caviar, -From venison to bird-nest soup and curried things - and game. - -We've put them all beneath our belt with consummate - address: -We've risen from the laden board and smacked our - jowl in glee. -With organs sound and healthy we have murdered - each menu -And left the wreck of good things with a gourmet's - ecstasy. - -But do you wish to know the feasts that permeated - deep-- -That stirred the very bottom of my stomach to the - core? -Quisine that brought such wondrous bliss, but satiated - not, That saturating satisfied, but still left room for more? - -The place--a little half deserted town in northern - France: -The time--a time of carnage, of wanton strife and - hate: -And I and my battalion on reserve a week or two -Till they call us to the Front again to force the hands - of Fate. - -Just from the Commissary, the Salvation or the Y, -I've got a bar of chocolate, some butter and some cake; -A canteen full of milk, and eggs, from the old - farmhouse near by, -And with this _tout ensemble_ you can see I'm sitting - jake. - -I've entered now a peasant's house--an ancient, - kindly dame-- -Who's seen me several times before, and knows just - what I wish: -So the frying-pan is gotten out--the pewter fork and - knife-- A big bowl and the skillet and a large, substantial - dish. - -And I'm breaking up the bar of chocolate in a mighty - bowl -(The while the eggs are frying, "Sur le plat, oui, s'il - vous plait"), -And pouring from my canteen's gurgling mouth a - draught of milk, -To expedite proceedings in a purely tactful way. - -And now the spluttering eggs are done, the chocolate's - hot and rich; -I have my feet beneath the board, the pewter weapons - near: -A hunger from a front-line trench--the stomach of a - goat-- -And a battle-line that's very far, though still the guns - ring clear. - -And thus, too full for utterance, I gently draw the - veil-- -So leave me, kindly reader, in my joy-- -And maybe you will understand why other dinners - pale, -And in comparison with this, appear to clog and cloy. - - - - -OVER THE TOP. - - - -We've soldiered many, many moons - In this old plugging war, -And all the ills and all the thrills, - We've had 'em o'er and o'er. - -Shell-fire, G. I. Cans and Gas-- - Night work in No Man's Land-- -And everything that calls for nerve, - Endurance, guts and sand. - -We've argued which we liked the _worst_-- - Machine-guns, gas or shell. -We've ruminated carefully-- - And done it rather well. - -And after all our resumé - And cogitating bull, -We've reached a clear decision, - Most amplified and full:-- - -The greatest time in all the life - Of any living man-- -The mightiest moment of the Game-- - The proudest, high élan; - -The thing we came three thousand miles - Across the seas to do-- -"The Day," the splendid hour - That waits for me and you, - -Arrives--We spring into the wastes - Of land, ripped, roweled and barred-- -The battle-lust in brain and eye-- - The weary jaw set hard; - -The rifle gripped in hands of steel, - Where, flashing in the sun, -Sweep on our blazing bayonets, - The terror of the Hun. - - - - -THE BATTLE MOTHER. - - - -Over the sodden trenches-- - Over the skirmish line-- -High o'er the hole-torn fields and roads - Cometh a face to mine. - -Under the burning gas attack, - And the stench of the bursting shell, -We hope we may live for her dear sake-- - She who would wish us well. - -(She who has ever cherished us-- - But when the hour came -Choked back the tears of the faithful years, - As we left to play the game.) - -Between the blazing horizons - That hammer the long night through, -Lapping their tongues of hatred-- - Fearless she comes to you. - -And over the roar of battle - Where the shrill-voiced shrapnel sings, -Shine forth the loving eyes we hold - Above all earthly things. - -_A World run mad with slaughter-- - A charnel-house of blood-- -But the face of the Battle Mother - Above the crimson flood._ - - - - -SONG OF THE VOLUNTEERS OF 1917. - - - -_The drafted men fought hard and well, - The whole big army did, -But we prefer the spirit - Of the Bayard and the Cid._ - -The drafted men fought hard and well, - But when Jack sailed for France, -They didn't have to drag us in - By the back of our neck and the seat of our pants. - -The drafted men fought hard and well, - But when it first began, -From coast to coast, from Lakes to Gulf, - We rose, a single man. - -The drafted men fought hard and well, - But when the days were black, -Glad we sprang to the call to front - The snarling, charging pack. - -The red-fanged, savage hounds of hate, - In a victor's drunken might: -The unleashed, howling gray hordes - Sweeping plain and height. - -The drafted men fought hard and well, - But when the great floes pressed, -Came we to break the ice and clear - A channel for the rest. - -The drafted men fought hard and well, - But now the thing is o'er, -We 're glad we came the way we came - When the Nation rose to war. - -The drafted men fought hard and well, - But now the thing is done, -We're glad we came the time we came - In the heyday of the Hun. - -Shades of Patrick Henry-- - Of Washington and Hale, -God grant we've kept the trust--God grant - The Old Guard shall not fail. - -_The drafted men fought hard and well, - The whole vast army did, -But we prefer the spirit - Of the Bayard and the Cid._ - - - - -O. D. - - - -_O. D., it_ ought _to mean Oh Damn,_ - _When in the pay of Uncle Sam:_ -_But when you hear the soldier blab_ - _"O. D.," it just means Olive Drab._ - -The leggings, breeches and the boots - Of Uncle Samuel's war galoots-- -The overcoats and jackets too, - Confess the selfsame mournful hue. - -It may be excellent camouflage - To try to fool a young barrage; -It may not show the bally dirt - So much upon your knees and shirt. - -It may be serviceable and such - When you are beating-up the "Dutch;" -But from a calm esthetic point, - The color's sadly out-of-joint. - -A little mud on red or blue - May seem quite prominent to you; -But put the same upon O. D., - And the whole blame thing looks mud to me. - -But then, it matches trenches well, - And things that make you say, Oh Hell -For instance, hikes, inspections, drills, - And busted arms with C. C. pills. - -It makes you heave a sigh or two - For the good old days of brass and blue; -But if it's fit to beat the "Dutch" - I guess it doesn't matter much. - - - - -ARTILLERY REGISTERING. - - - -They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench-- - My boy. -They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench, -Which means tonight they'll surely drench -These works with shells that burst and stench - (And cloy). - -They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench-- - My lad. -It breaks with shrill and tinny sound, -And quite promiscuously around -It showers metal on the ground - (It's bad). - -They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench-- - Recruit. -So do not stand and stupid stare -Till some comes down and parts your hair, -But hunt your dugout and beware - (To boot). - -They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench-- - Young man. -Which means tonight the gas shells' thud -Will muffled fall like chunks of mud; -And th' blinding, crashing Prince of Blood-- - The G. I. Can. - -They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench-- - My child. -And ere the dawn is turning gray-- -You mark the very words I say-- -There's going to be hell to pay - (High piled). - - - - -RECIPROCITY. - - - -We haven't been in this large strife - So very long to date, -But we have learned our answer to - The Prussian "Hymn of Hate." -And we are feeding him for pap, - As plain as A. B. C, -A pretty little ditty known - As "Reciprocity." - -The Hun he planned for War, red War, - By ocean, air and land; -And he is getting oodles of - The same, to date, in hand. -He suddenly sprang poison gas - Upon a valiant foe, -And now he's getting gas and gas, - And more gas, as you know. - -He found new tricks and wrinkles for - This gory battle game, -And now we stoop, no more his dupe, - And beat him at the same. -He drowned our women in the sea-- - He ravished where he won-- -But these were little things we couldn't - Copy from the Hun. - -His crimson heel lie bade us feel, - His lust and pride and scorn-- -Till, echoing in our weary breasts - A righteous hate was born. . . . . -Beware the patient man in wrath, - The olden proverb saith; -And, Spawn of a Kultur nursed in blood-- - In blood meet ye your death. - - - - -TRUCKS. - - - -_Lunging-wild, careening trucks_ - _Plunging through the rain,_ -_Sweeping down the rainbow road_ - _To the sunlit plain._ -_And echoing back with ponderous roar_ - _Their cargo's wild refrain._ - -We're bowling over the roads of France-- - White roads. -We're twenty gray tracks in a long, long line, -Twisting and rumbling and feeling fine. -And some day we'll roll to the Watch on the Rhine-- - Joyous loads. - -But now we're returning to billets for rest-- - Earned repose. -We've been in the trenches for many a week. -In rain and in wind and in dugouts that leak. -Till we all are so hoarse we scarcely can speak. - Goodness knows. - -Our clothes they are worn and tattered and torn, - And mud? -My heavens! we have it in our leggings and hair-- -On breeches and jackets and all that we wear-- -But we are so happy, we really don't care-- - 'Tisn't blood. - -It isn't those long, endless vigils at night, - On the rack. -It isn't the fighting and hunger and heat-- -It isn't the slush and rheumatics and sleet-- -It isn't the once-a-day cold meal we eat - In the black. - -It isn't the shelling from sun unto sun-- - Curséd shells: -It isn't the camouflage that you must use -If you have to lie down in your trench for a snooze, -It isn't the stenches the Hun corpses choose - For their smells. - -But it's clean clothes and gasoline-bath and a shave-- - What a treat! -It's sleeping on elegant straw, and undressed, -With never a Toto disturbing your rest; -It's regaining your "pep" and a wonderful zest - When you eat. - -We're all of us willing, we're all of us game - For the fray: -But now we have finished a good hitch, and more, -In conducting this large and salubrious war, -Do you think we should feel very tearful or sore - On this day? - -So some we are singing and some shoot the bull, - And some sleep. -(Don't wake the poor devil, just leave him alone, -Though he's jammed on your foot till it's dead as a - stone), -And we rumble through towns on the way to our own, - Packed like sheep. - -And your hand is afingering bills large and small-- - Francs galore. -And you've visions of things that your poor stomach begs, -Including nuts, candy and chocolate and eggs; -And you find you've forgotten the crick in your legs-- - Cramped and sore. - -We're a light-hearted, dirty-faced, rollicking crew-- - Grimy pawed: -Though a few cogitate on the living and dead, -And some look behindward, and some look ahead, -And some think of bunkies that shrapnel has sped - To their God. - -_Lunging-wild, careening trucks_ - _Plunging through the rain,_ -_Sweeping down the rainbow road_ - _To the sunlit plain,_ -_And echoing back with ponderous roar_ - _Their cargo's wild refrain._ - - - - -MADEMOISELLE. - - - -Oh Mademoiselle behind the Lines, - When we're weary and covered with dirt, -And you make a promenade with us, - Or perhaps you mend our shirt. - -You know our lives from your brothers, - Or your sweethearts who can't come back, -But only your laughter greets us - When we shed that awful "pack." - -And some of you sell eggs to us - In a town whence most have fled: -And some of your names have "de" and your blood - Runs blue as well as red. - -Oh Mademoiselle you sure are "chic" - From your head to the tip o' your toes, -And if you like us, you just plain _like_ us, - And you don't give a damn who knows. - -And Mademoiselle those eyes, Oo la la! - So sparkling, dark and rare, -With the love of all the ages lying - Deep and dormant there. - -(Please, please don't think us fickle-- - That we didn't play the game-- -But you seemed so human and made to be loved, - And we murmured, "Je vous aime.") - -We hear you're going back with us - To the tune of ten thousand wives, -And we wish you ten thousand blessings, - And ten thousand happy lives. - -So here's a health to you, Mademoiselle, - Who helped us see it through, -And the load that your laughter lightened - Is the debt that we owe to you. - - - - -THE FIRST DIVISION. - - - -American Expeditionary Forces, 1917-1919. - -When the clarion call of Country - Bade strong men rise and go, -Came they the first of the willing first, - In the pride that leal men know. - -When the Eagle soared and its broad wings spread - 'Bove the shores of an angered land, -Sailed they the first of the Viking first - Where the treacherous waters spanned. - -When the Eagle's Brood awoke to the shriek - Of the great shells day and night, -First of the flock bled they beneath - The star-flare's blinding light. - -When the lunging, torn front lines locked - And the strife raged man and man, -Swept they the first of the fighting first-- - And the van of the battle van. - -. . . . . . . . . . - -From the training days of Gondrecourt-- - Demange--cold, wet and gray-- -To the trenches north of Lunéville-- - To Bouconville--Xivray-- - -To the crater-pitted, wasted tracts - Of war-torn Picardy, -And the ghastly rubble hilltop - Where Cantigny used to be: - -To the splendid days of Soissons-- - The crisis of the strife: -To where giant pincers severed - St. Mihiel as a knife: - -To the glorious, stubborn struggle - Up the rugged Argonne slopes, -Till the gates of Sedan crumbled - With the Vandals' crumbling hopes. - -. . . . . . . . . . - -Sweeping in conquering columns - To the banks of the vaunted Rhine-- -Ever the first of the fighting first, - And the Lords of the Battle Line. - - - - -LITTLE GOLD CHEVRONS ON MY CUFFS. - - - -Little gold chevrons on my cuffs, - What do you mean to me? -"We to the left mean hike and drill, -Trenches and mud and heat and chill-- -And I to the right for the blood ye spill - Where the Marne runs to the sea." - -Little gold chevrons on my cuffs, - What is the tale ye tell? -"We to the left, of the long months spent -Where the somber seasons slowly blent-- -And I to the right, of the ragged rent - That took so long to get well." - -Little gold chevrons on my cuffs, - What do you say to me? -"That ye would not trade us, master mine, -For ribbon or cross or rank, in fine, -That you are ours and we are thine - Through all the years to be." - - - - -A TRIP-WIRE. - - - -If you're sneaking around on a night patrol, -Trying to miss each cock-eyed hole, -And you choke back a curse from the depths of your soul-- - It's a trip-wire. - -If you think there isn't a thing around -Except the desolate, shell-torn ground, -And you stumble and roll like a spool unwound-- - It's a trip-wire. - -If you know a murmur would give the alarm, -And you've smothered a cough in the crotch of your arm, -And then you go falling all over the farm-- - It's a trip-wire. - -If it's cold and it's rainy and everything's mud, -And you're groping your way through a nice little flood, -And you stand on your head with an elegant thud-- - It's a trip-wire. - -When silence is golden (for "news" is the quest), -And you're returning and stepping your best, -And your rifle goes part way and you go the rest-- - It's a trip-wire. - - - - -THE FAVORITE SONG. - - - -("There's a long, long Trail.") - -They sing a song that the pines of Maine - Hear in the winter's blast-- -They sing a song that the riders hum, - Where the cattle plains spread vast; -But there is one they love the most-- - And they keep it for the last. - -They sing the lays of Puget Sound - Aglimmering in the sun-- -Of the cotton fields of Alabam', - Where the Gulf-bound rivers run, -But one they sing with a wistful look, - When all the rest are done. - -They chant of the land of Dixie, - And their "Little Gray Home in the West"-- -Of how they'll "can the Kaiser"-- - And they roar with bellowing zest; -But one they sing as it were a prayer-- - The song they love the best. - -From Xivray to Cantigny-- - From Soissons to the Meuse -- -From the Argonne wilds to the white-clad Vosges - Agleam in the dawn's first hues-- -They sing a sacred song, for it - Is red with battle-dews. - -For it is sanctified by space-- - And the cruel wheel of Time; -And sacrifice has hallowed it, - And mellowed every rhyme, -Until it wells from weary throats - A thing men call sublime. - -In frozen trench and billet-- - In mire, muck and rain-- -Where the roar of unleashed batteries - Hurl forth their fires again; -At rest, or back in Blighty, - Torn with shell and pain-- - -There's a song they dub the fairest-- - There's a lilt they love the best-- -"There's a long, long trail awinding" - To the haven of their quest, -Where the tip of the rainbow reaches - A land in the golden west. - - - - -CAPTAIN BLANKBURG. - - - -"When Greek meets Greek." - - - -I - - -They knew he was a German-- - They thought he was a spy-- -_Toujours_ they "covered" him and said, - "We'll catch him by-and-by." - -They tried to find, by word or act, - In front-line trench or rear, -Some circumstance that would betray - His treacherous dealings clear. - -They scanned his face when hostile flares - Set No Man's Land alight-- -They watched him when the Hun barrage - Tore craters left and right. - -They noted every move he made, - With ever wakeful eye, -Reiterating o'er and o'er, - "We'll catch him by-and-by." - - - -II - - -At last the opportunity - Loomed large in fact and view, -And every near-sleuth in the bunch - Saw that his hunch was true. - -Because, upon an inky night, - When mist hung o'er the nation, -The captain took a picked patrol - To gather information. - -And as they crept on hands and knees, - In Land No Man may own, -Their stomachs struck the dew-wet grass - With never sound or moan. - -(The reason being that the Boche, - On selfsame errand set, -Were creeping hitherward unseen-- - And likewise mad and wet.) - -'Twas then the detail turned their heads - To where their captain lay, -And every rifle in that squad - Was pointed straight his way. - -And he? He running true to form, - Two inches raised his chin, -And spouted German volubly - In accents clear and thin. - -Click, click, click, click, click, down the line - Each safety-catch turned o'er, -But the captain did not hesitate, - And merely talked the more. - -In conversation friendly - He rambled gently on -Unto the Boches' leader, - Till it was nearly dawn. - -The while his men they "covered" him-- - The while their hearts grew black-- -And you could feel the trigger fingers - Squeezing up the slack. - -Just what the purport of his last - Remark was, no one knew, -But in a burst of confidence - A Boche head rose in view. . . . - -Across the four-fold stillness - That covers No Man's Land, -An automatic pistol shot - Rang clear and piercing and - -The next day German papers told - How Captain Skunk von Skee -Was killed by a Yankee captain, - And Yankee treachery. - - - - -LITTLE WAR MOTHERS. - - - -When you look at his picture and your eyes - Are dimmed and mighty wet, -And it seems as though your trembling hands - Could reach and touch him yet: -When you faintly call and he answers not - Your supplicating prayer, -Remember his last thought was You: - I know--for I was there. - -When the day is done and the hearth-fire glows, - And you slowly knit and knit; -And your furtive eyes from the embers rise - To where he used to sit: -And you feel he never can slip up - And kiss you unaware, -Remember his last word was You: - I know--for I was there. - -When your dear brave heart is breaking-- - And life is 'reft of joy; -And only the spark of memory-- - The face of a boy--your boy: -May the good God hover over you, - And touch your silvered hair, -And tell you what I've tried to tell: - He knows -- for He was there. - - - - -INTERRUPTED CHOW. - - - -I've had some mighty narrow calls-- - Some close shaves not a few, -But one of the fairly closest - I'll now narrate to you. - -'Twas midnight--hush! the plot grows thick-- - Crowd close, and hold your breath-- -'Twas midnight--and the slum-cart came - Upon its round of death. - -(It isn't really that the slum - Was quite as bad as that, -But the playful Boche so often dropped - A shell where it was at.) - -'Twas midnight--and our appetites - Were whetted large and keen, -As trench feed, once a day, must leave - An interval between. - -And so we sought the buzzy-cart, - "Mess-kits alert" and found -It standing in a quiet spot - Where never came a sound-- - -Excepting that of bursting shells - Across the field a way, -(But as I said before, the Boche - Is very given to play). - -All innocent and hungry-like - And empty to the core, -I came upon that buzzy-cart, - With never thought of war. - -More calm, beneficent and mild-- - More free from things of strife-- -I promise you I never was - In all my mortal life. - -The air was fair, the stars were out, - The mocking-bird sang clear; -The poppies bloomed, the sergeants fumed, - And food was very near. - -When suddenly the ground gave way-- - It seemed a mile or more-- -And the whole adjacent landscape leapt - To heaven with a soar. - -Earth, rocks and stars commingling - In a swirling mass arose, -Where I, recumbent in the hole, - Assumed an easy pose. - -And when I found that I was there-- - Both arms, both legs, and head, -I picked me up and cogitated - _Why_ I wasn't dead. - -For information looked I 'round - North, south and east and west-- -But the good platoon had up and cleared - Some several feet with zest. - -(And the strangest phase of the whole strange thing, - For me to understand, -Was that when I got up I had - My mess-kit in my hand.) - -And there I stood and gazed me down - Upon the hole and mud, -And found I was alive because - That blamed shell was a "dud." - -A dud's a shell that fails to burst-- - Whose crater's microscopic-- -And as I'd just sunk down in it, - My Fates were philanthropic-- - -For had the bally thing gone off-- - Instead of sitting jake-- -You'd ne'er have found my scattered parts - With a hair-comb or a rake. - -You'd ne'er have found your humble slave-- - For, sprinkled east and west, -My sad remains would scarce have bulged - The pocket of your vest. - -A finger in Benares-- - A toe in Timbuctoo-- -And on the Mountains of the Moon - A portion of my shoe. - -An eye on Kinchinjanga-- - To greet the snow-peaked morn; -An ear at Cape Lopatka, - And my dog-tag at the Horn. - - - - -S. O. S. - - - -(Service of Supply.) - -There's an S. O. S. behind the Lines - That feeds us shells and hardtack, -And guns and clothes and beans and things, - And heals our wounds and pain. -There's an S. O. S. across the seas - That knits for us and writes to us, -Buys bonds and whoops it up for us, - And cheers us on again. - -There's an S. O. S. behind the Lines, - We could not do without it: -Just go and ask the Army, - If you'd know the reasons why. -There's an S. O. S. across the seas, - And if you ever doubt it, -Just go and ask a soldier, - Who will promptly black your eye. - - - - -THE GAS-PROOF MULE. - - - -I've heard the cat hath nine lives, - The hen and worm I've seen, -But a genuine, long eared, gas-proof mule - Is the toughest thing they wean. - -Each night he hauled the water-cart-- - (And to know what Water means, -You have to see a trench-bound bunch - When filling their canteens). - -However, no digression now, - But straightway to my story, -And I'll paint that black mule white - And crowned with a crown of glory. - -We crowded 'round the faucets-- - On each, six waited turns-- -The thirstiest crew I ever knew-- - With the ingrowing thirst that burns. - -And all was peace and quiet-- - The pause before the storm-- -When the distant, whirling, demon shriek - Of the G. I. Cans took form. - -And when the third one got our range, - With haste, but dignity, -We sought the dugouts 'cross the road, - Calm, though precipitously. - -But the fastest thing I've seen on legs, - And I've seen the best, at that. -Was the water-mule when he took the road - At a hundred in nothing flat. - -Whether he headed for gay Paree-- - For Brussels or Berlin-- -We didn't stop to figure out-- - But he sure was headed in. - -We only thought of our thirst next day, - And a song we'd heard afar, -Of the farm recruit who bade good-bye - To his "mule with the old hee-haw." - -Well, all that night they threw us gas - And high explosive shells, -And four long hours we wore our masks, - To ward the murderous smells. - -And when the first white streak of dawn - Told "Stand-to" was begun, -We stumbled back and took our posts - To wait our friend the Hun. - -The Hun did not appear, but gas - Thick clothed both hill and dale -In clouds and sheets of dead-man's drab, - And down in the deepest vale-- - -With perfect poise and nonchalance, - Sang-froid and savoir-faire, -Browsed that fool mule, capaciously, - With never thought or care. - - - - -INFANTRY OF THE WORLD WAR. - - - -They shall tell of the Arms resplendent-- - The men who dared the air; -They shall tell of the work of the mighty guns - Where the far horizons flare: -They shall tell the tale of the Centaurs-- - Each rear and flanking drive-- -And the song of the Service of Supply, - That kept them all alive. - -And when they seem to have finished, - And ye think that the chant is done, -They will tell the tale of the tramping men - In the sweat of a torrid sun. -They will tell the tale of the marching men - Who plod the live-long night, -To reach the crest at the break o' dawn - When the Nations go to fight. - -They will tell the tale of the tired men - Beneath a straining load; -Mile by mile with lunging step - And glassy stare on the road. -They will tell the tale of the front-line trench, - And the one cold meal at night, -And the terrible song of the bursting shells, - And the flares' uncanny light. - -They will tell the tale of the moving ranks - When the zero hour lifts, -And the khaki lines leap forward - In the face of the steel-shod drifts. -Where the great shots split asunder, - And clutter hill and plain -With the weary bodies of the men - Who may not march again. - -And so for a wide World's wonder, - And the ages yet to be, -They will sing in deathless numbers - The song of the Infantry. -They will slowly close the volume-- - The story fully told, And a tear shall fall on the cover, - Whose letters are flaming gold. - - - - -THE FLOWERS OF FRANCE. - - - -The flowers of France are blooming - Upon this bright June day, -The flowers of France are fragrant - And smiling swing and sway, -(For what is death and carnage - A dozen miles away?) - -The flowers of France are blooming - Among the wheat and grass-- -The scarlet headed poppies - That nod you as you pass, -And the blue cornflowers' brilliant hue, - And the daisies in a mass. - -The flowers of France are blooming - And beckoning in the breeze, -And laughing in the sunshine, - And bending to the bees, -(But the wooden crosses in a row-- - Oh what know they of these?) - -The flowers of France are blooming - In every rainbow shade, -And as a rainbow is an arch - By tears of heaven made, -I wonder if the flowers of France - Are the tears that France has paid? - - - - -A FIRST-CLASS PRIVATE. - - - -_I haven't a worry or a care--_ - _My mind's "at ease" and furled:_ -_For I'm a First-class Private,_ - _And I'm Sitting on the World._ - -The Loot, before the whole platoon, - He up and called me forth -To drill my squad, "Squads east" and "west," - Not mentioning south and north. -To drill my squad, "Squads 'round-about," - For all the World to see-- -But I'm a First-class Private and - That's good enough for me. - -The Loot he is a dandy man - And all that kind of thing, -And I know he wants to see how I - A corporal's job could swing: -But back here in a "rest town" - It just means dirty work, -And _I_ must take the bawling-out - For what the squad may shirk. - -'Tis I they'd turn and eye with scorn - If some gun wasn't clean; -'Tis I would play the wet nurse - For a rookie _none_ could wean: -And if a pair of frozen shoes - Makes Smith miss reveille, -It isn't Smith or "Sunny France," - It's me, yes dammit, me. - -So forth I take the Squad to drill, - With ne'er a fault or slip; -But a smile is in my glance, forsooth, - And a jest is on my lip, -Akidding with each friend o'mine-- - And the Loot was never fain -To try to make a non-com - Of Private Me again. - -_Oh nothing, oh no nothing_ - _May your resolution shake,_ -_When you're a First-class Private,_ - _And you know you're Sitting Jake._ - - - - -BIRDS OF BATTLE. - - - -Keats sings in peerless stanzas - To the lovely Nightingale-- -And Shelley tells of the Skylark - Above the summer gale-- -But I to the Birds of Battle - Needs lift my numbers frail. - -For far by the out-flung wires, - Where the shell-torn tree stumps stand, -And over the barren, hole-strewn tracks - Of the wastes of No Man's Land, -In the morning light and the black of night, - The Birds of Battle stand. - -No shrieking shots may quell them-- - Nor gloom nor storm nor rain, -As out of the crash or stillness - A wondrous, shrill refrain -Cuts clear and glad and lithesome - Above the death-strewn plain. - -The weary heavens welcome, - And echo back the song, -And weary soldiers linger, - And pause to listen long -To the one glad cry in a war-torn sky, - That holds so much of wrong. - - - - -ONLY FOR YOU. - - - -The torturous hike up the hill road, - Plowing through snow and mud; -The poor weary arches breaking-- - The socks that are wet with our blood: -The terrible, binding, burning strap - That's cutting our shoulder through-- -And our parched lips stammer, "My Country, - For you and only for you." - -The slight and the slur and the nagging - We must take from a rowdy or cad; -And we simply salute and say "Yes sir," - And pretend that we never feel mad: -Though our heart is a forest of hatred-- - And justice seems hidden from view-- -And we mutter, "For you, oh my Country-- - For you, yea, and only for you." - -When all evening long the guns' reddened glares - Turn night into hellish day, -Till in Berserker rage their silver bursts cut - The drab of the dawn's growing gray: -When over the top we are starting again-- - Full knowing the thing that we do-- -We murmur, "For you, oh my Country-- - For you, aye and only for you." - - - - -COOTIES. - - - -Some people call 'em Totos-- - Some people call 'em Lice; -Some people call 'em several things - That really aren't nice; -But the Soldier calls 'em "Cooties," - So "Cooties" must suffice. - -We've met the dear Mosquito-- - We've met the festive Fly-- -It seems to me we've seen the Flea - That jumpeth far and high; -Yea, we have known various bugs-- - Though not the reason why. - -But when you're in the trenches - And cannot take a bath, -As one canteen of water - Is all one day one hath, -You raise the comely Cooties-- - Who raise, in turn, your wrath. - -You can't escape the Cooties - By day nor yet by night. -No G. I. Can alarms them, - Nor other sound of fight. -Not even Gas affects them-- - Which doesn't seem just right. - -You may not eat, you may not sleep, - You may not bat an eye: -You may not duck a six-inch shell - That's singing gaily by, -But that a Cootie, like the Poor, - _Is with you--very nigh._ - -They bite you singly and in squads, - They have a whole parade; -They form a skirmish line and sweep - Across each hill and glade; -But seek their dugouts when you think - Your grip is firmly laid. - -It does no good to curse 'em-- - They cannot hear or talk. -It does no good to chase 'em-- - To still-hunt or to stalk. -The only thing is hand-grenades, - At which, 'tis said, they balk. - -Oh Cooties, little Cooties, - You have no sense of shame; -You are not fair, you are not square, - You do not play the game-- -But east and west and south and north - Is spread afar your fame. - - - - -OLD FUSEE. - - - -(Rifle number 366915., Springfield model 1903.) - -I really hate to leave you, - Old Fusee-- -Where the land is scarred and peeled, -And the broken battlefield -Bears its red and deadly yield-- - Wearily. - -I really hate to leave you, - Old Fusee-- -To the wind and dew and rain -Of a shorn and shotted plain, -Till stranger hands again - Discover thee. - -I really hate to leave you, - Old Fusee-- -To the clinging, clogging dust-- -To the all-destroying crust -Of a clawing, gnawing rust-- - Unmercifully. - -I really hate to leave you, - Old Fusee-- -But they've plugged me good and hard, -So I quit you, trusty pard, -As I creep back rather marred, - To old Blightee. - -I really hate to leave you, - Old Fusee-- -With your bore a brilliant sheen, -And your metals black and clean, -Where your brown striped stock and lean - Gleams tigerishly. - -I really hate to leave you, - Old Fusee-- -For the wanton weather's hate, -And careless hands to desecrate -Barrel, bolt and butt and plate, - Unthinkingly. - -I really hate to leave you, - Old Fusee-- -And I bear a double pain -As I pause to turn again -Where I left you on the plain, - Unwillingly. - - - - -THE COLORS OF BLIGHTY. - - - -_The shades of red an' white an' blue_ -_Mean rather more to me an' you,_ -_Than just parades an' bands an' such_ -_And hollerin' loud an' talking much._ - -The wounds are dark and red-- - All jagged-red in Blighty: -And untamed hearts are red -Where, stretching bed on bed, -Lies lax each weary head, - In Blighty. - -The walls are blank and white-- - All fresh and white in Blighty: -And cheeks are gaunt and white, -Where through the endless night -They fight the second fight, - In Blighty. - -Outside the skies are blue-- - Soft, cloud-flecked blue o'er Blighty -But clear, relentless blue -Of purpose steeled anew -Lies there revealed to you - In every eye in Blighty. - -_The shades of red an' white an' blue_ -_Mean rather more to me an' you,_ -_Than just parades an' bands an' such_ -_And hollerin' loud an' talking much._ - - - - -WHEN NURSE COMES IN. - - - -(Convalescent stage.) - -The stories sure are rich and rare, -They'd strike you blind, they'd turn your hair, -They're dark as coal down in the bin-- - Till Nurse comes in. - -The language is an awful hue, -Astreak with crimson shades and blue; -'Twould scorch a mammoth's leather skin-- - Till Nurse comes in. - -Words run the gamut of the trench-- -They beat old Mustard Gas for stench, -They rise with oscillating din-- - Till Nurse comes in. - -The cussin's quaint and loud and strong, -Imported stuff, that don't belong -In dictionaries fat or thin-- - Till Nurse comes in. - -And then you'd be surprised to hear -The change of pace, the shift o' gear, -The dainty tales that just begin-- - When Nurse comes in. - - - - -CHARLIE CHAPLIN IN BLIGHTY. - - - -The mess-hall windows blanketed - To bar the western light-- -The tables cleaned and cleared away, -And bench by bench in close array -Five hundred convalescents sway - To catch the caption bright. - -And there are men with helpless legs, - And torn chest and back; -And men with arms in sling and splint, -And one poor eye that bears no glint, -And muscles limp or turned to flint-- - And souls upon the rack. - -They came from Chateau Thierry-- - From Fere-en-Tardenois-- -From Soissons, Oulchy-le-Chateau, -From Rheims and Fismes, where blow by blow, -'Cross Marne and Oureq and Vesle aflow - They hammered them afar. - -And now upon the screen is thrown - An old familiar form: -'Tis Charlie of the strong appeal, -At skating-rink or riot meal, -And every mirth-producing reel - Awakes the farthest dorm. - -The aching head, the splintered arm, - The weary, dragging feet; -The wound that took a month to drain-- -The everlasting, gnawing pain-- -Are all forgot and gone again - When Charlie strikes the street. - -Your esoteric shrug and sneer - And call him crude and quaint; -But we who've seen him "over here"-- -Who've heard the laugh that brings the tear-- -Who've heard the bellowing roar and cheer-- - _We_ call him Charles the Saint. - - - - -TWO WORLDS. - - - -Here in the Jardin des Plantes of Nantes - I sit in the nickering shade, -Watching the scampering children play-- - And the way of a man and a maid-- -And the noble women of France in the black - Of a Nation unafraid. - -The lace of the shadows across the paths - Where the warm sun niters through, -And the open vista between the trees, - With the swan pond half in view, -And the flowers and sloping lawns and the pines - 'Neath an arch of Brittany's blue. - -The air is soft as a day in June, - The blossoms manifold -Throw streaks and patches of rainbow hue - Across the green and gold, -And earth and sky in witchery - Entwine you in their hold. - -And it comes to me, Can it really be - But two full moons have fled, -Since I limped from a scarred and riven field - Where lay the newly dead, -Bathed in the light of a splendid fight, - And blotched with their blood's own red. - -A world of crimson slaughter - Where the grim locked legions sway-- -And the mad machine guns whistle - Their endless roundelay-- -And the sinister sound of the thundering pound - Of the great guns night and day. - -Night and day, night and day, - With scarce a pause between, -As out of the empty dark a voice - From the farthest hills unseen, -Comes whirling, swirling, shrieking down - Where the helpless front lines lean. - -. . . . . . . . . . - -The air is soft as a morn in June-- - The filmy shadows sway; -And only the joyous music - Of the prattle of children at play, -And the gentle rustle of whispering leaves - That tell of the closing day. - - - - -EMBARKATION HOME. - - - -If you're a homebound soldier - Who's done his little best, -And you are going 'board the boat - At St. Nazaire or Brest, -Bordeaux or any other port, - Steam-up and headed west: - -If you are full o' the joy o' life - And "pep" and all that stuff; -And the ozone permeates your soul - And makes you gay and bluff, -Don't turn and yell, "Who won the War?-- - The M Ps,"--Can that guff. - -For the M Ps are a sacred caste - That boss the city street -A hundred miles behind the Lines - Where dangers never greet, -Nor roaming shells come swirling by, - Nor surging first waves meet. - -So if the long, tense session - Of soul-engulfing war, -And "Prussian" discipline and rule, - And heart-enslaving law -Say, "Open wide the throttle - Of lung and throat and jaw"-- - -Repress that natural impulse, - For you're not human--yet: -Sedately up the gangplank walk, - Eyes front and lips tight set, -Or you'll come back and spend six weeks - In a mud-dump, nice and wet. - -The wind is blowing 'cross the bow, - The first smoke lags alee-- -The sun that's broken through the clouds - Is dancing on the sea, -So, homebound soldier, watch your step, - And take advice from me. - - - - -THE STATUE OF LIBERTY. - - - -Sing of the Venus de Milo, - The lady without any arms; -Sing of the Venus of this and of that, - And tell of their marvelous charms: -Rave of your wonderful statues, - In divers lands here o'er the sea, -In bushels and reams, but the Girl of our Dreams - Is our godmother, Miss Liberty. - -Its contour may not be perfection-- - Its technique we really don't know-- -If you ever asked, "Who was the artist?" - It would come as a _terrible_ blow. -But to us it is home, friends and Country, - To us it means all that is best, -'Tis the first that lifts out of the waters - Of "Our little Gray Home in the West." - -'Tis the first on that endless horizon - Where the clouds meet the wind driven spume, -And the scavenger gulls wing to greet us - From out of the gathering gloom-- -'Tis the first that calls beckoning to us - Through the mist of the swaggering sea-- -"Oh lay down your guns my knight-errant sons, - And come back to the bosom of me." - - - - - -PART II. PRE-WAR POEMS. - - - - - - - -TO FRANCE--1917. - - - -The sea that kisses France's shore, - It beats on yours and mine. -Her love and faith and chivalry, - That sparkle as her wine, -With all our faith and all our love - Commingling combine. - -The colors of the flag of France - Are ours by hue and hue: -The blazing red of courage-- - The white of purpose true, -And constancy and loyalty - Awoven in the blue. - -The spirit and the soul of France, - That shatter fetters free, -They came to us in darkest days - To weld our destiny; -And so with sword in hand we come - To pay our debt to Thee. - -To pay our debt a hundredfold-- - Friend of our new-born years. -To march with you and fight with you, - Till rise the final cheers-- -And hand in hand, o'er a grave-strewn land, - We blend our mingled tears. - -Where blends our blood as once it did - In days of a long gone -When the Bourbon lilies leapt and gleamed - Among the Stars on high-- -And the white and crimson bands of dawn - Rose in the eastern sky. - -And the the white and crimson bands of dawn, - And the Stars that glow and glance, -Shall girdle them their armor on, - With buckler, sword, and lance, -And leap to the charge and sweep the field - With the Trois Couleurs of France, - -. . . . . . . . . . - -If right is might and Honor lives-- - Oh Sister? 'cross the seas-- -And Liberty and Justice still - Hold high commune with these; -A four-fold vengeans waits the Hun, - And his iniquities. - - - - -THE PACIFIST. - - - -Cowards and curs and traitors, - Fatuous dreaming fools-- -Binding us, stripped, for the madman - Nurtured of dastard schools, -Where right of might and who springs first - Are the only known rules. - -Well fed, well housed and sleek and smug, - Full pursed and full of pride-- -Your fields are green, your lanes are fair - Where peaceful homes abide, -And your children play by sunny streams - That laughing seaward glide. - -What Primal Power tells you eat - To the ends of your belly-greed-- -What holds your fields with harvests full, - And answers every need-- -And bids your bairns play laughingly - With never care or heed? - -The answer, Fool, is written large - In words of blazing light-- -They are rewards of dwelling in - A Land of kingly might, -That grants you surety and wealth - And guards you, day and night. - -And whence, Fool, came its splendid strength-- - And why, and how and when? -In a World of strife and reddened knife - Did it rise by tongue and pen? -No, Dolt, but by the strong right arms, - The arms of its fighting men. - -And Ye, Ye would sit with folded hands, - Agaze into Heaven's blue, -With sanctimonious murmurings - Of what the Lord will do; -While your neighbor and your neighbor's son - Go forth and fight for you. - -For you, you cur, and your belly-need-- - For your hearth and kith and kin: -For your harvest and your banking-house - Where you shovel the shekels in, -Till the labor has hardened your hands and heart, - And your soul is parchment skin. - -Religion cannot cover - A dog whose liver is white. -Your Christ, with righteous anger, - Smote hard to left and right -The usurers. And never said - He was too proud to fight. - -When we are another Belgium - And the land with blood is dyed, -And your homes are burned and your women raped, - And ye know that ye have lied-- -Mayhap ye will say with your final gasp - That ye are satisfied. - - - - -BATTLE HYMN OF 17. - - - -On the entry, in 1917, of the United States into the World War. - -Not with vain boasts and mouthings-- - Not with jesting light-- -But for Duty and Love of Country - Come we in armor dight. - -Not for our own advantage-- - Not for Adventure's lust-- -Not for the hope of honor-- - But a Cause that is high and just. - -Not for the praise of our fellow-man, - Or greed or gain or creed, -But for the sight of the suffering eyes - That call us in their need. - -(The withering, mad machine-guns - Shall drop us one by one, -Where the red, red streams of No Man's Land - Gleam 'neath a blood-red sun.) - -(The shriek of the spraying shrapnel-- - The roar and the blinding glare, -And the gaping crater's dripping fangs - Shall ope and find us there.) - -Not in the strong man's tyranny - Or the pride of worldly things, -But guarding clean traditions, - Unstained by the hands of kings. - -Not with sudden yearning, - But knowing the risks we dare, -We board the waiting galleons - For a Nation brave and fair. - -(For a Nation bearing the battle's brunt-- - The strength of the Vandals' blast-- -With an even keel and a steady wheel, - And her Colors nailed to the mast.) - -Not with hectic fire, - But weighing the thing we do, -We cross to the coasts of the fighting hosts-- - To the France our Fathers knew. - -Brothers in blood of old--and now-- - Together to hunt and slay, -Till we drive the Beast to his bone-strewn lair-- -An eye for an eye--a hair for a hair-- -And we leave him broken and bleeding there - Forever and a day. - -. . . . . . . . . . - -Not with vain boasts and mouthings-- - But in silent, grim parade-- -We come, Lord God of Battles, - To the last and great Crusade. - - - - - -PART III. OTHER VERSES. - - - - - - - -MY SAPPHIRE. - - - -I have a sapphire rich and fair - And soft as a velvet sky, -When only the stars are shining low -And the heavens hold a mystic glow -And a hushed world stands agaze to know - The wonderful Whence and Why. - -I have a sapphire that I turn - In the dark of somber days: -And the darting tongues of nickering blue -Flash deep and rare in wondrous hue, -Sharp as the lightning, pure as the dew, - And true as m'lady's gaze. - -I have a sapphire that I hold - Beneath the chandelier: -And the phosphor of its azure gleam -Sweeps clear as the depths of the mountain stream -Where the Sun-god hurls his molten beam - In the morn of the golden year. - -I have a sapphire I adore-- - Of varying whims and moods-- -Blue-black it lies with never a mark -Across the dim unfathomed dark, -Till there lifts the glow of a tiny spark-- - And again it sullen broods. - -I have a sapphire that I bend - 'Neath the light of burning rays: -And the flames spread forth a fairy fire, -Seething and writhing and leaping higher -Till they come to the land of my heart's desire, - In a glittering, blinding blaze. - -I have a sapphire that I hold. - When the goal seems far away: -When the lee shore churns in saffron spume. -And the fluctuant ocean's plume on plume -Bears down to a rock-ribbed hidden doom, - And the sky is ashen gray. - -I have a sapphire that I turn; - And the clouds break, and the wine -Of a glorious sun spreads east and west -To where the Islands of the Blest -Raise verdant shores at my behest, - And a golden world is mine. - -_Oh Sapphire from a distant vale_ - _Where the white Himalayas tower:_ -_Where the Kashmir lakes are royal blue,_ -_And passions strong and hearts are true,_ -_All these are met and blent in you,_ - _A princely heir and dower._ - - - - -THE TWINS. - - - -Out of the wonderful nowhere, - Into the lowly here; -Laughing and loving and lithesome, - And radiating cheer. - -Twin rose-buds o' Killarney hue-- - Fragrant and fresh and fair-- -And eyes of blue, wide-gazed and true, - And tawny yellow hair. - -And smiles as sweet as any meet - In pleasant paths above: -And golden laughter that echoes after, - To finger the chords of love. - -Two wee buds o' Killarney hue - That beckon and beguile-- -And 'neath your spell we're learning well - There is something still worth while. - -Though drab days break and drab thoughts wake - O'er fields of sleet and snow, -There's sunshine rare just _everywhere_-- - For you have taught us so. - - - - -ON SENDING MY BOOK TO AN ENGLISH FRIEND. - - - -"It's a long lane that knows no turnings"-- - And the seas are wide indeed, -But there are no barriers dividing - The Anglo-Saxon creed. -Fair fighting when the skies are lowering-- - Fair peace when skies are clear-- -And the faith of fair intentions, unfaltering, - And the heart that holds no fear. - -"It's a long lane that knows no turnings"-- - And Browning never said a thing more true, -So I know you'll know the spirit that impels me - To send this little messenger to you. - - - - -IMMORTAL KEATS. - - - -Matchless bard of all the ages-- - Lyric sounder of the lyre-- -Wake among your golden echoes-- - Rise amid your latent fire-- -Tell us, Master of the Muses-- - Sweetest singer ever sung-- -By what law of Earth or Heaven - Ye were called away so young? - -By what law of God or Mammon-- - By what creed of land or sea-- -Was a weary World forsaken - Of the mind that harbored thee? -Ere that wondrous mind's fruition - Scarce had grown to the tree. - -If the half-fledged sapling gave us - Melodies past human praise-- -If such virgin buddings crowded - Those few sad and glorious days; -If such flowers, barely opened, - Swept us in a wild amaze-- - -What, Oh Lord and Prince of Poesy, - Would your soul have given to men-- -What the marvelous meed and measure - Of your pulsing, choral pen-- -Had your numbered days been lengthened - To a three score years and ten? - -As through mystic lands ye led us - O'er the paths your feet had gone: -Pipes of Pan--and fain we followed-- - Glad and willing slave and pawn, -Till we reached the fields Elysian-- - Till we faced the gorgeous dawn: - -Till the lanes seemed filled with roses-- - Roses lipped with opal dew: -Till the vales seemed filled with incense-- - Incense slowly drifting through: -Till the seas seemed filled with grottoes-- - Grottoes amber, gold and blue: - -Till the songs of birds rang clearer - And the sunshine shone more rare, -And the moon above the meadows - Gathered love, and left it there; -And the swaying stars rose whiter-- - And the World was very fair: - -As your thoughts' eternal fountains, - Shot with iridescent gleams, -Floating down through glades enchanted, - On the breast of faery streams, -To a pearl-strewn bay of beryl-- - Reached the haven of our dreams. - - - - -TO A LITTLE GIRL. - - - -Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, - Said Heaven was a hundred, million, billion miles away. -So I couldn't contradict them--it wouldn't do at all-- - But they had never heard your laughter innocent and gay. - -Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, - They said the Milky Way was fair beyond all human ken: -But they had never seen your face, upturned, aquestioning-- - A dainty bit of rapture in a leaden world o' men. - -Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, - They told of gorgeous comets and their manes so bright and rare: -But comet glow could never show the living threads of light - That dance and gleam in th' rippling stream and fragrance of - your hair. - -Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, - They said the azure ether stretched in miles of lapis hue; -But they had never known eyes that gaze into your soul - In longing little wonder wells of limpid gray and blue. - -Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, - They said no melody could match the singing of the spheres: -But they had never heard your voice ring joyously at play-- - The music of a weary world of roil and toil and tears. - -Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one. - They've told the tale of the double stars, and their faith the - eons through-- -But constant though they be, their hearts could never know the love, - The yearning burning tender love, dear child, we bear for you. - - - - -GOD. - - - - - -I - - -They would give hands to Thee, head to Thee, feet to Thee-- - They who are blind: -They would give form to Thee, fashion Thee manikin, - After their kind. - -They would give hate to Thee, spite to Thee, jealousy-- - Thou the adored: -Only have fear in Thee, only repel Thee, - Master and Lord. - -They would bring shame to Thee, even in worship-- - Each empty rite: -Bigotry, canting and sere superstition, - Knowing no light. - -Faiths esoteric, pedantic and recondite-- - Mystical creeds: -False and insipid and brutal and selfish-- - And wrought to their needs. - -They whom Ye nurtured from primal conceiving, - And ne'er a flaw-- -They know Thee not, or in knowing, reject Thee, - Thee and Thy law. - -Saying, "We see Thee not, come to us, speak to us-- - Tangible stand. -Come in the purple, crowned, robed and resplendent-- - Sceptre in hand. - -"Even as kings have done, through all the ages, - Brave to behold-- -Fanfare of trumpets, be jeweled and refulgent - And girdled with gold: - -"Or in a chariot welded of star-dust-- - Glittering white-- -Pause at the cloud-line 'mid crashing of thunder - And blazing of light. - -"Rolling Thy voice till the Pleiades tremble-- - The spheres are amoan; -The Earth for a footstool--the outermost planets - Grouped for a throne. - -"Thus would we see Thee, acclaim Thee; and worship Thee, - Thou in Thy might-- -Concrete, conglomerate, human and splendid-- - Aflame in our sight." - - - -II - - -They who have drunk of the River of Knowledge - Only a quaff, -Pity them, Father that know not Thy meaning, - Children who laugh. - -Atoms that reck not the wherefore of atoms-- - Dust of the dust: -Groping in darkness, recusant and doubting-- - And bearing no trust. - -They would make mock of Thee, saying the life-spark, - Came not of Thee: -Function by function in wonderful unison-- - Each mystery. - -Sunshine and rain-fall and food to their needing, - Air, sea and land: -Seed-time and fruit-time and harvest and gleaning-- - Made to their hand. - -They would gainsay Thee by calling it Nature, - Calling it Chance: -And by their impotent wonder, Thy glory, - Only enhance. - -But when in mercy the last word is spoken-- - When the gates yawn; -Father of Nations--take Thou Thy children - Into the dawn. - -Crowning Thy marvelous works with a crowning-- - Ultimate--vast-- -Showing compassion and loving they knew not, - E'en to the last. - - - - -THE GOLDEN DAY. - - - -Have ye a day that bears the glare - Of the flaming morning sun? -Have ye a day the mind may search, - Weighing what ye have done? - -Have ye a day ye are satisfied - Will stand the acid test-- -From the first gray strand of the eastern skies - To the last red glow in the west? - -Have ye a day ye grappled with - And hurled in mortal throes, -When, 'bove the white horizon, - The Great Occasion rose? - -Mayhap the World bore witness - To the things of your Golden Day: -Mayhap it is locked from the gaze of men, - And ye've thrown the key away. - - - - - -NOTES - - - - - - - -NOTES. - - - -*Trenches* - -French Lorraine - Lorraine is now French, but, of course, it was not so during the - war. - -Kultur - The so-called German culture. - -*Barb-Wire Posts* - -Herein is described a common optical illusion or phenomenon seen by all -soldiers, old and young, experienced or green, during the long night -vigils looking through the wires, across No Man's Land. - -Boche - A German. - -Hun - A German. The people of Germany take great exception to being called - "Huns," protesting that they are not of this stock. After the defeat - of Attila and his Huns at Chalons, in 451 A. D., by the combined - efforts of the Celts themselves, the indigenous people of France, - the Romans, who were still masters of the country, the Franks, who - had already become a power in the land, having advanced as far south - as the Somme, and the Visigoths, who, early in the same century, had - established their great empire in southern France and Spain; after - this great battle the Huns retreated back into Germany, where many - of their descendants must still be, but of course the majority of - the German people are not, from an ethnological standpoint, Huns. - The reason for this appelation being applied to them is simply that - when a people have the attributes of a Hun, they must expect to be - so designated. A man may very properly be called a pig without any - misapprehension that he actually travels upon four hoofs. However, - it is possible, though not probable, that the leopard may change his - spots; and time, and contact with civilization, and a democratic - form of government may eventually eradicate the present very marked - idiosyncrasies of the German race. - -*Your Gas-Mask* - -"full-field" - The full-field pack, consisting of blankets, shelter-half, clothing, - extra shoes, etc., weighing over 50 pounds, on the back of an - infantryman, and guaranteed to increase 50 pounds in weight every - five kilometers after the first ten kilometer mark has been passed. - -full marching-order - The full-field pack as described above, plus rifle, cartridge-belt - with a hundred rounds of ammunition, two bandoliers, each containing - a hundred extra rounds, gas-mask, mess outfit and the steel helmet, - commonly known as your tin hat. - -*Slum and Beef Stew* - -Josephus - Josephus Daniels, Secretary of the Navy during the war. - -gobs - Nickname for sailors. - -Brains of the Army - Any order apparently wrong or ridiculous is generally provocative of - the soldiers saying, "Brains of the Army." - -Thotmes III, (or Thutmose or Thutmosis) - Of the Eighteenth Dynasty, who began his reign about 1500 B. C., - Egypt's greatest conqueror, and under whom the Egyptian Empire - attained its largest extent. Rameses II (the Great) of the following - Dynasty, is, however, the more generally known. - -Cyrus' doughboys swept etc. - Refers to the passage of Cyrus and his great army through the - Cilician Gates, on his way from his conquest of Lydia in Asia Minor, - to his descent of the Euphrates Valley to Babylon, whose easy - capitulation in 539 B. C. finally brought to an end the old glory of - the Babylonian Empire, which, after a long period under Assyrian - rule, had blossomed forth in a glorious recrudescence, in the latter - part of the Seventh Century B. C, under Nebopolassar and his famous - son Nebuchadnezzar--and then known as the Neo-Babylonian Empire, or, - more commonly, as Chaldea. The reader will doubtless remember that - it was through the same passage in the Taurus Mountains that - Ashurbanapal, le Grand Monarque of Assyria when at the apogee of her - power in the Seventh Century B. C, and also Alexander the Great, - sweeping to his eastern conquests, both passed. - - Doughboys is the popular present-day nickname for infantrymen. - -Sitting on the World - When the situation is thoroughly agreeable and everything is - "breaking" just right. - -S.O.L. - Well known soldier expression which, elegantly translated, means - being totally and entirely out of luck, but not to be adopted for - "polite conversation." Remember this admonition. - -*Mr. Fly* - -G.I. Cans - Large high-explosive shells of about 6 inches diameter or over, and - made of thick galvanized iron or what appeared to be such. - -Cooties - Are pleasant little neighbors in the trenches, due to the inadequacy - of bathing facilities. - -*The Salvation Army With the A. E. F.* - -John Doe. Private Doe - The designation of an American soldier, where no specific name is - used, as, for example, to fill in the place for a name on a sample - blank or application of any kind. Not used as a popular nickname for - the American soldier as Tommy Atkins is used for the British - soldier. - -A. E. F. - American Expeditionary Forces: the title of the American troops in - France during the war. - -*Shell-Holes* - -The "77" - The typical artillery piece of the German army, and having a caliber - of approximately three inches, roughly corresponding with the famous - French "75," though not as effective, but quite effective enough. - -*Food* - -Salvation - Salvation Army. - -*Song of the Volunteers of 1917* - -Bayard - The great chivalric hero and warrior of France during the reign of - Francis I. The Chevalier Bayard was killed in northern Italy in - 1524, during the advance of Bourbon at the head of the Imperial - forces. - -the Cid - The chief heroic figure of Spain, who lived in the Eleventh Century, - fighting ably against the Moorish power until exiled by his king in - the year 1075, after which he became a free lance, sometimes - engaging in battle the Infidel and sometimes the Christian. He died - in 1099, and, while a very able commander, it is generally - understood that most of his great deeds are a gorgeous fabric of - tradition rather than actual history. - -Artillery Registering - The bursting of shrapnel over your trenches, by the enemy, in order - to get the range for their shell-fire which is to follow. - -*Trucks* - -Toto - A nickname for a Cootie, qv. - -Including nuts, candy etc. - The American soldier has a notoriously "sweet-tooth," and big husky - men positively gormandize on things saccharine, when obtainable. - -Mademoiselle - The army man pronounces the word "mademoiselle" at full length, - using the most punctilious care to enunciate each and every one of - the four syllables. Whether this is due to the word being foreign to - many of them, or whether it is due to their all-saving subtle sense - of American humor, so that it seems rather delicious to call the - little French ladies by so long and ponderous a title, I really do - not know, but I strongly suspect that it is the latter. - -The First Division - Caesar had his Tenth Legion, Napoleon had his Old Guard, and the - American Army during the World War had its First Division. It might - therefore not seem entirely malapropos to quote the words of the - great French general Mangin, who was the corps commander of the - First Division of the American Army, the famous First Moroccans of - the French Army and the Second Division of the American Army, at the - Second Battle of the Marne, that began on July 18th, 1918, and was - the turning point of the whole war. In this great door movement the - First Division was given practically the post of honor at the - _hinge_ itself, i.e., directly at Soissons, only one division, the - 153rd French Infantry Division, being on the inside of the First - Division, and as it was in this engagement that a gentleman of - Teutonic origin, operating a machine-gun from our extreme left - flank, and apparently very much irritated about something, put a - bullet in my side and out my back, it is only natural that the - message of Gen. Mangin was of interest to me, and saved, and here - quoted verbatim:-- - - Lauds Americans in Battle. - General Mangin Thanks Pershing's Men for Brilliant - Part in Drive. - (By Associated Press.) - - With the French. Army in France, Aug. 7.--General Mangin, who was in - direct command of the Allied forces in the drive against the German - right flank south of Soissons, has issued the following order of the - day thanking the American troops for their brilliant participation - in the battle which caused the German retreat between the Marne and - the Aisne: - - "Officers, non-commissioned officers and soldiers of the Third - American Army Corps: - - "Shoulder to shoulder with your French comrades, you threw - yourselves into the counter-offensive begun on July 18th. You ran to - it like going to a feast. Your magnificent dash upset and surprised - the enemy and your indomitable tenacity stopped counter-attacks by - his fresh divisions. You have shown yourselves to be worthy sons of - your great country and have gained the admiration of your brothers - in arms. - - "Ninety-one cannon, 7,200 prisoners, immense booty and ten - kilometers (six and a quarter miles) of reconquered territory are - your share of the trophies of this victory. Besides this, you have - acquired a feeling of your superiority over the barbarian enemy - against whom the children of liberty are fighting. To attack him is - to vanquish him. - - "American comrades, I am grateful to you for the blood you - generously spilled on the soil of my country. I am proud of having - commanded you during such splendid days, and to have fought with you - for the deliverance of the world." - - "The Stars and Stripes," the weekly paper of the A. E. F. in France, - in giving a tabulated form of the record of the various divisions, - and their insignia, which was worn on the shoulder of the left - sleeve, said the following of the First Division:-- - - Division Insignia: Crimson figure "1" on khaki background, chosen - because the numeral "1" represents the number of the division and - many of its subsidiary organizations. Also, as proudly claimed, - because it was the "First Division in France; first in sector; first - to fire a shot at the Germans; first to attack; first to conduct a - raid; first to be raided; first to capture prisoners; first to - inflict casualties; first to suffer casualties; first to be cited - singly in General Orders; first in the number of Division, Corps and - Army Commanders and General Staff Officers produced from its - personnel." - - To this might have been added that the First Division, which was a - Regular Army division, and originally comprised about twenty or - thirty per cent "old soldiers," and the rest of us "war volunteers," - but proud of being "Regulars," the First Division, which consisted - of the 16th, 18th, 26th and 28th Infantry Regiments, the 5th, 6th - and 7th Field Artillery Regiments, the 1st Engineer Regiment, and a - complement of Cavalry, etc., was the division that General Pershing, - the commander-in-chief, picked out to fill the most vital positions - on important occasions, as, for example, when, from the whole army, - he chose the First Division to go into the front line just west of - Montdidier, at the Battle of Picardy, to help hold the very apex of - the huge German bulge that had swept southwestward from St. Quentin - to Montdidier, in the great series of Hun drives which started on - March 21st. 1918. Again, it was the First Division that Pershing - placed at Soissons at virtually the hinge of the great door movement - in the turning point of the whole war, the Second Battle of the - Marne, as heretofore described; and it was the First Division to - which Pershing again gave the post of honor when the St. Mihiel - salient was closed, as it was this Division that was placed on the - inside position of the great southern jaw, just east of Xivray and - dangerous Mont Sec. - - Casualties and kilometers make very interesting reading, but when a - Commander-in-chief consistently and persistently picks out one - certain division for the most difficult and all-important positions, - there is not much room for argumentation. - - Mr. Page, in his article in _The World's Work_, for May. 1919. in - describing the Second Battle of the Marne, tells how the First - Division went over the top with the 153rd French Infantry Division - on its left, and the famous First Moroccan Division and the Second - Division of the American Army on its right, and how, in this - gruelling engagement, the First Division outlasted both the Second - Division and the First Moroccans, and really also the 153rd French - Division on its left, as this latter was obliged to get - reinforcements, Mr. Page recapitulating the situation with the - following paragraph:-- - - "When the division (the First Division) finally came out of the line - it had lost more than 7,200 men, mostly in the infantry. The full - complement of infantry in a division is 12.000. Five days' constant - and successful attack after a long march: an advance of more than - six and a quarter miles (ten kilometers); losses of at least 50 per - cent, of the infantry engaged: keeping pace with the famous Moroccan - Division and staving longer in the fight--all this had demonstrated - that the 1st Division could stand in any company." In mentioning - these facts there is no desire on my part to pretend that this - outfit single-handed won the war, because, if I said that, I would - be talking sheer nonsense. The consensus of opinion both at home and - abroad, seems to be that the whole American Army lived entirely up - to expectations, so that any man who was in a combat division, has - good reason to feel proud of his own division, irrespective of what - one that may have been. With this little word of explanation I feel - at liberty to quote the following which appeared in the Paris - edition of The New York Herald:-- - - Prowess of Yanks Compels Praise Even from Hun, - (Special telegram to the Herald.) - From Burr Price. - With the American Armies. - _Friday_ - - From a captured officer of the German army comes a remarkable - tribute to the fighting prowess of the First Division of the - American troops, whose work will go down in history as among the - most remarkable of the present war. - - He declared the Germans did not believe the Americans could produce, - within five years, a division such as they had found the First - Division to be. The German, when taken, had seen four years of - severe fighting. This is what he had to say yesterday:-- - - "I received orders to hold the ground at all costs. The American - barrage advanced toward my position and the work of your artillery - was marvelous. The barrage was so dense that it was impossible for - us to move out of our dugouts. - - "Following the barrage closely were the troops of the First - Division. I saw them forge ahead and knew that all was lost. All - night I remained in my dugout, hoping vainly that something would - happen that would permit me to rejoin my army. This morning your - troops found me and here I am, after four years of fighting, a - prisoner. - - "Yesterday, I knew that the First Division was opposite us, and I - knew we would have to put up the hardest fight of the war. The First - Division is wonderful and the German army knows it. - - "We did not believe that within five years the Americans could - develop a division such as this First Division. The work of its - infantry and artillery is worthy of the best armies of the world." - -Little Gold Chevrons on My Cuffs - The gold chevrons, called "stripes," worn on the cuffs of "overseas" - soldiers, during the World War, each one on the left cuff standing - for six months' "overseas" service, and each chevron on the right - cuff standing for a wound. One wound chevron meant a wound or wounds - severe enough to take a man back to the hospital, irrespective of - whether he had one or a dozen bullets or pieces of shell in him on - that occasion. - -Captain Blankburg - The patrol herein described was what was called a "reconnoitering - patrol," sent out solely for the purpose of gathering information, - keeping itself unknown to the enemy, and not fighting unless - actually attacked. "Combat patrols" were sent out for this latter - purpose. - -*Interrupted Chow* - -Buzzy-cart - The carts that were sent from the company kitchens, which were - usually from six to ten kilometers back of the first line trenches, - up to within about two to four kilometers of the front line, where - they would stop at designated points until chow details from the - second line came back to them, to carry the cans of slum, coffee, - and the bread or hardtack, up to the men in the first and second - line. All this, of course, was done under cover of darkness, but as - the Germans had the range of all the roads, etc., and knew at about - what time the food had to be gone after, it meant that almost every - night at least one detail was shot to pieces. - -Dog-tag - Small, round metal disc, suspended from the neck by a cord, and with - the soldier's name, rank and organization stamped thereon, and - forming an identification tag. - -*The Gas-Proof Mule* - -"Stand-to" - In the first and second line trenches everyone was obliged to remain - awake all night, but at dawn each man had to take his exact post, - and be prepared to repel any enemy attack that might come over, as - that was a favorite hour for doing so. This was called "stand-to." - -*Infantry of the World War* - -Zero hour - The exact time at which you start forward to attack. - -*A First-Class Private* - -Loot - Abbreviation for lieutenant. - -"Sunny France" - Soldier sarcasm, because he scarcely ever saw any sun while in - France, and, of course, the majority had never visited the Riviera, - nor known Paris in summer raiment, during normal peace times. - -Sitting Jake - Means the same thing as "Sitting on the World," i.e., everything - salubrious and "breaking" just right. - -_Note_ - -While realizing that my personal affairs are of no possible interest to -the reader, it would seem, however, almost obligatory for me to do -myself justice, and explain that I was quite willing to shoulder -responsibility, which this poem might make it appear I was not. Hence -the following little anecdote:--During a rest period back from the -trenches, which was the only occasion when you had time to bother your -head about smaller things, several men had applied for officers' -commissions, so I got some civilian letters of recommendation, and put -in an application to be permitted to go up for examination for a -commission. This application was forwarded "approved" by my company -commander, together with personal recommendations from my three previous -company commanders. As this officer is the one who sees you daily, his -recommendation is, from a military standpoint, of more value than that -of a major-general. But in spite of my application being forwarded with -the approval of all four of the company commanders that I had had up to -that time, it was disapproved higher up by someone who very seldom could -ever have even seen me. But having had no thought or intention of -getting a commission, when I entered the Army, and having crossed over -to Europe as a civilian, at my own expense, in August, 1917, to enlist -in the American Army in France, which I did on September 1st, 1917, in -Paris, so as to absolutely insure getting into the trenches, and as at -the time of my application I had already accomplished my purpose, it may -readily be discerned that the return of my application did not perturb -the habitual equanimity of my soul, nor cause me to lose any of my -natural sleep or youthful charm. - -*Only for You* - -rowdy or cad - While very often some junior, or even senior, officer would fall - under this category, and even worse, the majority of them really - tried to give their men a square deal. If an officer were a - rough-neck, snob, or as the men in the ranks would usually express - it, a ribbon-counter clerk, it was only quite natural that he would - take cowardly advantage of his shoulder straps to make it as - miserable as possible for the men under him, but if an officer were - a gentleman in civilian life, the man in the ranks was sure to be - handled as a man and treated fairly, so long as he did his military - duty and conducted himself as a soldier. Of this latter type, I can - look back with pleasure on all my company commanders, remembering - especially men like Lt. Victor Parks, Jr., and Capt. Allen F. - Kingman, "officers and gentlemen" in the highest sense of the word. - Upon the one or two officers of the other type it is quite - unnecessary to dwell. When once free from contact with a skunk, one - simply bathes, changes one's clothes, and promptly allows the - odoriferous memory to be wafted away and disseminated in the ambient - atmosphere of oblivion. - -Silver bursts cut - Artillery flares at night show red, but in the early dawn they - appear against the dark hillsides like bursts of silver. - -*Old Fusee* - -Fusee - Soldier term for his rifle, the French word "fusil" meaning that - weapon. - -The Colors of Blighty - Because of its brevity, succinctness and expressiveness, I have used - the word Blighty to designate a military hospital, though it was - never in really popular use by the American soldier for this - purpose, and to the British soldier it simply meant going back to - England, but as so often Tommy Atkins went back to his Tight Little - Island because he was wounded, Blighty frequently meant "hospital." - -When Nurse Comes In - The phraseology and repertoire of the army man must not be taken too - seriously, as nine-tenths of the time it is simply a safety valve - for ebullient spirits or dread monotony, and with little or no real - harm back of it. - -Charlie Chaplin in Blighty - The famous "movie" comedian of the cinema. - -*Embarkation Home* - -M P - Military Police; soldiers acting in that capacity. - -*THE END* - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Trench Ballads and Other Verses, by -Erwin Clarkson Garrett - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRENCH BALLADS AND OTHER VERSES *** - -***** This file should be named 40379-8.txt or 40379-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/3/7/40379/ - -Produced by Michael McDermott, from scans obtained at the -Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Trench Ballads and Other Verses - -Author: Erwin Clarkson Garrett - -Release Date: July 31, 2012 [EBook #40379] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRENCH BALLADS AND OTHER VERSES *** - - - - -Produced by Michael McDermott, from scans obtained at the -Internet Archive - - - - - - - - - - -Trench Ballads and Other Verses - - - - - -[Portrait of Erwin Clarkson Garrett] - -Trench Ballads -and Other Verses - -By -Erwin Clarkson Garrett -Author of "Army Ballads and Other Verses" - -PHILADELPHIA -THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY -1919 - -Copyright, 1919, -by The John C. Winston Co. - -THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF -MY FATHER, -the late Captain George L. Garrett, of the Union -Army, during the Civil War -AND TO -MY MOTHER, -whose lifelong devotion, unselfishness, tenderness -and loyalty to me, as to all her family and -friends, make this dedication a pleasure -and a joy only commensurate -with my thought of her. - - - - - -PREFACE - - - - -I have divided this book into three distinct parts. Part I, Trench -Ballads, consists of forty American soldier poems of America's -participation in the World War, 1917-19, based entirely on actual facts -and incidents, and almost exclusively on my own personal experiences and -observations, when a private in Company G, 16th Infantry, First -Division, of the American Expeditionary Forces in France. Part II, -Pre-war Poems, consists of three sets of verses written just before the -active entry of America in the war, and appertaining to, but not an -integral part of, it, and therefore grouped separately. Part III, Other -Poems, contains those of a general and non-military character. - -It is highly desirable the "Notes" at the end of this volume should be -consulted, and that it be realized that with few exceptions, all these -Trench Ballads were written in France, many scribbled on odd pieces of -paper or on old envelopes in the trenches themselves, and consequently, -when present locality is intimated, it is always France, that is to say, -from the standpoint that I am speaking in and from the seat of -operations. For example, when I use the term "over here," it really -means what the people at home in America would call "over there." -Hyperbole or little characteristic anecdotes that really never occurred, -except in the brain of an author, I have absolutely shunned, and have -endeavored to adhere strictly to "the truth, the whole truth and nothing -but the truth," and to set forth the vicissitudes; the dangers, joys and -tribulations of the army man, and especially the man in the ranks, and -more especially the man in the ranks of the Infantry, as these latter -formed the actual front-line or combat troops that bore the brunt in -this greatest of all wars. - -Absolute continuity or sequence would seem superfluous, but it will be -observed that I have endeavored to maintain it to a certain extent, -i.e., by gradually leading from a number of military verses, without any -strict inter-relation, to the day of being wounded, then on to several -poems concerning the military hospital, and finally bringing the Trench -Ballads to a close with those having to do with the returning home of -the soldier. - -My previous book, "Army Ballads and Other Verses," is the result of my -experiences when serving as a private in Companies "L" and "G," 23rd -Infantry and Troop "I," 5th Cavalry (Regulars), during the Philippine -Insurrection of 1899-1902, and if "Army Ballads and Other Verses" is -taken in conjunction with this volume, it is my hope together they may -prove a fairly comprehensive anthology of the American soldier of recent -times. - -E. C. G. -Philadelphia, -November 1st, 1919. - - - - - -CONTENTS - - - - - - - -PART I--TRENCH BALLADS - - - -_Trenches_ -_Barb-Wire Posts_ -_Feet_ -_Your Gas-Mask_ -_Slum and Beef Stew_ -_Shell-Fire_ -_Mr. Fly_ -_The Salvation Army with the A. E. F._ -_Shell-Holes_ -_Food_ -_Over the Top_ -_The Battle Mother_ -_Song of the Volunteers of 1917_ -_O. D._ -_Artillery Registering_ -_Reciprocity_ -_Trucks_ -_Mademoiselle_ -_The First Division_ -_Little Gold Chevrons on My Cuffs_ -_A Trip-Wire_ -_The Favorite Song_ -_Captain Blankburg_ -_Little War Mothers_ -_Interrupted Chow_ -_S. O. S._ -_The Gas-Proof Mule_ -_Infantry of the World War_ -_The Flowers of France_ -_A First-Class Private_ -_Birds of Battle_ -_Only for You_ -_Cooties_ -_Old Fusee_ -_The Colors of Blighty_ -_When Nurse Comes in_ -_Charlie Chaplin in Blighty_ -_Two Worlds_ -_Embarkation Home_ -_The Statue of Liberty_ - - - - -PART II--PRE-WAR POEMS - - - -_To France--1917_ -_The Pacifist_ -_Battle Hymn of '17_ - - - - -PART III--OTHER VERSES - - - -_My Sapphire_ -_The Twins_ -_On Sending My Book to an English Friend_ -_Immortal Keats_ -_To a Little Girl_ -_God_ -_The Golden Day_ - _Notes_ - - - - -MY COMRADES IN THE RANKS. - - - -_You chose no easy Service, - No safe job, friends of mine, -But the mud of the shell-torn, trenches - And the foremost battle-line. -No camouflage patriotism-- - Though you had from a wealth to choose -But the wicked work of No Man's Land, - Filling a man's-size shoes._ - -_You didn't say you wouldn't play - If you got no shoulder bars-- -You even placed your Country - Above a general's stars: -For shocking, very shocking, - You didn't give a damn -About your "social status," - When you fought for Uncle Sam._ - -_Friends of mine, friends of mine, - I've shared your toil and tears-- -Your dangers and your little woes, - When days were turned to years. -I may not make them understand - The things that you have done, -But God bless you and God keep you-- - Every blessed mother's son._ - - - - - -PART I. TRENCH BALLADS. - - - - - - - -TRENCHES. - - - -Trenches dripping, wet and cold-- - Trenches hot and dry-- -Long, drab, endless trenches - Stretching far and nigh. - -Zigzag, fretted, running sere - From the cold North Sea, -'Cross the muddy Flanders plain - And vales of Picardy. - -Through the fields of new, green wheat - Filled with poppies red, -While abandoned plow-shares show - Whence the peasants fled. - -Past the great cathedral towns, - Where each gorgeous spire -Torn and tottering, slowly wilts - 'Neath the Vandals' ire. - -Hiding in the shadows - Of the hills of French Lorraine, -And bending south through rugged heights - To the land of sun again. - -Trenches, endless trenches, - Shod with high desire-- -All that man holds more than life, - And touched with patriot fire. - -Trenches, endless trenches, - Where tightening draws the cord -'Round the throat of brutal Kultur, - And its red and dripping sword. - -Trenches, endless trenches, - Bleached and choked with rain, -Could ye speak what tales ye'd tell - Of honor, death and pain. - -Could ye speak, what tales ye'd tell - Of shame and golden worth, -To the glory and damnation - Of the spawn of all the Earth. - - - - -BARB-WIRE POSTS. - - - -Five o 'clock; the shadows fall - In mist and gloom and cloud; -And No Man's Land is a sullen waste, - Wrapped in a sodden shroud; -And the click of Big Mac's moving foot - Is a dangerous noise and loud. - -Ten o'clock; the wind moans low-- - Each tree is a phantom gray: -And the wired posts are silent ghosts - That move with a drunken sway; -(But never a gleam in No Man's Land - Till the dawn of another day). - -Twelve o 'clock; the heavens yawn - Like the mouth of a chasm deep; -And see--that isn't the fence out there-- - It's a Boche--and he stoops to creep-- -I'll take a shot--oh hell, a post-- - (Oh God, for a wink o' sleep). - -Two o 'clock; the cold wet fog - Bears down in dripping banks: -Ah, here they come--the dirty hounds-- - In swinging, serried ranks! -Why don't the automatics start? . . . - Or do my eyes play pranks? - -It doesn't seem a column now, - But just two sneaking there: -And one is climbing over, - While the other of the pair -Is clipping at the wires - With exasperating care. - -(I'm sober as a gray-beard judge - I'm calm as the morning dew-- -I'm wide awake and I'll stake - My eyes with the best of you; -But I can't explain just how or why - Posts do the things they do.) - -Three o'clock; they're on the move-- - Well, let the beggars come. . . . -A crash -- a hush -- a spiral shriek-- - And a noise like a big bass drum-- -(I hope that Hun shot hasn't found - Our kitchen and the slum). - -. . . . . . . . . . - -Five o'clock; the first faint streak - Of a leaden dawn lifts gray; -And the barb-wire posts are sightless ghosts - That swagger, click and sway, -And seem to grin, in their blood-stained sin, - In a most unpleasant way. - - - - -FEET. - - - -Some say this war was fought and won - With gleaming bayonets, -That lift and laugh with Death's own chaff - And leave no fond regrets: -Some, by the long lean foul-lipped guns - Where the first barrages meet, -But I, by the poor old weary limping - Tired broken feet. - -Some say this war was fought and won - By the crawling, reeking gas; -Some, by the flitting birdmen, - That dip and pause and pass: -Some, by the splitting hand-grenades-- - But I, I hear the beat -Of the poor old faithful worn limping - Tired broken feet. - -Some say the war was fought and won - By This or That or Those-- -But I, by heel and sunken arch - And blistered, bleeding toes. -Drag on, drag on, oh weary miles, - Through mire, slush and sleet, -To the glory of the rhythm - Of the poor old broken feet. - - - - -YOUR GAS-MASK. - - - -When over your shoulders your "full-field" you fling, -And you curse the whole load for a horrible thing, -What is it you reach for, as outward you swing? - Your gas-mask. - -If you head for a bath by the small river's flow-- -Though only a distance of fifty or so-- -What is it you carefully grab ere you go? - Your gas-mask. - -When in full marching-order, where mules _might_ suffice, -And you count your equipment, each having its price, -What is it you feel for and count over twice? - Your gas-mask. - -In morning and afternoon, evening and night-- -In first or support lines, in sleep or in fight, -What is it you cherish and cling to so tight? - Your gas-mask. - -What is it you never leave thoughtless behind? -What is it you clutch for with fingers that bind -As you sniff that first odor that comes on the wind? - Your gas-mask. - - - - -SLUM AND BEEF STEW. - - - -It's a lot of dirty water - And some little dabs of spuds, -And dubious hunks of gristly meat - And divers other duds. - -Served up to us in trenches, - Our hunger made it good, -But elsewhere--when we got it-- - "We ate it, if we could. - -And now about the time Josephus - Tells his gobs to call -Port and Starboard, left and right, - We're ordered, one and all, - -To most respectfully address - Our slum as "beef stew"--Gosh, -Methinks the Brains of the Army - Has dished-up awful bosh. - -For slum is slum, and your Tummy-tum - Has called it so for aye; -As 'twas when Thotmes III marched north - To check the Hittites' sway. - -As 'twas when Cyrus' doughboys swept - Through the Cilician Gates-- -And as 'twill ever be so long - As a weary mess-line waits. - -So long as Nations fight and eat-- - Though all don't feed as well-- -For the Colonel is Sitting on the World-- - While we are S. O. L. - -Perhaps, kind friend, our logic may - Strike you as on the bum-- -But as we're Pershing's slum-hounds, - We'll call the damn thing "slum". - - - - -SHELL-FIRE. - - - -_The Hun he taught us Gas and things-- - But the high explosive shell -Was born of the Devil's mirth - And the reddest forge in Hell._ - -Now one hits the village church, - And the ancient, wavering wall -And the little pointed tower swing - And stagger and sway and fall. - -Now one hits a red-slag roof, - And eighty feet on high -Towers a monstrous, salmon cloud - Against an azure sky. - -Now one hits in a field of wheat, - Fresh planted, fair and green, -And a mighty, thundering crater bursts - Where abandoned plows careen. - -Now one nears with spiral shriek - And strikes in the long white road, -And the Lord ha' mercy on the Red Cross truck, - And its helpless, weary load. - -Now one comes where you crouching wait - In the trench's far-flung line, -And you know there is never shelter against - The voice of that deadly whine. - -Now one pierces the dugout's roof, - And when the foul smokes pass, -What once was there a dozen men - Is a crimson, clotted mass. - -In the pale moonlight or the black of night-- - When the sunset fires flare-- -In the noontime's calm, without alarm, - The Great Arch Fiend is there, -With his frightful cry as he rushes nigh - On his errand of despair. - - - - -MR. FLY. - - - -There's a nice stiff breeze ablowing, - Mr. Fly; -That keeps from out my trench. -The decomposing stench -Of a soldier, Boche or French, - Mr. Fly. - -So please run off and play, - Mr. Fly. -So please run off and play -Like a good fly, right away, -For I want to sleep today, - Mr. Fly. - -I'm dozing like a bull-finch, - Mr. Fly, -When you hop me, unaware, -And I wake and swat and swear, -And you return with thoughtful care, - Mr. Fly. - -Can't you see I'm _very_ tired, - Mr. Fly? -That the G. I. Cans don't bust, -And I've nibbled on a crust, -And deserve a snooze, I trust, - Mr. Fly. - -Do you think it's square and decent, - Mr. Fly, -When the Cooties cease to bite, -(And there is no sleep at night) -That you give me no respite, - Mr. Fly? - -An hour's calm is with us, - Mr. Fly; -And the endless battle strain, -And the shelling and the rain, -Ought to make it very plain, - Mr. Fly-- - -That I need a little nap, - Mr. Fly. -That I do need mighty well -Just to sun and rest a spell, -And to sleep here where I fell, - Mr. Fly. - -So have a heart, oh have a heart! - Mr. Fly. -If you're looking for a fight -And you _must_ come 'round and bite, -Make your visit in the night, - Mr. Fly. - - - - -THE SALVATION ARMY WITH THE A. E. F. - - - -You kept no roped-off rows of chairs - Or clubs "For Officers Only," -But you toiled for John Doe when he was - Cold, tired, wet and lonely. - -You didn't squander millions - On soldiers warming benches, -But you worked like blazes for the ones - That frequented the trenches. - -You didn't stick to cast-iron rules - Of business most punctilious, -And you never treated Private Doe - With manner supercilious. - -You had no boundless backing-- - But just inside your doors -It seemed like, "Feel to home, Bill-- - Sit down, the place is yours." - -Some things we fain remember-- - Some things we fain forget-- -But you, oh kindly people, - Live in our memory yet. - - - - -SHELL-HOLES. - - - -They're ugly, jagged, cone-shaped holes - That litter up the ground, -That ruin all the landscape - For miles and miles around. - -That pock-mark fertile fields of green-- - That rip the hard French roads, -And catch the lumbering trucks at night - Agroan beneath their loads. - -And some of them are little uns - The shrill one-pounders plow-- -About a meter--edge to edge-- - But large enough, I trow. - -And some of them nigh twice as broad, - And rather more straight down, -The "77" Boches' gift, - Of dubious renown. - -And some of them a dozen feet - From rim to ragged rim, -And deep enough to hide a horse-- - A crater, gaunt and grim. - -And some of them are yellow-black, - Where clings the reek of gas, -(But here we do not pause to gaze, - Nor linger as we pass). - -And some of them are water-fouled-- - Or dried and parched and dun; -And some of them are newly turned-- - Fresh blotches 'neath the sun. - -But all spell red destruction, - Blind rage and blinding hate, -To them who charge the shell-swept zone - Or in the trenches wait. - -Should we say "all," or modify - Our statement? Any fool -Knows that exceptions always rise - To prove an iron-clad rule. - -And so in this case we can name - _Some_ shell-holes we have met, -The thought of whose engulfing sides - Clings in our memory yet. - -They were the holes we rolled into-- - When iron or bullet struck-- -Cursing the cursed Prussian, - And blessing our blessed luck. - -Oh lovely, beauteous shell-hole, - Wherein we helpless lay, -A wondrous couch of velvet - Ye seemed to us that day. - -Our blood it stained your cushions - A deep and richer red, -As shrieking messengers of death - Sped harmless overhead. - -Swept whining in their blood-lust, - Hell's music, bleak and grim, -Splitting in rage the edges - Of your all-protecting rim. - -Oh shell-holes, murderous shell-holes, - In vales of grass and wheat-- -On hillside and in forest, - In road and village street-- - -Your toll of suffering and death - Is flashed to East and West-- -But tell they of the wounded - Ye've sheltered in your breast? - - - - -FOOD. - - - -We've eaten at the Plaza, at Sherry's and the Ritz-- -The Bellevue and the Willard and the Ponce de Leon - too. -We've sampled all the cooking of the Savoy and - Meurice, -Through a palate-tickling riot that Lucullus never - knew. - -From tables where the Northern Fires greet the - coming night-- -To Raffles out in Singapore and the Palace in Bombay; -From Shepheard's (which means Cairo) to that little - hostelry -Way down in Trinchinopoly where purring punkahs - sway. - -We've traveled north, we've traveled south by all - routes known to man-- -We've traveled east, we 've traveled west by some they - scarcely came: -From canvasback and terrapin to Russian caviar, -From venison to bird-nest soup and curried things - and game. - -We've put them all beneath our belt with consummate - address: -We've risen from the laden board and smacked our - jowl in glee. -With organs sound and healthy we have murdered - each menu -And left the wreck of good things with a gourmet's - ecstasy. - -But do you wish to know the feasts that permeated - deep-- -That stirred the very bottom of my stomach to the - core? -Quisine that brought such wondrous bliss, but satiated - not, That saturating satisfied, but still left room for more? - -The place--a little half deserted town in northern - France: -The time--a time of carnage, of wanton strife and - hate: -And I and my battalion on reserve a week or two -Till they call us to the Front again to force the hands - of Fate. - -Just from the Commissary, the Salvation or the Y, -I've got a bar of chocolate, some butter and some cake; -A canteen full of milk, and eggs, from the old - farmhouse near by, -And with this _tout ensemble_ you can see I'm sitting - jake. - -I've entered now a peasant's house--an ancient, - kindly dame-- -Who's seen me several times before, and knows just - what I wish: -So the frying-pan is gotten out--the pewter fork and - knife-- A big bowl and the skillet and a large, substantial - dish. - -And I'm breaking up the bar of chocolate in a mighty - bowl -(The while the eggs are frying, "Sur le plat, oui, s'il - vous plait"), -And pouring from my canteen's gurgling mouth a - draught of milk, -To expedite proceedings in a purely tactful way. - -And now the spluttering eggs are done, the chocolate's - hot and rich; -I have my feet beneath the board, the pewter weapons - near: -A hunger from a front-line trench--the stomach of a - goat-- -And a battle-line that's very far, though still the guns - ring clear. - -And thus, too full for utterance, I gently draw the - veil-- -So leave me, kindly reader, in my joy-- -And maybe you will understand why other dinners - pale, -And in comparison with this, appear to clog and cloy. - - - - -OVER THE TOP. - - - -We've soldiered many, many moons - In this old plugging war, -And all the ills and all the thrills, - We've had 'em o'er and o'er. - -Shell-fire, G. I. Cans and Gas-- - Night work in No Man's Land-- -And everything that calls for nerve, - Endurance, guts and sand. - -We've argued which we liked the _worst_-- - Machine-guns, gas or shell. -We've ruminated carefully-- - And done it rather well. - -And after all our resume - And cogitating bull, -We've reached a clear decision, - Most amplified and full:-- - -The greatest time in all the life - Of any living man-- -The mightiest moment of the Game-- - The proudest, high elan; - -The thing we came three thousand miles - Across the seas to do-- -"The Day," the splendid hour - That waits for me and you, - -Arrives--We spring into the wastes - Of land, ripped, roweled and barred-- -The battle-lust in brain and eye-- - The weary jaw set hard; - -The rifle gripped in hands of steel, - Where, flashing in the sun, -Sweep on our blazing bayonets, - The terror of the Hun. - - - - -THE BATTLE MOTHER. - - - -Over the sodden trenches-- - Over the skirmish line-- -High o'er the hole-torn fields and roads - Cometh a face to mine. - -Under the burning gas attack, - And the stench of the bursting shell, -We hope we may live for her dear sake-- - She who would wish us well. - -(She who has ever cherished us-- - But when the hour came -Choked back the tears of the faithful years, - As we left to play the game.) - -Between the blazing horizons - That hammer the long night through, -Lapping their tongues of hatred-- - Fearless she comes to you. - -And over the roar of battle - Where the shrill-voiced shrapnel sings, -Shine forth the loving eyes we hold - Above all earthly things. - -_A World run mad with slaughter-- - A charnel-house of blood-- -But the face of the Battle Mother - Above the crimson flood._ - - - - -SONG OF THE VOLUNTEERS OF 1917. - - - -_The drafted men fought hard and well, - The whole big army did, -But we prefer the spirit - Of the Bayard and the Cid._ - -The drafted men fought hard and well, - But when Jack sailed for France, -They didn't have to drag us in - By the back of our neck and the seat of our pants. - -The drafted men fought hard and well, - But when it first began, -From coast to coast, from Lakes to Gulf, - We rose, a single man. - -The drafted men fought hard and well, - But when the days were black, -Glad we sprang to the call to front - The snarling, charging pack. - -The red-fanged, savage hounds of hate, - In a victor's drunken might: -The unleashed, howling gray hordes - Sweeping plain and height. - -The drafted men fought hard and well, - But when the great floes pressed, -Came we to break the ice and clear - A channel for the rest. - -The drafted men fought hard and well, - But now the thing is o'er, -We 're glad we came the way we came - When the Nation rose to war. - -The drafted men fought hard and well, - But now the thing is done, -We're glad we came the time we came - In the heyday of the Hun. - -Shades of Patrick Henry-- - Of Washington and Hale, -God grant we've kept the trust--God grant - The Old Guard shall not fail. - -_The drafted men fought hard and well, - The whole vast army did, -But we prefer the spirit - Of the Bayard and the Cid._ - - - - -O. D. - - - -_O. D., it_ ought _to mean Oh Damn,_ - _When in the pay of Uncle Sam:_ -_But when you hear the soldier blab_ - _"O. D.," it just means Olive Drab._ - -The leggings, breeches and the boots - Of Uncle Samuel's war galoots-- -The overcoats and jackets too, - Confess the selfsame mournful hue. - -It may be excellent camouflage - To try to fool a young barrage; -It may not show the bally dirt - So much upon your knees and shirt. - -It may be serviceable and such - When you are beating-up the "Dutch;" -But from a calm esthetic point, - The color's sadly out-of-joint. - -A little mud on red or blue - May seem quite prominent to you; -But put the same upon O. D., - And the whole blame thing looks mud to me. - -But then, it matches trenches well, - And things that make you say, Oh Hell -For instance, hikes, inspections, drills, - And busted arms with C. C. pills. - -It makes you heave a sigh or two - For the good old days of brass and blue; -But if it's fit to beat the "Dutch" - I guess it doesn't matter much. - - - - -ARTILLERY REGISTERING. - - - -They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench-- - My boy. -They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench, -Which means tonight they'll surely drench -These works with shells that burst and stench - (And cloy). - -They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench-- - My lad. -It breaks with shrill and tinny sound, -And quite promiscuously around -It showers metal on the ground - (It's bad). - -They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench-- - Recruit. -So do not stand and stupid stare -Till some comes down and parts your hair, -But hunt your dugout and beware - (To boot). - -They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench-- - Young man. -Which means tonight the gas shells' thud -Will muffled fall like chunks of mud; -And th' blinding, crashing Prince of Blood-- - The G. I. Can. - -They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench-- - My child. -And ere the dawn is turning gray-- -You mark the very words I say-- -There's going to be hell to pay - (High piled). - - - - -RECIPROCITY. - - - -We haven't been in this large strife - So very long to date, -But we have learned our answer to - The Prussian "Hymn of Hate." -And we are feeding him for pap, - As plain as A. B. C, -A pretty little ditty known - As "Reciprocity." - -The Hun he planned for War, red War, - By ocean, air and land; -And he is getting oodles of - The same, to date, in hand. -He suddenly sprang poison gas - Upon a valiant foe, -And now he's getting gas and gas, - And more gas, as you know. - -He found new tricks and wrinkles for - This gory battle game, -And now we stoop, no more his dupe, - And beat him at the same. -He drowned our women in the sea-- - He ravished where he won-- -But these were little things we couldn't - Copy from the Hun. - -His crimson heel lie bade us feel, - His lust and pride and scorn-- -Till, echoing in our weary breasts - A righteous hate was born. . . . . -Beware the patient man in wrath, - The olden proverb saith; -And, Spawn of a Kultur nursed in blood-- - In blood meet ye your death. - - - - -TRUCKS. - - - -_Lunging-wild, careening trucks_ - _Plunging through the rain,_ -_Sweeping down the rainbow road_ - _To the sunlit plain._ -_And echoing back with ponderous roar_ - _Their cargo's wild refrain._ - -We're bowling over the roads of France-- - White roads. -We're twenty gray tracks in a long, long line, -Twisting and rumbling and feeling fine. -And some day we'll roll to the Watch on the Rhine-- - Joyous loads. - -But now we're returning to billets for rest-- - Earned repose. -We've been in the trenches for many a week. -In rain and in wind and in dugouts that leak. -Till we all are so hoarse we scarcely can speak. - Goodness knows. - -Our clothes they are worn and tattered and torn, - And mud? -My heavens! we have it in our leggings and hair-- -On breeches and jackets and all that we wear-- -But we are so happy, we really don't care-- - 'Tisn't blood. - -It isn't those long, endless vigils at night, - On the rack. -It isn't the fighting and hunger and heat-- -It isn't the slush and rheumatics and sleet-- -It isn't the once-a-day cold meal we eat - In the black. - -It isn't the shelling from sun unto sun-- - Cursed shells: -It isn't the camouflage that you must use -If you have to lie down in your trench for a snooze, -It isn't the stenches the Hun corpses choose - For their smells. - -But it's clean clothes and gasoline-bath and a shave-- - What a treat! -It's sleeping on elegant straw, and undressed, -With never a Toto disturbing your rest; -It's regaining your "pep" and a wonderful zest - When you eat. - -We're all of us willing, we're all of us game - For the fray: -But now we have finished a good hitch, and more, -In conducting this large and salubrious war, -Do you think we should feel very tearful or sore - On this day? - -So some we are singing and some shoot the bull, - And some sleep. -(Don't wake the poor devil, just leave him alone, -Though he's jammed on your foot till it's dead as a - stone), -And we rumble through towns on the way to our own, - Packed like sheep. - -And your hand is afingering bills large and small-- - Francs galore. -And you've visions of things that your poor stomach begs, -Including nuts, candy and chocolate and eggs; -And you find you've forgotten the crick in your legs-- - Cramped and sore. - -We're a light-hearted, dirty-faced, rollicking crew-- - Grimy pawed: -Though a few cogitate on the living and dead, -And some look behindward, and some look ahead, -And some think of bunkies that shrapnel has sped - To their God. - -_Lunging-wild, careening trucks_ - _Plunging through the rain,_ -_Sweeping down the rainbow road_ - _To the sunlit plain,_ -_And echoing back with ponderous roar_ - _Their cargo's wild refrain._ - - - - -MADEMOISELLE. - - - -Oh Mademoiselle behind the Lines, - When we're weary and covered with dirt, -And you make a promenade with us, - Or perhaps you mend our shirt. - -You know our lives from your brothers, - Or your sweethearts who can't come back, -But only your laughter greets us - When we shed that awful "pack." - -And some of you sell eggs to us - In a town whence most have fled: -And some of your names have "de" and your blood - Runs blue as well as red. - -Oh Mademoiselle you sure are "chic" - From your head to the tip o' your toes, -And if you like us, you just plain _like_ us, - And you don't give a damn who knows. - -And Mademoiselle those eyes, Oo la la! - So sparkling, dark and rare, -With the love of all the ages lying - Deep and dormant there. - -(Please, please don't think us fickle-- - That we didn't play the game-- -But you seemed so human and made to be loved, - And we murmured, "Je vous aime.") - -We hear you're going back with us - To the tune of ten thousand wives, -And we wish you ten thousand blessings, - And ten thousand happy lives. - -So here's a health to you, Mademoiselle, - Who helped us see it through, -And the load that your laughter lightened - Is the debt that we owe to you. - - - - -THE FIRST DIVISION. - - - -American Expeditionary Forces, 1917-1919. - -When the clarion call of Country - Bade strong men rise and go, -Came they the first of the willing first, - In the pride that leal men know. - -When the Eagle soared and its broad wings spread - 'Bove the shores of an angered land, -Sailed they the first of the Viking first - Where the treacherous waters spanned. - -When the Eagle's Brood awoke to the shriek - Of the great shells day and night, -First of the flock bled they beneath - The star-flare's blinding light. - -When the lunging, torn front lines locked - And the strife raged man and man, -Swept they the first of the fighting first-- - And the van of the battle van. - -. . . . . . . . . . - -From the training days of Gondrecourt-- - Demange--cold, wet and gray-- -To the trenches north of Luneville-- - To Bouconville--Xivray-- - -To the crater-pitted, wasted tracts - Of war-torn Picardy, -And the ghastly rubble hilltop - Where Cantigny used to be: - -To the splendid days of Soissons-- - The crisis of the strife: -To where giant pincers severed - St. Mihiel as a knife: - -To the glorious, stubborn struggle - Up the rugged Argonne slopes, -Till the gates of Sedan crumbled - With the Vandals' crumbling hopes. - -. . . . . . . . . . - -Sweeping in conquering columns - To the banks of the vaunted Rhine-- -Ever the first of the fighting first, - And the Lords of the Battle Line. - - - - -LITTLE GOLD CHEVRONS ON MY CUFFS. - - - -Little gold chevrons on my cuffs, - What do you mean to me? -"We to the left mean hike and drill, -Trenches and mud and heat and chill-- -And I to the right for the blood ye spill - Where the Marne runs to the sea." - -Little gold chevrons on my cuffs, - What is the tale ye tell? -"We to the left, of the long months spent -Where the somber seasons slowly blent-- -And I to the right, of the ragged rent - That took so long to get well." - -Little gold chevrons on my cuffs, - What do you say to me? -"That ye would not trade us, master mine, -For ribbon or cross or rank, in fine, -That you are ours and we are thine - Through all the years to be." - - - - -A TRIP-WIRE. - - - -If you're sneaking around on a night patrol, -Trying to miss each cock-eyed hole, -And you choke back a curse from the depths of your soul-- - It's a trip-wire. - -If you think there isn't a thing around -Except the desolate, shell-torn ground, -And you stumble and roll like a spool unwound-- - It's a trip-wire. - -If you know a murmur would give the alarm, -And you've smothered a cough in the crotch of your arm, -And then you go falling all over the farm-- - It's a trip-wire. - -If it's cold and it's rainy and everything's mud, -And you're groping your way through a nice little flood, -And you stand on your head with an elegant thud-- - It's a trip-wire. - -When silence is golden (for "news" is the quest), -And you're returning and stepping your best, -And your rifle goes part way and you go the rest-- - It's a trip-wire. - - - - -THE FAVORITE SONG. - - - -("There's a long, long Trail.") - -They sing a song that the pines of Maine - Hear in the winter's blast-- -They sing a song that the riders hum, - Where the cattle plains spread vast; -But there is one they love the most-- - And they keep it for the last. - -They sing the lays of Puget Sound - Aglimmering in the sun-- -Of the cotton fields of Alabam', - Where the Gulf-bound rivers run, -But one they sing with a wistful look, - When all the rest are done. - -They chant of the land of Dixie, - And their "Little Gray Home in the West"-- -Of how they'll "can the Kaiser"-- - And they roar with bellowing zest; -But one they sing as it were a prayer-- - The song they love the best. - -From Xivray to Cantigny-- - From Soissons to the Meuse -- -From the Argonne wilds to the white-clad Vosges - Agleam in the dawn's first hues-- -They sing a sacred song, for it - Is red with battle-dews. - -For it is sanctified by space-- - And the cruel wheel of Time; -And sacrifice has hallowed it, - And mellowed every rhyme, -Until it wells from weary throats - A thing men call sublime. - -In frozen trench and billet-- - In mire, muck and rain-- -Where the roar of unleashed batteries - Hurl forth their fires again; -At rest, or back in Blighty, - Torn with shell and pain-- - -There's a song they dub the fairest-- - There's a lilt they love the best-- -"There's a long, long trail awinding" - To the haven of their quest, -Where the tip of the rainbow reaches - A land in the golden west. - - - - -CAPTAIN BLANKBURG. - - - -"When Greek meets Greek." - - - -I - - -They knew he was a German-- - They thought he was a spy-- -_Toujours_ they "covered" him and said, - "We'll catch him by-and-by." - -They tried to find, by word or act, - In front-line trench or rear, -Some circumstance that would betray - His treacherous dealings clear. - -They scanned his face when hostile flares - Set No Man's Land alight-- -They watched him when the Hun barrage - Tore craters left and right. - -They noted every move he made, - With ever wakeful eye, -Reiterating o'er and o'er, - "We'll catch him by-and-by." - - - -II - - -At last the opportunity - Loomed large in fact and view, -And every near-sleuth in the bunch - Saw that his hunch was true. - -Because, upon an inky night, - When mist hung o'er the nation, -The captain took a picked patrol - To gather information. - -And as they crept on hands and knees, - In Land No Man may own, -Their stomachs struck the dew-wet grass - With never sound or moan. - -(The reason being that the Boche, - On selfsame errand set, -Were creeping hitherward unseen-- - And likewise mad and wet.) - -'Twas then the detail turned their heads - To where their captain lay, -And every rifle in that squad - Was pointed straight his way. - -And he? He running true to form, - Two inches raised his chin, -And spouted German volubly - In accents clear and thin. - -Click, click, click, click, click, down the line - Each safety-catch turned o'er, -But the captain did not hesitate, - And merely talked the more. - -In conversation friendly - He rambled gently on -Unto the Boches' leader, - Till it was nearly dawn. - -The while his men they "covered" him-- - The while their hearts grew black-- -And you could feel the trigger fingers - Squeezing up the slack. - -Just what the purport of his last - Remark was, no one knew, -But in a burst of confidence - A Boche head rose in view. . . . - -Across the four-fold stillness - That covers No Man's Land, -An automatic pistol shot - Rang clear and piercing and - -The next day German papers told - How Captain Skunk von Skee -Was killed by a Yankee captain, - And Yankee treachery. - - - - -LITTLE WAR MOTHERS. - - - -When you look at his picture and your eyes - Are dimmed and mighty wet, -And it seems as though your trembling hands - Could reach and touch him yet: -When you faintly call and he answers not - Your supplicating prayer, -Remember his last thought was You: - I know--for I was there. - -When the day is done and the hearth-fire glows, - And you slowly knit and knit; -And your furtive eyes from the embers rise - To where he used to sit: -And you feel he never can slip up - And kiss you unaware, -Remember his last word was You: - I know--for I was there. - -When your dear brave heart is breaking-- - And life is 'reft of joy; -And only the spark of memory-- - The face of a boy--your boy: -May the good God hover over you, - And touch your silvered hair, -And tell you what I've tried to tell: - He knows -- for He was there. - - - - -INTERRUPTED CHOW. - - - -I've had some mighty narrow calls-- - Some close shaves not a few, -But one of the fairly closest - I'll now narrate to you. - -'Twas midnight--hush! the plot grows thick-- - Crowd close, and hold your breath-- -'Twas midnight--and the slum-cart came - Upon its round of death. - -(It isn't really that the slum - Was quite as bad as that, -But the playful Boche so often dropped - A shell where it was at.) - -'Twas midnight--and our appetites - Were whetted large and keen, -As trench feed, once a day, must leave - An interval between. - -And so we sought the buzzy-cart, - "Mess-kits alert" and found -It standing in a quiet spot - Where never came a sound-- - -Excepting that of bursting shells - Across the field a way, -(But as I said before, the Boche - Is very given to play). - -All innocent and hungry-like - And empty to the core, -I came upon that buzzy-cart, - With never thought of war. - -More calm, beneficent and mild-- - More free from things of strife-- -I promise you I never was - In all my mortal life. - -The air was fair, the stars were out, - The mocking-bird sang clear; -The poppies bloomed, the sergeants fumed, - And food was very near. - -When suddenly the ground gave way-- - It seemed a mile or more-- -And the whole adjacent landscape leapt - To heaven with a soar. - -Earth, rocks and stars commingling - In a swirling mass arose, -Where I, recumbent in the hole, - Assumed an easy pose. - -And when I found that I was there-- - Both arms, both legs, and head, -I picked me up and cogitated - _Why_ I wasn't dead. - -For information looked I 'round - North, south and east and west-- -But the good platoon had up and cleared - Some several feet with zest. - -(And the strangest phase of the whole strange thing, - For me to understand, -Was that when I got up I had - My mess-kit in my hand.) - -And there I stood and gazed me down - Upon the hole and mud, -And found I was alive because - That blamed shell was a "dud." - -A dud's a shell that fails to burst-- - Whose crater's microscopic-- -And as I'd just sunk down in it, - My Fates were philanthropic-- - -For had the bally thing gone off-- - Instead of sitting jake-- -You'd ne'er have found my scattered parts - With a hair-comb or a rake. - -You'd ne'er have found your humble slave-- - For, sprinkled east and west, -My sad remains would scarce have bulged - The pocket of your vest. - -A finger in Benares-- - A toe in Timbuctoo-- -And on the Mountains of the Moon - A portion of my shoe. - -An eye on Kinchinjanga-- - To greet the snow-peaked morn; -An ear at Cape Lopatka, - And my dog-tag at the Horn. - - - - -S. O. S. - - - -(Service of Supply.) - -There's an S. O. S. behind the Lines - That feeds us shells and hardtack, -And guns and clothes and beans and things, - And heals our wounds and pain. -There's an S. O. S. across the seas - That knits for us and writes to us, -Buys bonds and whoops it up for us, - And cheers us on again. - -There's an S. O. S. behind the Lines, - We could not do without it: -Just go and ask the Army, - If you'd know the reasons why. -There's an S. O. S. across the seas, - And if you ever doubt it, -Just go and ask a soldier, - Who will promptly black your eye. - - - - -THE GAS-PROOF MULE. - - - -I've heard the cat hath nine lives, - The hen and worm I've seen, -But a genuine, long eared, gas-proof mule - Is the toughest thing they wean. - -Each night he hauled the water-cart-- - (And to know what Water means, -You have to see a trench-bound bunch - When filling their canteens). - -However, no digression now, - But straightway to my story, -And I'll paint that black mule white - And crowned with a crown of glory. - -We crowded 'round the faucets-- - On each, six waited turns-- -The thirstiest crew I ever knew-- - With the ingrowing thirst that burns. - -And all was peace and quiet-- - The pause before the storm-- -When the distant, whirling, demon shriek - Of the G. I. Cans took form. - -And when the third one got our range, - With haste, but dignity, -We sought the dugouts 'cross the road, - Calm, though precipitously. - -But the fastest thing I've seen on legs, - And I've seen the best, at that. -Was the water-mule when he took the road - At a hundred in nothing flat. - -Whether he headed for gay Paree-- - For Brussels or Berlin-- -We didn't stop to figure out-- - But he sure was headed in. - -We only thought of our thirst next day, - And a song we'd heard afar, -Of the farm recruit who bade good-bye - To his "mule with the old hee-haw." - -Well, all that night they threw us gas - And high explosive shells, -And four long hours we wore our masks, - To ward the murderous smells. - -And when the first white streak of dawn - Told "Stand-to" was begun, -We stumbled back and took our posts - To wait our friend the Hun. - -The Hun did not appear, but gas - Thick clothed both hill and dale -In clouds and sheets of dead-man's drab, - And down in the deepest vale-- - -With perfect poise and nonchalance, - Sang-froid and savoir-faire, -Browsed that fool mule, capaciously, - With never thought or care. - - - - -INFANTRY OF THE WORLD WAR. - - - -They shall tell of the Arms resplendent-- - The men who dared the air; -They shall tell of the work of the mighty guns - Where the far horizons flare: -They shall tell the tale of the Centaurs-- - Each rear and flanking drive-- -And the song of the Service of Supply, - That kept them all alive. - -And when they seem to have finished, - And ye think that the chant is done, -They will tell the tale of the tramping men - In the sweat of a torrid sun. -They will tell the tale of the marching men - Who plod the live-long night, -To reach the crest at the break o' dawn - When the Nations go to fight. - -They will tell the tale of the tired men - Beneath a straining load; -Mile by mile with lunging step - And glassy stare on the road. -They will tell the tale of the front-line trench, - And the one cold meal at night, -And the terrible song of the bursting shells, - And the flares' uncanny light. - -They will tell the tale of the moving ranks - When the zero hour lifts, -And the khaki lines leap forward - In the face of the steel-shod drifts. -Where the great shots split asunder, - And clutter hill and plain -With the weary bodies of the men - Who may not march again. - -And so for a wide World's wonder, - And the ages yet to be, -They will sing in deathless numbers - The song of the Infantry. -They will slowly close the volume-- - The story fully told, And a tear shall fall on the cover, - Whose letters are flaming gold. - - - - -THE FLOWERS OF FRANCE. - - - -The flowers of France are blooming - Upon this bright June day, -The flowers of France are fragrant - And smiling swing and sway, -(For what is death and carnage - A dozen miles away?) - -The flowers of France are blooming - Among the wheat and grass-- -The scarlet headed poppies - That nod you as you pass, -And the blue cornflowers' brilliant hue, - And the daisies in a mass. - -The flowers of France are blooming - And beckoning in the breeze, -And laughing in the sunshine, - And bending to the bees, -(But the wooden crosses in a row-- - Oh what know they of these?) - -The flowers of France are blooming - In every rainbow shade, -And as a rainbow is an arch - By tears of heaven made, -I wonder if the flowers of France - Are the tears that France has paid? - - - - -A FIRST-CLASS PRIVATE. - - - -_I haven't a worry or a care--_ - _My mind's "at ease" and furled:_ -_For I'm a First-class Private,_ - _And I'm Sitting on the World._ - -The Loot, before the whole platoon, - He up and called me forth -To drill my squad, "Squads east" and "west," - Not mentioning south and north. -To drill my squad, "Squads 'round-about," - For all the World to see-- -But I'm a First-class Private and - That's good enough for me. - -The Loot he is a dandy man - And all that kind of thing, -And I know he wants to see how I - A corporal's job could swing: -But back here in a "rest town" - It just means dirty work, -And _I_ must take the bawling-out - For what the squad may shirk. - -'Tis I they'd turn and eye with scorn - If some gun wasn't clean; -'Tis I would play the wet nurse - For a rookie _none_ could wean: -And if a pair of frozen shoes - Makes Smith miss reveille, -It isn't Smith or "Sunny France," - It's me, yes dammit, me. - -So forth I take the Squad to drill, - With ne'er a fault or slip; -But a smile is in my glance, forsooth, - And a jest is on my lip, -Akidding with each friend o'mine-- - And the Loot was never fain -To try to make a non-com - Of Private Me again. - -_Oh nothing, oh no nothing_ - _May your resolution shake,_ -_When you're a First-class Private,_ - _And you know you're Sitting Jake._ - - - - -BIRDS OF BATTLE. - - - -Keats sings in peerless stanzas - To the lovely Nightingale-- -And Shelley tells of the Skylark - Above the summer gale-- -But I to the Birds of Battle - Needs lift my numbers frail. - -For far by the out-flung wires, - Where the shell-torn tree stumps stand, -And over the barren, hole-strewn tracks - Of the wastes of No Man's Land, -In the morning light and the black of night, - The Birds of Battle stand. - -No shrieking shots may quell them-- - Nor gloom nor storm nor rain, -As out of the crash or stillness - A wondrous, shrill refrain -Cuts clear and glad and lithesome - Above the death-strewn plain. - -The weary heavens welcome, - And echo back the song, -And weary soldiers linger, - And pause to listen long -To the one glad cry in a war-torn sky, - That holds so much of wrong. - - - - -ONLY FOR YOU. - - - -The torturous hike up the hill road, - Plowing through snow and mud; -The poor weary arches breaking-- - The socks that are wet with our blood: -The terrible, binding, burning strap - That's cutting our shoulder through-- -And our parched lips stammer, "My Country, - For you and only for you." - -The slight and the slur and the nagging - We must take from a rowdy or cad; -And we simply salute and say "Yes sir," - And pretend that we never feel mad: -Though our heart is a forest of hatred-- - And justice seems hidden from view-- -And we mutter, "For you, oh my Country-- - For you, yea, and only for you." - -When all evening long the guns' reddened glares - Turn night into hellish day, -Till in Berserker rage their silver bursts cut - The drab of the dawn's growing gray: -When over the top we are starting again-- - Full knowing the thing that we do-- -We murmur, "For you, oh my Country-- - For you, aye and only for you." - - - - -COOTIES. - - - -Some people call 'em Totos-- - Some people call 'em Lice; -Some people call 'em several things - That really aren't nice; -But the Soldier calls 'em "Cooties," - So "Cooties" must suffice. - -We've met the dear Mosquito-- - We've met the festive Fly-- -It seems to me we've seen the Flea - That jumpeth far and high; -Yea, we have known various bugs-- - Though not the reason why. - -But when you're in the trenches - And cannot take a bath, -As one canteen of water - Is all one day one hath, -You raise the comely Cooties-- - Who raise, in turn, your wrath. - -You can't escape the Cooties - By day nor yet by night. -No G. I. Can alarms them, - Nor other sound of fight. -Not even Gas affects them-- - Which doesn't seem just right. - -You may not eat, you may not sleep, - You may not bat an eye: -You may not duck a six-inch shell - That's singing gaily by, -But that a Cootie, like the Poor, - _Is with you--very nigh._ - -They bite you singly and in squads, - They have a whole parade; -They form a skirmish line and sweep - Across each hill and glade; -But seek their dugouts when you think - Your grip is firmly laid. - -It does no good to curse 'em-- - They cannot hear or talk. -It does no good to chase 'em-- - To still-hunt or to stalk. -The only thing is hand-grenades, - At which, 'tis said, they balk. - -Oh Cooties, little Cooties, - You have no sense of shame; -You are not fair, you are not square, - You do not play the game-- -But east and west and south and north - Is spread afar your fame. - - - - -OLD FUSEE. - - - -(Rifle number 366915., Springfield model 1903.) - -I really hate to leave you, - Old Fusee-- -Where the land is scarred and peeled, -And the broken battlefield -Bears its red and deadly yield-- - Wearily. - -I really hate to leave you, - Old Fusee-- -To the wind and dew and rain -Of a shorn and shotted plain, -Till stranger hands again - Discover thee. - -I really hate to leave you, - Old Fusee-- -To the clinging, clogging dust-- -To the all-destroying crust -Of a clawing, gnawing rust-- - Unmercifully. - -I really hate to leave you, - Old Fusee-- -But they've plugged me good and hard, -So I quit you, trusty pard, -As I creep back rather marred, - To old Blightee. - -I really hate to leave you, - Old Fusee-- -With your bore a brilliant sheen, -And your metals black and clean, -Where your brown striped stock and lean - Gleams tigerishly. - -I really hate to leave you, - Old Fusee-- -For the wanton weather's hate, -And careless hands to desecrate -Barrel, bolt and butt and plate, - Unthinkingly. - -I really hate to leave you, - Old Fusee-- -And I bear a double pain -As I pause to turn again -Where I left you on the plain, - Unwillingly. - - - - -THE COLORS OF BLIGHTY. - - - -_The shades of red an' white an' blue_ -_Mean rather more to me an' you,_ -_Than just parades an' bands an' such_ -_And hollerin' loud an' talking much._ - -The wounds are dark and red-- - All jagged-red in Blighty: -And untamed hearts are red -Where, stretching bed on bed, -Lies lax each weary head, - In Blighty. - -The walls are blank and white-- - All fresh and white in Blighty: -And cheeks are gaunt and white, -Where through the endless night -They fight the second fight, - In Blighty. - -Outside the skies are blue-- - Soft, cloud-flecked blue o'er Blighty -But clear, relentless blue -Of purpose steeled anew -Lies there revealed to you - In every eye in Blighty. - -_The shades of red an' white an' blue_ -_Mean rather more to me an' you,_ -_Than just parades an' bands an' such_ -_And hollerin' loud an' talking much._ - - - - -WHEN NURSE COMES IN. - - - -(Convalescent stage.) - -The stories sure are rich and rare, -They'd strike you blind, they'd turn your hair, -They're dark as coal down in the bin-- - Till Nurse comes in. - -The language is an awful hue, -Astreak with crimson shades and blue; -'Twould scorch a mammoth's leather skin-- - Till Nurse comes in. - -Words run the gamut of the trench-- -They beat old Mustard Gas for stench, -They rise with oscillating din-- - Till Nurse comes in. - -The cussin's quaint and loud and strong, -Imported stuff, that don't belong -In dictionaries fat or thin-- - Till Nurse comes in. - -And then you'd be surprised to hear -The change of pace, the shift o' gear, -The dainty tales that just begin-- - When Nurse comes in. - - - - -CHARLIE CHAPLIN IN BLIGHTY. - - - -The mess-hall windows blanketed - To bar the western light-- -The tables cleaned and cleared away, -And bench by bench in close array -Five hundred convalescents sway - To catch the caption bright. - -And there are men with helpless legs, - And torn chest and back; -And men with arms in sling and splint, -And one poor eye that bears no glint, -And muscles limp or turned to flint-- - And souls upon the rack. - -They came from Chateau Thierry-- - From Fere-en-Tardenois-- -From Soissons, Oulchy-le-Chateau, -From Rheims and Fismes, where blow by blow, -'Cross Marne and Oureq and Vesle aflow - They hammered them afar. - -And now upon the screen is thrown - An old familiar form: -'Tis Charlie of the strong appeal, -At skating-rink or riot meal, -And every mirth-producing reel - Awakes the farthest dorm. - -The aching head, the splintered arm, - The weary, dragging feet; -The wound that took a month to drain-- -The everlasting, gnawing pain-- -Are all forgot and gone again - When Charlie strikes the street. - -Your esoteric shrug and sneer - And call him crude and quaint; -But we who've seen him "over here"-- -Who've heard the laugh that brings the tear-- -Who've heard the bellowing roar and cheer-- - _We_ call him Charles the Saint. - - - - -TWO WORLDS. - - - -Here in the Jardin des Plantes of Nantes - I sit in the nickering shade, -Watching the scampering children play-- - And the way of a man and a maid-- -And the noble women of France in the black - Of a Nation unafraid. - -The lace of the shadows across the paths - Where the warm sun niters through, -And the open vista between the trees, - With the swan pond half in view, -And the flowers and sloping lawns and the pines - 'Neath an arch of Brittany's blue. - -The air is soft as a day in June, - The blossoms manifold -Throw streaks and patches of rainbow hue - Across the green and gold, -And earth and sky in witchery - Entwine you in their hold. - -And it comes to me, Can it really be - But two full moons have fled, -Since I limped from a scarred and riven field - Where lay the newly dead, -Bathed in the light of a splendid fight, - And blotched with their blood's own red. - -A world of crimson slaughter - Where the grim locked legions sway-- -And the mad machine guns whistle - Their endless roundelay-- -And the sinister sound of the thundering pound - Of the great guns night and day. - -Night and day, night and day, - With scarce a pause between, -As out of the empty dark a voice - From the farthest hills unseen, -Comes whirling, swirling, shrieking down - Where the helpless front lines lean. - -. . . . . . . . . . - -The air is soft as a morn in June-- - The filmy shadows sway; -And only the joyous music - Of the prattle of children at play, -And the gentle rustle of whispering leaves - That tell of the closing day. - - - - -EMBARKATION HOME. - - - -If you're a homebound soldier - Who's done his little best, -And you are going 'board the boat - At St. Nazaire or Brest, -Bordeaux or any other port, - Steam-up and headed west: - -If you are full o' the joy o' life - And "pep" and all that stuff; -And the ozone permeates your soul - And makes you gay and bluff, -Don't turn and yell, "Who won the War?-- - The M Ps,"--Can that guff. - -For the M Ps are a sacred caste - That boss the city street -A hundred miles behind the Lines - Where dangers never greet, -Nor roaming shells come swirling by, - Nor surging first waves meet. - -So if the long, tense session - Of soul-engulfing war, -And "Prussian" discipline and rule, - And heart-enslaving law -Say, "Open wide the throttle - Of lung and throat and jaw"-- - -Repress that natural impulse, - For you're not human--yet: -Sedately up the gangplank walk, - Eyes front and lips tight set, -Or you'll come back and spend six weeks - In a mud-dump, nice and wet. - -The wind is blowing 'cross the bow, - The first smoke lags alee-- -The sun that's broken through the clouds - Is dancing on the sea, -So, homebound soldier, watch your step, - And take advice from me. - - - - -THE STATUE OF LIBERTY. - - - -Sing of the Venus de Milo, - The lady without any arms; -Sing of the Venus of this and of that, - And tell of their marvelous charms: -Rave of your wonderful statues, - In divers lands here o'er the sea, -In bushels and reams, but the Girl of our Dreams - Is our godmother, Miss Liberty. - -Its contour may not be perfection-- - Its technique we really don't know-- -If you ever asked, "Who was the artist?" - It would come as a _terrible_ blow. -But to us it is home, friends and Country, - To us it means all that is best, -'Tis the first that lifts out of the waters - Of "Our little Gray Home in the West." - -'Tis the first on that endless horizon - Where the clouds meet the wind driven spume, -And the scavenger gulls wing to greet us - From out of the gathering gloom-- -'Tis the first that calls beckoning to us - Through the mist of the swaggering sea-- -"Oh lay down your guns my knight-errant sons, - And come back to the bosom of me." - - - - - -PART II. PRE-WAR POEMS. - - - - - - - -TO FRANCE--1917. - - - -The sea that kisses France's shore, - It beats on yours and mine. -Her love and faith and chivalry, - That sparkle as her wine, -With all our faith and all our love - Commingling combine. - -The colors of the flag of France - Are ours by hue and hue: -The blazing red of courage-- - The white of purpose true, -And constancy and loyalty - Awoven in the blue. - -The spirit and the soul of France, - That shatter fetters free, -They came to us in darkest days - To weld our destiny; -And so with sword in hand we come - To pay our debt to Thee. - -To pay our debt a hundredfold-- - Friend of our new-born years. -To march with you and fight with you, - Till rise the final cheers-- -And hand in hand, o'er a grave-strewn land, - We blend our mingled tears. - -Where blends our blood as once it did - In days of a long gone -When the Bourbon lilies leapt and gleamed - Among the Stars on high-- -And the white and crimson bands of dawn - Rose in the eastern sky. - -And the the white and crimson bands of dawn, - And the Stars that glow and glance, -Shall girdle them their armor on, - With buckler, sword, and lance, -And leap to the charge and sweep the field - With the Trois Couleurs of France, - -. . . . . . . . . . - -If right is might and Honor lives-- - Oh Sister? 'cross the seas-- -And Liberty and Justice still - Hold high commune with these; -A four-fold vengeans waits the Hun, - And his iniquities. - - - - -THE PACIFIST. - - - -Cowards and curs and traitors, - Fatuous dreaming fools-- -Binding us, stripped, for the madman - Nurtured of dastard schools, -Where right of might and who springs first - Are the only known rules. - -Well fed, well housed and sleek and smug, - Full pursed and full of pride-- -Your fields are green, your lanes are fair - Where peaceful homes abide, -And your children play by sunny streams - That laughing seaward glide. - -What Primal Power tells you eat - To the ends of your belly-greed-- -What holds your fields with harvests full, - And answers every need-- -And bids your bairns play laughingly - With never care or heed? - -The answer, Fool, is written large - In words of blazing light-- -They are rewards of dwelling in - A Land of kingly might, -That grants you surety and wealth - And guards you, day and night. - -And whence, Fool, came its splendid strength-- - And why, and how and when? -In a World of strife and reddened knife - Did it rise by tongue and pen? -No, Dolt, but by the strong right arms, - The arms of its fighting men. - -And Ye, Ye would sit with folded hands, - Agaze into Heaven's blue, -With sanctimonious murmurings - Of what the Lord will do; -While your neighbor and your neighbor's son - Go forth and fight for you. - -For you, you cur, and your belly-need-- - For your hearth and kith and kin: -For your harvest and your banking-house - Where you shovel the shekels in, -Till the labor has hardened your hands and heart, - And your soul is parchment skin. - -Religion cannot cover - A dog whose liver is white. -Your Christ, with righteous anger, - Smote hard to left and right -The usurers. And never said - He was too proud to fight. - -When we are another Belgium - And the land with blood is dyed, -And your homes are burned and your women raped, - And ye know that ye have lied-- -Mayhap ye will say with your final gasp - That ye are satisfied. - - - - -BATTLE HYMN OF 17. - - - -On the entry, in 1917, of the United States into the World War. - -Not with vain boasts and mouthings-- - Not with jesting light-- -But for Duty and Love of Country - Come we in armor dight. - -Not for our own advantage-- - Not for Adventure's lust-- -Not for the hope of honor-- - But a Cause that is high and just. - -Not for the praise of our fellow-man, - Or greed or gain or creed, -But for the sight of the suffering eyes - That call us in their need. - -(The withering, mad machine-guns - Shall drop us one by one, -Where the red, red streams of No Man's Land - Gleam 'neath a blood-red sun.) - -(The shriek of the spraying shrapnel-- - The roar and the blinding glare, -And the gaping crater's dripping fangs - Shall ope and find us there.) - -Not in the strong man's tyranny - Or the pride of worldly things, -But guarding clean traditions, - Unstained by the hands of kings. - -Not with sudden yearning, - But knowing the risks we dare, -We board the waiting galleons - For a Nation brave and fair. - -(For a Nation bearing the battle's brunt-- - The strength of the Vandals' blast-- -With an even keel and a steady wheel, - And her Colors nailed to the mast.) - -Not with hectic fire, - But weighing the thing we do, -We cross to the coasts of the fighting hosts-- - To the France our Fathers knew. - -Brothers in blood of old--and now-- - Together to hunt and slay, -Till we drive the Beast to his bone-strewn lair-- -An eye for an eye--a hair for a hair-- -And we leave him broken and bleeding there - Forever and a day. - -. . . . . . . . . . - -Not with vain boasts and mouthings-- - But in silent, grim parade-- -We come, Lord God of Battles, - To the last and great Crusade. - - - - - -PART III. OTHER VERSES. - - - - - - - -MY SAPPHIRE. - - - -I have a sapphire rich and fair - And soft as a velvet sky, -When only the stars are shining low -And the heavens hold a mystic glow -And a hushed world stands agaze to know - The wonderful Whence and Why. - -I have a sapphire that I turn - In the dark of somber days: -And the darting tongues of nickering blue -Flash deep and rare in wondrous hue, -Sharp as the lightning, pure as the dew, - And true as m'lady's gaze. - -I have a sapphire that I hold - Beneath the chandelier: -And the phosphor of its azure gleam -Sweeps clear as the depths of the mountain stream -Where the Sun-god hurls his molten beam - In the morn of the golden year. - -I have a sapphire I adore-- - Of varying whims and moods-- -Blue-black it lies with never a mark -Across the dim unfathomed dark, -Till there lifts the glow of a tiny spark-- - And again it sullen broods. - -I have a sapphire that I bend - 'Neath the light of burning rays: -And the flames spread forth a fairy fire, -Seething and writhing and leaping higher -Till they come to the land of my heart's desire, - In a glittering, blinding blaze. - -I have a sapphire that I hold. - When the goal seems far away: -When the lee shore churns in saffron spume. -And the fluctuant ocean's plume on plume -Bears down to a rock-ribbed hidden doom, - And the sky is ashen gray. - -I have a sapphire that I turn; - And the clouds break, and the wine -Of a glorious sun spreads east and west -To where the Islands of the Blest -Raise verdant shores at my behest, - And a golden world is mine. - -_Oh Sapphire from a distant vale_ - _Where the white Himalayas tower:_ -_Where the Kashmir lakes are royal blue,_ -_And passions strong and hearts are true,_ -_All these are met and blent in you,_ - _A princely heir and dower._ - - - - -THE TWINS. - - - -Out of the wonderful nowhere, - Into the lowly here; -Laughing and loving and lithesome, - And radiating cheer. - -Twin rose-buds o' Killarney hue-- - Fragrant and fresh and fair-- -And eyes of blue, wide-gazed and true, - And tawny yellow hair. - -And smiles as sweet as any meet - In pleasant paths above: -And golden laughter that echoes after, - To finger the chords of love. - -Two wee buds o' Killarney hue - That beckon and beguile-- -And 'neath your spell we're learning well - There is something still worth while. - -Though drab days break and drab thoughts wake - O'er fields of sleet and snow, -There's sunshine rare just _everywhere_-- - For you have taught us so. - - - - -ON SENDING MY BOOK TO AN ENGLISH FRIEND. - - - -"It's a long lane that knows no turnings"-- - And the seas are wide indeed, -But there are no barriers dividing - The Anglo-Saxon creed. -Fair fighting when the skies are lowering-- - Fair peace when skies are clear-- -And the faith of fair intentions, unfaltering, - And the heart that holds no fear. - -"It's a long lane that knows no turnings"-- - And Browning never said a thing more true, -So I know you'll know the spirit that impels me - To send this little messenger to you. - - - - -IMMORTAL KEATS. - - - -Matchless bard of all the ages-- - Lyric sounder of the lyre-- -Wake among your golden echoes-- - Rise amid your latent fire-- -Tell us, Master of the Muses-- - Sweetest singer ever sung-- -By what law of Earth or Heaven - Ye were called away so young? - -By what law of God or Mammon-- - By what creed of land or sea-- -Was a weary World forsaken - Of the mind that harbored thee? -Ere that wondrous mind's fruition - Scarce had grown to the tree. - -If the half-fledged sapling gave us - Melodies past human praise-- -If such virgin buddings crowded - Those few sad and glorious days; -If such flowers, barely opened, - Swept us in a wild amaze-- - -What, Oh Lord and Prince of Poesy, - Would your soul have given to men-- -What the marvelous meed and measure - Of your pulsing, choral pen-- -Had your numbered days been lengthened - To a three score years and ten? - -As through mystic lands ye led us - O'er the paths your feet had gone: -Pipes of Pan--and fain we followed-- - Glad and willing slave and pawn, -Till we reached the fields Elysian-- - Till we faced the gorgeous dawn: - -Till the lanes seemed filled with roses-- - Roses lipped with opal dew: -Till the vales seemed filled with incense-- - Incense slowly drifting through: -Till the seas seemed filled with grottoes-- - Grottoes amber, gold and blue: - -Till the songs of birds rang clearer - And the sunshine shone more rare, -And the moon above the meadows - Gathered love, and left it there; -And the swaying stars rose whiter-- - And the World was very fair: - -As your thoughts' eternal fountains, - Shot with iridescent gleams, -Floating down through glades enchanted, - On the breast of faery streams, -To a pearl-strewn bay of beryl-- - Reached the haven of our dreams. - - - - -TO A LITTLE GIRL. - - - -Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, - Said Heaven was a hundred, million, billion miles away. -So I couldn't contradict them--it wouldn't do at all-- - But they had never heard your laughter innocent and gay. - -Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, - They said the Milky Way was fair beyond all human ken: -But they had never seen your face, upturned, aquestioning-- - A dainty bit of rapture in a leaden world o' men. - -Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, - They told of gorgeous comets and their manes so bright and rare: -But comet glow could never show the living threads of light - That dance and gleam in th' rippling stream and fragrance of - your hair. - -Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, - They said the azure ether stretched in miles of lapis hue; -But they had never known eyes that gaze into your soul - In longing little wonder wells of limpid gray and blue. - -Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, - They said no melody could match the singing of the spheres: -But they had never heard your voice ring joyously at play-- - The music of a weary world of roil and toil and tears. - -Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one. - They've told the tale of the double stars, and their faith the - eons through-- -But constant though they be, their hearts could never know the love, - The yearning burning tender love, dear child, we bear for you. - - - - -GOD. - - - - - -I - - -They would give hands to Thee, head to Thee, feet to Thee-- - They who are blind: -They would give form to Thee, fashion Thee manikin, - After their kind. - -They would give hate to Thee, spite to Thee, jealousy-- - Thou the adored: -Only have fear in Thee, only repel Thee, - Master and Lord. - -They would bring shame to Thee, even in worship-- - Each empty rite: -Bigotry, canting and sere superstition, - Knowing no light. - -Faiths esoteric, pedantic and recondite-- - Mystical creeds: -False and insipid and brutal and selfish-- - And wrought to their needs. - -They whom Ye nurtured from primal conceiving, - And ne'er a flaw-- -They know Thee not, or in knowing, reject Thee, - Thee and Thy law. - -Saying, "We see Thee not, come to us, speak to us-- - Tangible stand. -Come in the purple, crowned, robed and resplendent-- - Sceptre in hand. - -"Even as kings have done, through all the ages, - Brave to behold-- -Fanfare of trumpets, be jeweled and refulgent - And girdled with gold: - -"Or in a chariot welded of star-dust-- - Glittering white-- -Pause at the cloud-line 'mid crashing of thunder - And blazing of light. - -"Rolling Thy voice till the Pleiades tremble-- - The spheres are amoan; -The Earth for a footstool--the outermost planets - Grouped for a throne. - -"Thus would we see Thee, acclaim Thee; and worship Thee, - Thou in Thy might-- -Concrete, conglomerate, human and splendid-- - Aflame in our sight." - - - -II - - -They who have drunk of the River of Knowledge - Only a quaff, -Pity them, Father that know not Thy meaning, - Children who laugh. - -Atoms that reck not the wherefore of atoms-- - Dust of the dust: -Groping in darkness, recusant and doubting-- - And bearing no trust. - -They would make mock of Thee, saying the life-spark, - Came not of Thee: -Function by function in wonderful unison-- - Each mystery. - -Sunshine and rain-fall and food to their needing, - Air, sea and land: -Seed-time and fruit-time and harvest and gleaning-- - Made to their hand. - -They would gainsay Thee by calling it Nature, - Calling it Chance: -And by their impotent wonder, Thy glory, - Only enhance. - -But when in mercy the last word is spoken-- - When the gates yawn; -Father of Nations--take Thou Thy children - Into the dawn. - -Crowning Thy marvelous works with a crowning-- - Ultimate--vast-- -Showing compassion and loving they knew not, - E'en to the last. - - - - -THE GOLDEN DAY. - - - -Have ye a day that bears the glare - Of the flaming morning sun? -Have ye a day the mind may search, - Weighing what ye have done? - -Have ye a day ye are satisfied - Will stand the acid test-- -From the first gray strand of the eastern skies - To the last red glow in the west? - -Have ye a day ye grappled with - And hurled in mortal throes, -When, 'bove the white horizon, - The Great Occasion rose? - -Mayhap the World bore witness - To the things of your Golden Day: -Mayhap it is locked from the gaze of men, - And ye've thrown the key away. - - - - - -NOTES - - - - - - - -NOTES. - - - -*Trenches* - -French Lorraine - Lorraine is now French, but, of course, it was not so during the - war. - -Kultur - The so-called German culture. - -*Barb-Wire Posts* - -Herein is described a common optical illusion or phenomenon seen by all -soldiers, old and young, experienced or green, during the long night -vigils looking through the wires, across No Man's Land. - -Boche - A German. - -Hun - A German. The people of Germany take great exception to being called - "Huns," protesting that they are not of this stock. After the defeat - of Attila and his Huns at Chalons, in 451 A. D., by the combined - efforts of the Celts themselves, the indigenous people of France, - the Romans, who were still masters of the country, the Franks, who - had already become a power in the land, having advanced as far south - as the Somme, and the Visigoths, who, early in the same century, had - established their great empire in southern France and Spain; after - this great battle the Huns retreated back into Germany, where many - of their descendants must still be, but of course the majority of - the German people are not, from an ethnological standpoint, Huns. - The reason for this appelation being applied to them is simply that - when a people have the attributes of a Hun, they must expect to be - so designated. A man may very properly be called a pig without any - misapprehension that he actually travels upon four hoofs. However, - it is possible, though not probable, that the leopard may change his - spots; and time, and contact with civilization, and a democratic - form of government may eventually eradicate the present very marked - idiosyncrasies of the German race. - -*Your Gas-Mask* - -"full-field" - The full-field pack, consisting of blankets, shelter-half, clothing, - extra shoes, etc., weighing over 50 pounds, on the back of an - infantryman, and guaranteed to increase 50 pounds in weight every - five kilometers after the first ten kilometer mark has been passed. - -full marching-order - The full-field pack as described above, plus rifle, cartridge-belt - with a hundred rounds of ammunition, two bandoliers, each containing - a hundred extra rounds, gas-mask, mess outfit and the steel helmet, - commonly known as your tin hat. - -*Slum and Beef Stew* - -Josephus - Josephus Daniels, Secretary of the Navy during the war. - -gobs - Nickname for sailors. - -Brains of the Army - Any order apparently wrong or ridiculous is generally provocative of - the soldiers saying, "Brains of the Army." - -Thotmes III, (or Thutmose or Thutmosis) - Of the Eighteenth Dynasty, who began his reign about 1500 B. C., - Egypt's greatest conqueror, and under whom the Egyptian Empire - attained its largest extent. Rameses II (the Great) of the following - Dynasty, is, however, the more generally known. - -Cyrus' doughboys swept etc. - Refers to the passage of Cyrus and his great army through the - Cilician Gates, on his way from his conquest of Lydia in Asia Minor, - to his descent of the Euphrates Valley to Babylon, whose easy - capitulation in 539 B. C. finally brought to an end the old glory of - the Babylonian Empire, which, after a long period under Assyrian - rule, had blossomed forth in a glorious recrudescence, in the latter - part of the Seventh Century B. C, under Nebopolassar and his famous - son Nebuchadnezzar--and then known as the Neo-Babylonian Empire, or, - more commonly, as Chaldea. The reader will doubtless remember that - it was through the same passage in the Taurus Mountains that - Ashurbanapal, le Grand Monarque of Assyria when at the apogee of her - power in the Seventh Century B. C, and also Alexander the Great, - sweeping to his eastern conquests, both passed. - - Doughboys is the popular present-day nickname for infantrymen. - -Sitting on the World - When the situation is thoroughly agreeable and everything is - "breaking" just right. - -S.O.L. - Well known soldier expression which, elegantly translated, means - being totally and entirely out of luck, but not to be adopted for - "polite conversation." Remember this admonition. - -*Mr. Fly* - -G.I. Cans - Large high-explosive shells of about 6 inches diameter or over, and - made of thick galvanized iron or what appeared to be such. - -Cooties - Are pleasant little neighbors in the trenches, due to the inadequacy - of bathing facilities. - -*The Salvation Army With the A. E. F.* - -John Doe. Private Doe - The designation of an American soldier, where no specific name is - used, as, for example, to fill in the place for a name on a sample - blank or application of any kind. Not used as a popular nickname for - the American soldier as Tommy Atkins is used for the British - soldier. - -A. E. F. - American Expeditionary Forces: the title of the American troops in - France during the war. - -*Shell-Holes* - -The "77" - The typical artillery piece of the German army, and having a caliber - of approximately three inches, roughly corresponding with the famous - French "75," though not as effective, but quite effective enough. - -*Food* - -Salvation - Salvation Army. - -*Song of the Volunteers of 1917* - -Bayard - The great chivalric hero and warrior of France during the reign of - Francis I. The Chevalier Bayard was killed in northern Italy in - 1524, during the advance of Bourbon at the head of the Imperial - forces. - -the Cid - The chief heroic figure of Spain, who lived in the Eleventh Century, - fighting ably against the Moorish power until exiled by his king in - the year 1075, after which he became a free lance, sometimes - engaging in battle the Infidel and sometimes the Christian. He died - in 1099, and, while a very able commander, it is generally - understood that most of his great deeds are a gorgeous fabric of - tradition rather than actual history. - -Artillery Registering - The bursting of shrapnel over your trenches, by the enemy, in order - to get the range for their shell-fire which is to follow. - -*Trucks* - -Toto - A nickname for a Cootie, qv. - -Including nuts, candy etc. - The American soldier has a notoriously "sweet-tooth," and big husky - men positively gormandize on things saccharine, when obtainable. - -Mademoiselle - The army man pronounces the word "mademoiselle" at full length, - using the most punctilious care to enunciate each and every one of - the four syllables. Whether this is due to the word being foreign to - many of them, or whether it is due to their all-saving subtle sense - of American humor, so that it seems rather delicious to call the - little French ladies by so long and ponderous a title, I really do - not know, but I strongly suspect that it is the latter. - -The First Division - Caesar had his Tenth Legion, Napoleon had his Old Guard, and the - American Army during the World War had its First Division. It might - therefore not seem entirely malapropos to quote the words of the - great French general Mangin, who was the corps commander of the - First Division of the American Army, the famous First Moroccans of - the French Army and the Second Division of the American Army, at the - Second Battle of the Marne, that began on July 18th, 1918, and was - the turning point of the whole war. In this great door movement the - First Division was given practically the post of honor at the - _hinge_ itself, i.e., directly at Soissons, only one division, the - 153rd French Infantry Division, being on the inside of the First - Division, and as it was in this engagement that a gentleman of - Teutonic origin, operating a machine-gun from our extreme left - flank, and apparently very much irritated about something, put a - bullet in my side and out my back, it is only natural that the - message of Gen. Mangin was of interest to me, and saved, and here - quoted verbatim:-- - - Lauds Americans in Battle. - General Mangin Thanks Pershing's Men for Brilliant - Part in Drive. - (By Associated Press.) - - With the French. Army in France, Aug. 7.--General Mangin, who was in - direct command of the Allied forces in the drive against the German - right flank south of Soissons, has issued the following order of the - day thanking the American troops for their brilliant participation - in the battle which caused the German retreat between the Marne and - the Aisne: - - "Officers, non-commissioned officers and soldiers of the Third - American Army Corps: - - "Shoulder to shoulder with your French comrades, you threw - yourselves into the counter-offensive begun on July 18th. You ran to - it like going to a feast. Your magnificent dash upset and surprised - the enemy and your indomitable tenacity stopped counter-attacks by - his fresh divisions. You have shown yourselves to be worthy sons of - your great country and have gained the admiration of your brothers - in arms. - - "Ninety-one cannon, 7,200 prisoners, immense booty and ten - kilometers (six and a quarter miles) of reconquered territory are - your share of the trophies of this victory. Besides this, you have - acquired a feeling of your superiority over the barbarian enemy - against whom the children of liberty are fighting. To attack him is - to vanquish him. - - "American comrades, I am grateful to you for the blood you - generously spilled on the soil of my country. I am proud of having - commanded you during such splendid days, and to have fought with you - for the deliverance of the world." - - "The Stars and Stripes," the weekly paper of the A. E. F. in France, - in giving a tabulated form of the record of the various divisions, - and their insignia, which was worn on the shoulder of the left - sleeve, said the following of the First Division:-- - - Division Insignia: Crimson figure "1" on khaki background, chosen - because the numeral "1" represents the number of the division and - many of its subsidiary organizations. Also, as proudly claimed, - because it was the "First Division in France; first in sector; first - to fire a shot at the Germans; first to attack; first to conduct a - raid; first to be raided; first to capture prisoners; first to - inflict casualties; first to suffer casualties; first to be cited - singly in General Orders; first in the number of Division, Corps and - Army Commanders and General Staff Officers produced from its - personnel." - - To this might have been added that the First Division, which was a - Regular Army division, and originally comprised about twenty or - thirty per cent "old soldiers," and the rest of us "war volunteers," - but proud of being "Regulars," the First Division, which consisted - of the 16th, 18th, 26th and 28th Infantry Regiments, the 5th, 6th - and 7th Field Artillery Regiments, the 1st Engineer Regiment, and a - complement of Cavalry, etc., was the division that General Pershing, - the commander-in-chief, picked out to fill the most vital positions - on important occasions, as, for example, when, from the whole army, - he chose the First Division to go into the front line just west of - Montdidier, at the Battle of Picardy, to help hold the very apex of - the huge German bulge that had swept southwestward from St. Quentin - to Montdidier, in the great series of Hun drives which started on - March 21st. 1918. Again, it was the First Division that Pershing - placed at Soissons at virtually the hinge of the great door movement - in the turning point of the whole war, the Second Battle of the - Marne, as heretofore described; and it was the First Division to - which Pershing again gave the post of honor when the St. Mihiel - salient was closed, as it was this Division that was placed on the - inside position of the great southern jaw, just east of Xivray and - dangerous Mont Sec. - - Casualties and kilometers make very interesting reading, but when a - Commander-in-chief consistently and persistently picks out one - certain division for the most difficult and all-important positions, - there is not much room for argumentation. - - Mr. Page, in his article in _The World's Work_, for May. 1919. in - describing the Second Battle of the Marne, tells how the First - Division went over the top with the 153rd French Infantry Division - on its left, and the famous First Moroccan Division and the Second - Division of the American Army on its right, and how, in this - gruelling engagement, the First Division outlasted both the Second - Division and the First Moroccans, and really also the 153rd French - Division on its left, as this latter was obliged to get - reinforcements, Mr. Page recapitulating the situation with the - following paragraph:-- - - "When the division (the First Division) finally came out of the line - it had lost more than 7,200 men, mostly in the infantry. The full - complement of infantry in a division is 12.000. Five days' constant - and successful attack after a long march: an advance of more than - six and a quarter miles (ten kilometers); losses of at least 50 per - cent, of the infantry engaged: keeping pace with the famous Moroccan - Division and staving longer in the fight--all this had demonstrated - that the 1st Division could stand in any company." In mentioning - these facts there is no desire on my part to pretend that this - outfit single-handed won the war, because, if I said that, I would - be talking sheer nonsense. The consensus of opinion both at home and - abroad, seems to be that the whole American Army lived entirely up - to expectations, so that any man who was in a combat division, has - good reason to feel proud of his own division, irrespective of what - one that may have been. With this little word of explanation I feel - at liberty to quote the following which appeared in the Paris - edition of The New York Herald:-- - - Prowess of Yanks Compels Praise Even from Hun, - (Special telegram to the Herald.) - From Burr Price. - With the American Armies. - _Friday_ - - From a captured officer of the German army comes a remarkable - tribute to the fighting prowess of the First Division of the - American troops, whose work will go down in history as among the - most remarkable of the present war. - - He declared the Germans did not believe the Americans could produce, - within five years, a division such as they had found the First - Division to be. The German, when taken, had seen four years of - severe fighting. This is what he had to say yesterday:-- - - "I received orders to hold the ground at all costs. The American - barrage advanced toward my position and the work of your artillery - was marvelous. The barrage was so dense that it was impossible for - us to move out of our dugouts. - - "Following the barrage closely were the troops of the First - Division. I saw them forge ahead and knew that all was lost. All - night I remained in my dugout, hoping vainly that something would - happen that would permit me to rejoin my army. This morning your - troops found me and here I am, after four years of fighting, a - prisoner. - - "Yesterday, I knew that the First Division was opposite us, and I - knew we would have to put up the hardest fight of the war. The First - Division is wonderful and the German army knows it. - - "We did not believe that within five years the Americans could - develop a division such as this First Division. The work of its - infantry and artillery is worthy of the best armies of the world." - -Little Gold Chevrons on My Cuffs - The gold chevrons, called "stripes," worn on the cuffs of "overseas" - soldiers, during the World War, each one on the left cuff standing - for six months' "overseas" service, and each chevron on the right - cuff standing for a wound. One wound chevron meant a wound or wounds - severe enough to take a man back to the hospital, irrespective of - whether he had one or a dozen bullets or pieces of shell in him on - that occasion. - -Captain Blankburg - The patrol herein described was what was called a "reconnoitering - patrol," sent out solely for the purpose of gathering information, - keeping itself unknown to the enemy, and not fighting unless - actually attacked. "Combat patrols" were sent out for this latter - purpose. - -*Interrupted Chow* - -Buzzy-cart - The carts that were sent from the company kitchens, which were - usually from six to ten kilometers back of the first line trenches, - up to within about two to four kilometers of the front line, where - they would stop at designated points until chow details from the - second line came back to them, to carry the cans of slum, coffee, - and the bread or hardtack, up to the men in the first and second - line. All this, of course, was done under cover of darkness, but as - the Germans had the range of all the roads, etc., and knew at about - what time the food had to be gone after, it meant that almost every - night at least one detail was shot to pieces. - -Dog-tag - Small, round metal disc, suspended from the neck by a cord, and with - the soldier's name, rank and organization stamped thereon, and - forming an identification tag. - -*The Gas-Proof Mule* - -"Stand-to" - In the first and second line trenches everyone was obliged to remain - awake all night, but at dawn each man had to take his exact post, - and be prepared to repel any enemy attack that might come over, as - that was a favorite hour for doing so. This was called "stand-to." - -*Infantry of the World War* - -Zero hour - The exact time at which you start forward to attack. - -*A First-Class Private* - -Loot - Abbreviation for lieutenant. - -"Sunny France" - Soldier sarcasm, because he scarcely ever saw any sun while in - France, and, of course, the majority had never visited the Riviera, - nor known Paris in summer raiment, during normal peace times. - -Sitting Jake - Means the same thing as "Sitting on the World," i.e., everything - salubrious and "breaking" just right. - -_Note_ - -While realizing that my personal affairs are of no possible interest to -the reader, it would seem, however, almost obligatory for me to do -myself justice, and explain that I was quite willing to shoulder -responsibility, which this poem might make it appear I was not. Hence -the following little anecdote:--During a rest period back from the -trenches, which was the only occasion when you had time to bother your -head about smaller things, several men had applied for officers' -commissions, so I got some civilian letters of recommendation, and put -in an application to be permitted to go up for examination for a -commission. This application was forwarded "approved" by my company -commander, together with personal recommendations from my three previous -company commanders. As this officer is the one who sees you daily, his -recommendation is, from a military standpoint, of more value than that -of a major-general. But in spite of my application being forwarded with -the approval of all four of the company commanders that I had had up to -that time, it was disapproved higher up by someone who very seldom could -ever have even seen me. But having had no thought or intention of -getting a commission, when I entered the Army, and having crossed over -to Europe as a civilian, at my own expense, in August, 1917, to enlist -in the American Army in France, which I did on September 1st, 1917, in -Paris, so as to absolutely insure getting into the trenches, and as at -the time of my application I had already accomplished my purpose, it may -readily be discerned that the return of my application did not perturb -the habitual equanimity of my soul, nor cause me to lose any of my -natural sleep or youthful charm. - -*Only for You* - -rowdy or cad - While very often some junior, or even senior, officer would fall - under this category, and even worse, the majority of them really - tried to give their men a square deal. If an officer were a - rough-neck, snob, or as the men in the ranks would usually express - it, a ribbon-counter clerk, it was only quite natural that he would - take cowardly advantage of his shoulder straps to make it as - miserable as possible for the men under him, but if an officer were - a gentleman in civilian life, the man in the ranks was sure to be - handled as a man and treated fairly, so long as he did his military - duty and conducted himself as a soldier. Of this latter type, I can - look back with pleasure on all my company commanders, remembering - especially men like Lt. Victor Parks, Jr., and Capt. Allen F. - Kingman, "officers and gentlemen" in the highest sense of the word. - Upon the one or two officers of the other type it is quite - unnecessary to dwell. When once free from contact with a skunk, one - simply bathes, changes one's clothes, and promptly allows the - odoriferous memory to be wafted away and disseminated in the ambient - atmosphere of oblivion. - -Silver bursts cut - Artillery flares at night show red, but in the early dawn they - appear against the dark hillsides like bursts of silver. - -*Old Fusee* - -Fusee - Soldier term for his rifle, the French word "fusil" meaning that - weapon. - -The Colors of Blighty - Because of its brevity, succinctness and expressiveness, I have used - the word Blighty to designate a military hospital, though it was - never in really popular use by the American soldier for this - purpose, and to the British soldier it simply meant going back to - England, but as so often Tommy Atkins went back to his Tight Little - Island because he was wounded, Blighty frequently meant "hospital." - -When Nurse Comes In - The phraseology and repertoire of the army man must not be taken too - seriously, as nine-tenths of the time it is simply a safety valve - for ebullient spirits or dread monotony, and with little or no real - harm back of it. - -Charlie Chaplin in Blighty - The famous "movie" comedian of the cinema. - -*Embarkation Home* - -M P - Military Police; soldiers acting in that capacity. - -*THE END* - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Trench Ballads and Other Verses, by -Erwin Clarkson Garrett - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRENCH BALLADS AND OTHER VERSES *** - -***** This file should be named 40379.txt or 40379.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/3/7/40379/ - -Produced by Michael McDermott, from scans obtained at the -Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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