path: root/69980-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 69980 ***

[Illustration: He’s been on every front from Château-Thierry to the
Rhine CLR, Baldwin Jr. Coblenz—1919]




                                 YANKS
                             A. E. F. VERSE


                        ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN
                        “THE STARS AND STRIPES”

      THE OFFICIAL NEWSPAPER OF THE AMERICAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCES

                                   ❧

                          G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
                          NEW YORK AND LONDON
                        The Knickerbocker Press
                                  1919




                            COPYRIGHT, 1919
                                   BY
                          G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

[Illustration]




                                   To

                         THE CHILDREN OF FRANCE




                                FOREWORD


The A. E. F. was about the most sentimental outfit that ever lived. Most
of it—so it seemed to anyone who served on the staff of _The Stars and
Stripes_—wrote poetry. All of it read poetry. “The Army’s Poets” column,
in which some hundred thousand lines of verse were printed during the
course of the Army newspaper’s existence, was re-read, cut out, sent
home, pinned or pasted up in dugouts, Adrian barracks and mess shacks,
laughed over and, in all likelihood, wept over.

It was good verse. Occasionally the metre was out of joint, the rhymes
faulty, the whole mechanism awry, but it was good verse for all that.
For it rang true, every syllable of it, however the scansion may have
halted or the expression blundered. It was inspired by mud and cooties
and gas and mess-kits and Boche 77’s and home and mother, all
subordinated to a determination to stick it through whatever the time
and pains involved.

Various anthologies of war verse have appeared in America. Nearly all
have consisted almost wholly of the work of non-combatant poets—indeed
of professionals—who wrote smoothly, visioned the horror with facile
accuracy for what it was, and interpreted well—for people who didn’t get
to the war. _Yanks_ is the work of men who got there. It is a source
book of A. E. F. emotion.

_Yanks_ is composed entirely of selections from the verse published in
_The Stars and Stripes_ during the nine months of its pre-armistice
career, and seven months before the Army newspaper, according to the
pledge of its editors, was “folded away, never to be taken out again.”
The profits from the original edition were to have been used to buy
fruit and delicacies for American sick and wounded in overseas
hospitals, and would have been but for the decision of the Judge
Advocate General of the A. E. F. who, after the publication and sale of
the volume, refused to permit the expenditure of the proceeds because of
a technicality.

The royalties accruing from the sale of this volume will be devoted to
_The Stars and Stripes_ Fund for French War Orphans, to which 600,000
American soldiers gave more than 2,200,000 francs during their stay in
France.

This republication is made with the consent and approval of Newton D.
Baker, Secretary of War, under the direction of the former editorial
council of _The Stars and Stripes_, now associated in the publication of
_The Home Sector_.

[Illustration: John T. Winterich]




                                CONTENTS


                                                                    PAGE

 FOREWORD                                                              v

 JUST THINKIN’—_Hudson Hawley, Pvt., M.G. Bn._                         1

 TO THE KID SISTER—_J. T. W., Pvt., A.S._                              3

 CORP’RAL’S CHEVRONS                                                   5

 YOU’RE NOT A FAN, PIERRETTE—_S. H. C._                                6

 MY SWEETHEART—_Frank C. McCarthy, Sgt., A.S._                         8

 DAD’S LETTERS                                                         9

 MLLE. SOIXANTE-QUINZE—_J. M. H., F.A._                               11

 HOME IS WHERE THE PIE IS                                             14

 HOW IT WORKS OUT—_Tyler H. Bliss, Corp., Inf._                       16

 FAITH                                                                19

 THE ORPHANS OF FRANCE—_Franklin P. Adams, Capt., U. S. A.; Stuart
   H. Carroll, Sgt., Q.M.C._                                          20

 REVEILLE—_Ray L. Huff, Pvt., M.D._                                   22

 FULL DIRECTIONS—_Daniel Turner Balmer, A.S._                         24

 ON LEARNING FRENCH—_Alfred J. Fritchey, Camp Hospital 30_            25

 “WHO SAID SUNNY FRANCE?”—_Jack Warren Carrol, Corp., F.A._           26

 THE TRUANT—_R. R. Kirk, Pvt., G2, S.O.S._                            28

 TRIBUTE—_F. M. H. D., F.A._                                          29

 SEA STUFF—_Steuart M. Emery, Pvt., M.P._                             31

 LETTERS—_Mel Ryder, Sgt. Major, Inf._                                33

 SOLDIER SMILES—_Allen A. Stockdale, Capt., U.S.A._                   35

 BEEFING—_H. H. Huss, Sgt., Inf._                                     37

 THE TANK—_Richard C. Colburn, Sgt., Tank Corps_                      39

 THE NEW ARMY—_R. R. Kirk, S.S.U._                                    42

 TOUJOURS LE MÊME—_Vance C. Criss, Corp., Engrs._                     43

 TO THE WEST WIND—_William S. Long, Corp., A.S._                      45

 THE DRIVER—_F. M. H. D., F.A._                                       46

 SONG OF THE CENSOR MAN—_John Fletcher Hall, Sgt., Inf., Acting
   Chaplain_                                                          48

 DO YOU KNOW THIS GUY?—_Frank Eisenberg, Pvt., Tel. Bn._              50

 CAMOUFLAGE—_M. G._                                                   52

 TRENCH MUD—_John J. Curtin, Sgt., Inf._                              54

 I LOVE CORNED BEEF—_A. P. B._                                        56

 A CHAPLAIN’S PRAYER—_Thomas F. Coakley, Lt., Chaplain_               59

 BILLETS                                                              60

 THE MULE SKINNERS—_William Bradford, 2nd Lt., A.G.D._                63

 THE OLD OVERSEAS CAP—_Fairfax D. Downey, 1st Lt., F.A._              65

 HOGGIN’ IT—_Med. Mique_                                              67

 THE MAN—_H. T. S._                                                   69

 SONG OF THE GUNS—_Grantland Rice, 1st Lt., F.A._                     70

 THROUGH THE WHEAT                                                    72

 ALLIES—_Merritt Y. Hughes, Pvt., Inf._                               74

 TO BUDDY—_Howard J. Green, Corp., Inf._                              76

 THE WOOD CALLED ROUGE-BOUQUET—_Joyce Kilmer, Sgt., Inf. Killed in
   action, July 30, 1918_                                             78

 GOOD-BYE                                                             81

 THE FIELDS OF THE MARNE—_Frank Carbaugh, Sgt., Inf. (Written while
   lying wounded in hospital; died, August, 1918)_                    83

 A NURSE’S PRAYER—_Thomas F. Coakley, Lt., Chaplain_                  85

 LINES ON LEAVING A LITTLE TOWN WHERE WE RESTED—_Russell Lord,
   Corp., F.A._                                                       86

 POPPIES—_Joseph Mills Hanson, Capt., F.A._                           87

 POILU—_Steuart M. Emery, Pvt., M.P._                                 89

 AS THINGS ARE                                                        91

 THE GIRL OF GIRLS—_Howard A. Herty, Corp., 1st Army Hq._             92

 THE LITTLE DREAMS—_Joseph Mills Hanson, Capt., F.A._                 94

 THE R.T.O.—_A. P. Bowen, Sgt., R.T.O._                               98

 THE MACHINE GUN—_Albert Jay Cook, Corp., M.G. Bn._                  100

 OUR DEAD                                                            102

 EVERYBODY’S FRIEND—_Frederick W. Kurth, Sgt., M.T.D._               103

 THE STEVEDORE—_C. C. Shanfelter, Sgt., S.C._                        105

 BLACK AND WHITE—_Harv._                                             108

 THE OL’ CAMPAIGN HAT                                                111

 WHEN THE GENERAL CAME TO TOWN—_Vance C. Criss, Corp., Engrs._       113

 SEICHEPREY—_J. M. H._                                               116

 BEFORE A DRIVE—_Charles Lyn Fox, Inf._                              117

 PRIVATE JONES, A. E. F.—_William I. Engle, Pvt., Inf._              119

 “HOMMES 40, CHEVAUX 8”                                              121

 THE BUGLER—_Lin Davies, Pvt._                                       123

 THE RETURN OF THE REFUGEES—_Frederick W. Kurth, Sgt., M.T.D._       124

 AS THE TRUCKS GO ROLLIN’ BY—_L. W. Suckert, 1st Lt., A.S._          126

 GETTIN’ LETTERS—_E. C. D., Field Hospital_                          129

 TO THE CHILDREN OF FRANCE—_R. R. Kirk, Pvt., G2, S.O.S._            131

 THEN WE’LL COME BACK TO YOU—_Howard H. Herty, Corp., 1st Army Hq.
   Reg._                                                             132

 TO A DOUGHBOY                                                       133

 LIL’ PAL O’ MINE—_E.S.E._                                           135

 PERFECT CONTRITION—_Thomas F. Coakley, Lt., Chaplain_               136

 WHEN PRIVATE MUGRUMS PARLAY VOOS—_Charles Divine, Pvt._             137

 IF I WERE A COOTIE—_A. P. Bowen, Sgt., R.T.O._                      139

 THE LILY—_Howard J. Green, Corp., Inf._                             141

 ME,—AN’ WAR GOIN’ ON!—_John Palmer Cumming, Inf._                   142

 THE ROAD TO MONTFAUCON—_Harold Riezelman, 1st Lt., C.W.S._          145

 VESTAL STAR—_Fra Guido, F.A._                                       146

 THE DOUGHBOY PROMISES—_Arthur McKeogh, Lt., Inf._                   147

 OLD LADY RUMOR—_C. H. MacCoy, Base Hosp. 38_                        149

 THE LOST TOWNS—_Steuart M. Emery, Pvt., M.P._                       150

 DER TAG—_Howard J. Green, Corp., Inf._                              152

 THERE’S ABOUT TWO MILLION FELLOWS—_Albert J. Cook, Sgt., Hq.
   Detch.,—Army Corps_                                               154

 NOVEMBER ELEVENTH—_Hilmar R. Baukhage, Pvt., A.E.F._                157




                             JUST THINKIN’


                Standin’ up here on the fire-step,
                  Lookin’ ahead in the mist,
                With a tin hat over your ivory
                  And a rifle clutched in your fist;
                Waitin’ and watchin’ and wond’rin’
                  If the Hun’s comin’ over to-night—
                Say, ain’t the things you think of
                  Enough to give you a fright?

                Things you ain’t even thought of
                  For a couple o’ months or more;
                Things that ’ull set you laughin’,
                  Things that ’ull make you sore;
                Things that you saw in the movies,
                  Things that you saw on the street,
                Things that you’re really proud of,
                  Things that are—not so sweet.

                Debts that are past collectin’,
                  Stories you hear and forget,
                Ball games and birthday parties,
                  Hours of drill in the wet;
                Headlines, recruitin’ posters,
                  Sunsets ’way out at sea,
                Evenings of pay days—golly,
                  It’s a queer thing, this memory!

                Faces of pals in Homeburg
                  Voices of women folk,
                Verses you learnt in schooldays
                  Pop up in the mist and smoke,
                As you stand there, grippin’ that rifle,
                  A-starin’, and chilled to the bone,
                Wonderin’ and wonderin’ and wonderin’,
                  Just thinkin’ there—all alone!

                When will the war be over?
                  When will the gang break through?
                What will the U. S. look like?
                  What will there be to do?
                Where will the Boches be then?
                  Who will have married Nell?
                When’s that relief a-comin’ up?
                  Gosh! But this thinkin’s hell!
                        HUDSON HAWLEY, Pvt., M.G. Bn.




                           TO THE KID SISTER


            You were only a kid, little sister,
              When I started over the sea,
            But you’ve grown quite a lot since I came here,
              And you’ve written a letter to me,
            And nobody knows that you wrote it—
              It’s a secret—and we’ll keep it well,
            Your brother and you and the ocean,
              And nobody’s going to tell.

            You were only a tot when I left you.
              I remember I bade you goodbye
            And kissed you, a little bit flustered,
              And you promised you never would cry.
            But I know that you cried, little sister,
              As soon as I’d gone out the door,
            And did I cry myself? I’m a soldier,
              So don’t ask me anything more.

            I think of you often, kid sister—
              You’re the only kid sister I’ve got—
            I know you’ll be good to your mother,
              And I know that you’ll help her a lot.
            And whenever she seems to be gloomy,
              You’ve just got to cheer her somehow—
            You were only a kid to your brother,
              But you’re more than the world to him now.
                                      J. T. W., Pvt., A.S.




                          CORP’RAL’S CHEVRONS


       Oh, the General with his shiny stars, leadin’ a parade,
       The Colonel and the Adjutant a-sportin’ of their braid,
       The Major and the Skipper—none of ’em look so fine
       As a newly minted corp’ral comin’ down the line!

       Oh, the Bishop in his mitre, pacin’ up the aisle,
       The Governor, frock-coated, with a votes-for-women smile,
       The Congressman, the Mayor, aren’t in it, I opine,
       With a newly minted corp’ral comin’ down the line!




                      YOU’RE NOT A FAN, PIERRETTE


              I’ll take you to the Follies, dear,
                If there you think you’d like to go;
              I’ll buy you beaucoup wine and beer
                Down at the gay Casino show;
              In short, I’ll do whatever task
                Your little heart desires to name
              Save one: You must not ever ask
                To see another baseball game.

              Your understanding is immense
                At “compreying” the jokes they spring
              In vaudeville shows—and you’re not dense
                Because you like to hear me sing.
              But, cherie, you will never be
                The one to set my heart aflame,
              Because you simply cannot see
                The inside of a baseball game.

              When you and I were watching while
                The Doughboys battled the Marines,
              Did classy hitting make you smile?
                Did you rejoice in home run scenes?
              Ah, no; when Meyer slammed the pill—
                They couldn’t find it for a week—
              You turned to me and said, “Oh, Bill,
                I sink hees uniform ees chique.”

              And did you holler “Atta Boy!”
                When Powell zipped ’em, one, two, three,
              And made the Doughboys dance with joy—
                Was yours the voice that rose in glee?
              Not so; you made your escort feel
                Like one big, foolish, roasted goose,
              When all the bleachers heard you squeal,
                “But, Bill, hees nose ees so retrousse.”

              So when you don your new chapeau
                Hereafter for a promenade,
              Remember that no more we’ll go
                To sit beneath the grandstand shade;
              Your curtain calls are surely great
                Where Thespians tread the boards of fame,
              But, Gosh! you can’t appreciate
                A good old Yankee baseball game.
                                              S. H. C.




                             MY SWEETHEART


          I saw her in a dream as though in life,
            Her form, her soft blue eyes, her eider hair,
          Which fell as silken, golden portals, draped
            Before her bosom fair.

          She whispered in my ear, “Sweetheart, be brave,
            We’ll back you up in all you do and dare.”
          Then bending o’er, she pressed her lips to mine ...
            I woke—she was not there.
                    FRANK C. MCCARTHY, Sgt., A.S.




                             DAD’S LETTERS


          My dad ain’t just the letter writin’ kind—
            He’d rather let the women see to that;
          He’s got a mess o’ troubles on his mind,
            And likes to keep ’em underneath his hat.

          And p’raps because he isn’t very strong
            On talkin’, why, he’s kind o’ weak on ink;
          But he can work like sin the whole year long,
            And, crickey, how that dad o’ mine can think!

          When I set out from Homeville last July,
            He didn’t bawl the way my sister did;
          He just shook hands and says, “Well, boy, goodbye.”
            (He’s got his feelin’s, but he keeps ’em hid.)

          And so when mother writes about the things
            That I spend half my time a-thinkin’ of,
          There’s one short line that every letter brings:
            “Father will write, and meanwhile sends his love.”

          “Father will write.” Well, some day p’raps he will—
            There’s lots of funny prophecies come true;
          But if he just keeps promisin’ to, still,
            I’ll understand, and dad’ll know I do.




                         MLLE. SOIXANTE-QUINZE


           Oh, a mistress fit for a soldier’s love
             Is the graceful 75;
           As neat and slim, and as strong and trim
             As ever a girl alive.

           Where the steel-blue sheen of her mail is seen,
             And the light of her flashing glance,
           In the broken spray of the roaring fray
             Is the soul of embattled France.

           Her love is true as the heaven’s blue—
           She will fight for her love till death;
           Her hate is a flame no fear can tame,
           That slays with the lightning’s breath.

           For the sun of day turns fogged and gray,
             And night is a reeling hell
           When she swings the flail of the shrapnel’s hail,
             Or looses the bursting shell.

           From high Lorraine to the Somme and the Aisne,
             She has held at bay the Hun,
           That with broken strength he may pay, at length,
             For the sins that his race has done;

           For Alsace, torn from the mother land,
             Ravished and mocked and chained;
           For Belgium, nailed to the martyr’s cross,
             For holding her faith unstained.

           Thou Maid, who cam’st, like a beacon flame,
             In thy people’s darkest hour,
           Who bade them thrill with patriot will
             By the spell of thy mystic power,

           As thou gav’st them heart to speed the dart
             From arquebus and bow,
           Give us to drive, with the 75,
             Our bolts on a baser foe,

           That we who have come from Freedom’s home
             Across the western wave,
           Such blows shall give that France may live
             As once for us she gave.

           May our good guns play with a stinging spray
             On the Prussian ranks of war,
           And smite them yet as did Lafayette
             The hireling Huns of yore!

           May we aim again at a tyrant’s men
             As straight and swift a blow
           As at Yorktown came, with smoke and flame,
             From the guns of Rochambeau!

           Oh, a mistress fit for our soldier love
             Is the soixante-quinze, our boast,
           Our hope and pride, like a new-won bride,
             But the dread of the Kaiser’s host!
                                         J. M. H., F.A.




                        HOME IS WHERE THE PIE IS


                   “Home is where the heart is”—
                     Thus the poet sang;
                   But “home is where the pie is”
                     For the doughboy gang.
                   Crullers in the craters
                     Pastry in abris—
                   Our Salvation Army lass
                     Sure knows how to please.

                   Watch her roll the pie crust
                     Mellower than gold;
                   Watch her place it neatly
                     Within its ample mold;
                   Sniff the grand aroma
                     While it slowly bakes—
                   Though the whine of Minnie shells
                     Echoes far awakes.

                   Tin hat for a halo!
                     Ah, she wears it well!
                   Making pies for homesick lads
                     Sure is “beating hell”;
                   In a region blasted
                     By fire and flame and sword,
                   Our Salvation Army lass
                     Battles for the Lord!

                   Call me sacrilegious,
                     And irreverent, too;
                   Pies? They link us up with home
                     As naught else can do!
                   “Home is where the heart is”—
                     True, the poet sang;
                   But “home is where the pie is”
                     To the Yankee gang!




                            HOW IT WORKS OUT


 When Jonesy joined the Army he had all the dope down fine.
 Said he, “I’d ought to land the cush, though serving in the line.
 A private’s pay is thirty, then by adding ten per cent—
     That’s thirty-three,
     And now lessee,
     In this here now French currency—
     Five-sixty rate,
     Makes one-eight-eight,
     Or thereabouts; why, hell! that’s great!
     It’s more’n enough
     To buy me stuff,
     And let me throw a swell front bluff.
     Because my chow
     Is paid for now,
     And I don’t need but to allow
     A little kale
     For vin or ale,
     And maybe some day blow a frail
     To vo-de-vee
     In gay Paree
     Or some live joint like that citee—
 Why, I’ll be flush—besides, Friend Govt. is staking me the rent.”

 On pay day Jones was right on deck, an outstretched cap in view—
 He thought by trusting to his hands some clackers might leak through.
 He’d planned to split his wages among all the leading banks,
     But the Q.M.
     Just said, “Ahem
     Expenses come
     To quite a sum,
     Though where the tin is coming from
     Is not my care,
     But your affair.
     We’ll have to charge you for a pair
     Of leggins lost,
     Ten francs the cost;
     On board the ship we note you tossed
     A cigarette
     Into the wet—
     Subs might upon our trail have set.
     That’ll put you
     Back ninety-two;
     Insurance, bonds, allotments, too—
 In short, you owe the Government just eighty-seven francs.”
                 TYLER H. BLISS, Corp., Inf.




                                 FAITH


                    I heard the cannons’ monotone
                      A mile or two away;
                    But in the shell-torn town I saw
                      Two little boys at play.

                    From what was yesterday a home
                      I heard the cannons booming;
                    But in the garden I could see
                      A bed of pansies blooming.

                    Along the weary, dreary road,
                      Forspent and dull I trod;
                    But in the sky of spring I saw
                      The countenance of God.




                         THE ORPHANS OF FRANCE


          Gone are the games that they should be playing;
            Gone are the trinkets to childhood dear.
          Hushed are the voices that should be saying
            Words of parental cheer.

          Give them the joy that is theirs by birthright!
            Give them the smiles they are robbed of! Give,
          Give them the love that is childhood’s earth-right—
            Give them the right to live!
                    FRANKLIN P. ADAMS, Capt., U.S.A.


               Give, and the baby buds shall grow
                 In childhood’s sheltered garden plot;
               Give, and the coming years shall show
                 Each blossom a forget-me-not.

               Give, and the dawn of lonesome years
                 Shall turn to a springtime morning mild;
               Give, and receive through a mist of tears,
                 The blessing of a little child.
                         STUART H. CARROLL, Sgt., Q.M.C.




                                REVEILLE


                 Get up, get up, you sleepy head,
                   And grab your sox and trou;
                 Get up, get up, get out of bed,
                   You’re in the Army now.

                 Get up, get up, you carrion beast,
                   Get up and dig for chow;
                 It doesn’t matter what you think,
                   You’re in the Army now.

                 Get up and powder, rouge and curl
                   And dress—no matter how—
                 But don’t be late for reveille,
                   You’re in the Army now.

                 Get up, you foozle, ninny, boob,
                   There’s eggs and cheese and ham
                 (For officers) and slum for you,
                   You slave of Uncle Sam.

                 But don’t you fret or don’t you fume,
                   For honest Injun! How
                 Would you have felt if you were not
                   In Uncle’s Army now?
                               RAY L. HUFF, Pvt., M.D.




                            FULL DIRECTIONS


   We saw them, but we did not need to ask where lay the Front;
     Their clothes were neat and rolls aback, well made;
   They marched with faces wrinkled, not by smiles or many frowns,
     Betokening men determined, unafraid.

   Once more we saw them, needing not to ask where lay the Front;
     Their clothes were soiled, and packs in careless roll;
   They, greeting, made their way along with faces tired yet bright,
     Betokening men who fought with heart and soul.

   We need not hear the cannon’s boom to know where action lies,
     Nor yet to seek until we find the place,
   For map and compass, signboard, news we’re ever getting from
     The look upon the passing poilu’s face.
               DANIEL TURNER BALMER, A.S.




                           ON LEARNING FRENCH


               Like silver bells heard in a mist,
                 Or moonstone echoes from some brook
                 Where silver birches wall a nook,
               Or like sea ripples moon-lit kissed,

               Or like a lake of silver ledges
                 Where iris water-lilies lave,
                 Or like some lark’s translucent wave
               Of song above white hawthorn hedges,

               The maiden ripples French to me;
                 But I am like an argonaut
                 In some mute agony of thought,
               Lost in sound’s sweet tranquillity.
                   ALFRED J. FRITCHEY, Camp Hospital 30.




                        “WHO SAID SUNNY FRANCE?”


 It lies on your blankets and over your bed,
 There’s mud in the cover that covers your head,
 There’s mud in the coffee, the slum, and the bread—
         Sunny France!
 There’s mud in your eyebrows, there’s mud up your nose,
 There’s mud on your leggins to add to your woes,
 The mud in your boots finds its place ’twixt your toes—
         Sunny France!

 _Oh, the grimy mud, the slimy mud, the mud that makes you swear,
 The cheesy mud, the greasy mud, that filters through your hair._

 You sleep in the mud, and drink it, that’s true;
 There’s mud in the bacon, the rice, and the stew,
 When you open an egg, you’ll find mud in it, too—
         Sunny France!
 There’s mud in the water, there’s mud in the tea,

 There’s mud in your mess-kit as thick as can be,
 It sticks to your fingers like leaves to a tree—
         Sunny France!

 _Oh, the ruddy mud, the muddy mud, the mud that gets your goat,
 The sliding mud, the gliding mud, that sprays your pants and coat!_

 It cakes in your mouth till you feel like an ox,
 It slips down your back and it rests in your sox;
 You think that you’re walking on cut glass and rocks—
         Sunny France!
 There’s mud in your gas mask, there’s mud in your hat,
 There’s mud in your helmet, there’s mud on your gat,
 Yet though mud’s all around us, we’re happy at that—
         Sunny France!

 _Oh, the dank, dank mud, the rank, rank mud, there’s just one guy to
    blame;
 We’ll wish him well (we will like hell!) and Kaiser Bill’s his name!_
               JACK WARREN CARROL, Corp., F.A.




                               THE TRUANT


               The wise years saw him go from them,
                 Untaught by them, yet wise;
               He had but romped with the hoyden years,
                 Unwitting how time flies;
               Whose laughter glooms to wistfulness
                 At swift, undreamt good-byes.

               The wise, grave, patient mistresses
                 Of his young manhood’s school,
               The wise, grave, patient years-to-be—
                 He never knew their rule;
               And yet he marches by a man,
                 A hero, and no fool!

               The wise years see him go from them,
                 Untaught by them, yet wise;
               The lad who played where, yesterday,
                 Girls’ kisses were the prize!
               They wonder whence his manhood came,
                 So well he lives—and dies!
                             R. R. KIRK, Pvt., G2, S.O.S.




                                TRIBUTE


 There’s tumultuous confusion a-comin’ down the road,
   An’ the camouflage don’t nearways hide the dust,
 An’ it ain’t no flock of camions, though some’s carryin’ a load
   (I guess the provos winked—or got it fust).
 But now it’s comin’ closer, you can tell ’em by the roar—
 It’s the Hundred Second Infantry a-goin’ in once more.

         Oh, they’ve met the Hun at the length of a gun,
         And they know what he is and they mind what he’s done,
         So that’s why they sing as they slog to more fun!
         You doughboys, you slow boys,
         Here’s luck, an’ let her go, boys—
         We like you, Infantry.

 Now us in the Artillery don’t live no life of ease
   Nor yet particular security,
 For the present that Fritz sends us one can’t dodge behind the trees,
   Unless trees was much thicker than they be.
 But we know our lot is doughnuts, Orders Home, and Gay Paree
 To what you march to singin’, Hundred Second Infantry.

         Oh, there’s numerous blanks in your company ranks,
         But there’s two in the Boches’ for one in the Yanks’,
         An’ all that he guv, you returned him with thanks,
         You doughboys, you slow boys,
         Here’s luck, an’ let her go, boys—
         We like you, Infantry.
                             F. M. H. D., F.A.




                               SEA STUFF


               Now I’m a soldier, so I ain’t
                 No hand at art, but say,
               There’s things at sea I’d like to paint
                 Before I’m tucked away.

               A cruiser on the sunrise track,
                 Alert to find the morn,
               With every funnel belching black
                 Into the red, gold dawn;

               A flock o’ transports, crazy lined,
                 On blue-green waves advance,
               That sink their bows, all spray an’ dewed,
                 Hellbootin’ it for France;

               A manned gun peerin’ out to port
                 As evenin’ shadows close;
               Beyond, a ship slipped up an’ caught
                 Against a cloud o’ rose;

               A crow’s nest loomin’ from below
                 Across the Milk Way’s bars,
               Just like a cradle rockin’ slow,
                 An’ sung to by the stars.

               No, I can’t paint the things I’ve seen
                 While we were passin’ by,
               But, all the same, they sure have been
                 Worth lookin’ at, say I.
                     STEUART M. EMERY, Pvt., M.P.




                                LETTERS


     My buddy reads his letters to me, and, say, he sure can write!
     I have to sit and chew my pen and even then
     The way it reads when I get through I know it’s pretty sad
     As far as composition goes; the grammar, too, is bad.
     But talk about—gee, he can sling the ink to beat the band,
     And picture everything he’s seen a way that sure is grand.

     I got him to write a note to my gal and, golly, it was fine!
     I copied it and signed my name, but, all the same,
     It didn’t seem to please her, for she wrote in her reply
     She’d read it several times and it didn’t sound like I
     Was sayin’ exactly what I meant, and was I feelin’ good;
     I’m kind of glad she took it so—in fact, I hoped she would.
                   MEL RYDER, Sgt. Major, Inf.




                             SOLDIER SMILES


               You may talk of kings and princes,
                 And the glory of their show;
               You may sing of knights and ladies
                 In the days of long ago;
               You may paint a vivid picture
                 Of the wonder worlds to see,
               But the smiles on soldier faces
                 Look the best of all to me.

               They are gassed and shelled and tortured,
                 They are muddy, thin, and weak;
               They are shocked and shot and shattered,
                 And you marvel when they speak;
               They will give their all in battle
                 That the world may be made free,
               And their smiles amidst their sorrows
                 Are real miracles to see.

               They have smiled since they were babies—
                 Laughter, love have been their charms—
               And their smiles were patriotic
                 When their country called to arms;
               They go laughing to the trenches,
                 Filling fighting lines with glee,
               And with smiles they come back wounded—
                 Those are smiles that puzzle me.

               Kings and kaisers may be mighty
                 As the bloody brutes of war;
               They may use the worst of weapons
                 Never dreamed of e’er before;
               But they’re sure to meet disaster
                 Over land and on the sea,
               For the soldier boys of Freedom
                 Fight—and smile—the whole world free!
                     ALLEN A. STOCKDALE, Capt., U.S.A.




                                BEEFING


             It seems I’m never satisfied
               No matter where I go.
             My job’s a cinch, my duties soft,
               I still find grief and woe.
             If I’m stationed in a training camp
               Where drills are very light,
             I holler to be sent up front
               To get into the fight.

             When we were in the U. S. A.,
               I thought we had no chance,
             And I wasn’t really satisfied
               Till on my way to France.
             We’ve been here now about six months,
               And if I had kept track,
             I’ll bet I’ve said, a thousand times,
               “I wish that I was back.”

             And when I was a corporal
               I belly-ached around
             And thought a better sergeant
               Than I’d make could not be found.
             I’ve had three stripes for eight long months,
               And still I curse my luck,
             And threaten that I’ll tear ’em off
               And go back to a buck.

             For when they try to please me
               And dish out first class chow,
             And there’s sugar in the coffee,
               I’ll holler anyhow.
             And if I was sent to Heaven
               And up there was doing well,
             I wouldn’t, yet, be satisfied
               Till I’d got a look at hell!
                                 H. H. HUSS, Sgt., Inf.




                                THE TANK


 Oh, she’s nothin’ sweet to look at an’ no symphony to hear;
   She ain’t no pome of beauty, that’s a cinch—
 She howls like Holy Jumpin’ when a feller shifts a gear,
   But she’s sure a lovey-dovey in a pinch.
 Just head her straight for Berlin and no matter what the road,
   Or whether it’s just trenches, trees, and mud,
 And I’ll guarantee she’ll get there with her precious human load
   And her treads a-drippin’ red with German blood.
           Oh, you tank! tank! tank!
           She’s a pippin’, she’s a daisy, she’s a dream!
 Where the star-shells are a-lightin’ up the thickest of the fightin’,
           She’ll be sailin’ like a demon through the gleam.


 If the way is rough and stony and the vantage point is far,
   Just slip her into high and hang on tight,
 Shove your foot down on the throttle and to hell with all the jar!—
   She’ll take you clean from here to out of sight.
 ’Course you’ve got to clean and scrub her same as any piece of tin
   That’s worth the smoke to blow her up the flue;
 But just whisper to her gently, pat her back and yell “Giddap!”
   And there ain’t a thing she wouldn’t do for you.
           Oh, you tank! tank! tank!
           She’s a Lulu, she’s a cuckoo! She’s the goods!
 When the Boches see you comin’, they will set the air to hummin’
           A-wavin’ of their legs to reach the woods.

 When the last great rush is over and the last grim trench is past,
   She will roll in high right through old Berlin town,

 Her grim old sides a-shakin’ and her innerds raisin’ hob,
   Intent on runnin’ Kaiser William down.
 Then she’ll find him and we’ll bind him to her grindin’, tearin’ treads,
   And we’ll start her rollin’ on the road to hell,
 Shove her into high and leave her, tie her bloomin’ throttle down—
   We’ll say she’s lived her life and lived it well.
           Oh, you tank! tank! tank!
           She’s a devil! She’s a dandy! She’s sublime!
 When her grimy hide goes hurlin’ through the dirty streets of Berlin,
           Watch the goose step change to Yankee double time!
   RICHARD C. COLBURN, Sgt., Tank Corps.




                              THE NEW ARMY


                  Who are those soldiers
                    Who go marching down?
                  They’re the young fellows
                    Of your old home town.

                  The butcher’s son, the baker’s,
                    His Honor’s lad, too;
                  The old casual mixture
                    Of Gentile and Jew.

                  Don’t they march manly!
                    Ay, they step light;
                  And soon by the papers
                    Ye’ll see they can fight!
                                    R. R. KIRK, S.S.U.




                            TOUJOURS LE MÊME


                No matter how wise or how foolish
                  The company’s cook may be,
                When down at the table we’re seated,
                  Two things we all plainly can see;
                      When we look at the chow
                      There’s the bosom of sow,
                      And beans—beans—beans.

                If quartered in city or country,
                  The cook never misses his aim;
                If messing in swamp or on mountain,
                  Two things will remain quite the same;
                      Though it may cause a row,
                      We get bosom of sow,
                      And beans—beans—beans.

                When tasks for the day are all ended,
                  And weary are body and brain,
                Small matter it makes if we’re eating
                  Indoors, or outside in the rain,
                      The cook makes his bow
                      With the bosom of sow,
                      And beans—beans—beans.

                Of all that I’ve learned in the Army,
                  This fact I am sure I know well—
                And others are certain to tell you—
                  The soldier’s worst picture of hell
                      Is thrice daily chow
                      With the bosom of sow,
                      And beans—beans—beans.
                        VANCE C. CRISS, Corp., Engrs.




                            TO THE WEST WIND


                West Wind, you’ve come from There,
                  Surely my Girlie
                Breathed in your truant air—
                  Did you kiss my Girlie?
                Seemed then a-sleeping she,
                  As you passed merrily?
                Whispered she aught of me,
                  Dreaming full tenderly?

                West Wind, turn back your speed;
                  Blow to my Girlie!
                Turn back, you wind, and heed—
                  Hie to my Girlie!
                Elfin-like seeming,
                  Close to her hover;
                Into her dreaming
                  Say that I love her.
                          WILLIAM S. LONG, Corp., A. S.




                               THE DRIVER


             I’m a slouch and a slop and a sluffer,
               And my ears they are covered with hair,
             And I frequent inhabit the guardhouse,
               I’ll be “priv” until “fini la guerre.”
             But my off horse, she shines like a countess,
               And my nigh made the general blink,
             And they pull like twin bats fresh from Hades,
               And they’re quick as a demimonde’s wink.

             Oh, it’s often I’m late at formations,
               And it’s taps I completely disdain.
             And my bunk, it brings tears from the captain,
               And the cooties are at me again.
             But when there’s a piece in the mire,
               With her muzzle just rimming the muck,
             Then it’s hustle for me and my beauties—
               If they don’t they are S.O. of luck.

             And when there’s some route that’s receiving
               Its tender regards from the Huns,
             Then we gallop hell bent for election
               To our duty o’ feeding the guns.
             The gas, the H.E., and the shrapnel,
               They brighten our path as they burst,
             But they’ve never got me or my chevals—
               They’ll have to catch up to us first.

             I’m a slouch and a slop and a sluffer,
               And my ears they are covered with hair,
             And I frequent inhabit the guardhouse,
               I’ll be “priv” until “fini la guerre.”
             But my hosses, they neigh when I’m comin’,
               An’ my sarge knows how hefty they drag,
             An’ the cap lent me ten francs this mornin’—
               Here’s to him an’ to me an’ the flag!
                                     F. M. H. D., F.A.




                         SONG OF THE CENSOR MAN


            Oh, I am the man with a mightier pen
              Than the chisel the lawgiver knew;
            The snip of my shears is more dreaded of men
              Than the sword that Napoleon drew.
            I foil the young man with a nose for the news,
              And I stifle the first feeble note
            Of the soldier who ventures to air any views
              That he never was paid to promote.

            Oh, it’s snip, snip, snip is the rhythmic swing
              Of my shears in the morning light,
            And clip, clip, clip is the raucous ring
              Of their voice in the starry night.
            I may strike from the calendar all of its dates,
              And I rob every town of its name,
            And rarely a letter but sadly relates
              The tale of my terrible fame.

            Oh, I know all the secrets that ever were told,
              Till every unfortunate prays
            That the book of omnipotent knowledge I hold
              May be sealed to the end of my days.
            On each written syllable, proudly I state,
              I pronounce benediction or ban;
            For I’m the personification of Fate—
              The redoubtable Censor man!
                              JOHN FLETCHER HALL,
                            Sgt., Inf., Acting Chaplain.




                         DO YOU KNOW THIS GUY?


                One hears at sound of reveille,
                  Straight through till taps is blown,
                “Gimme, lemme take yer razor,”
                  “Have you got a sou to loan?”
                Or maybe, “Gosh, I lost my towel,
                  Lemme take yours, will you, Bill?”
                “Have you got some extra ‘Sunkums’?”
                  “I wanna wet me gill.”

                All through the day it’s e’er the same,
                  Week in, week out, “Say, Bo,
                I’m just a few francs shy today,
                  Wot’s chances for a throw?
                You know me, Al, me woid’s me bond,
                  I’ve never stuck a pal,
                But I simply gotta keep that date
                  Or hunt another gal.”

                “Have you an extra undershirt?
                  The Major’s gonna see
                What makes the men so nervous like
                  And scratch so frequently.”
                “I’m gonna promenade ce soir,
                  Lemme take yer new puttees.
                Aw, mine’s been muddy for a week,
                  Loose up, yuh tight ol’ cheese.”

                “I don’t know where me money goes,
                  It takes the prize for speed,
                The next day after we’ve been paid,
                  Can’t buy a punk French weed.
                Next month I’ll have to slacken up,
                  Or jump into the lake”—
                But till that old ghost walks again,
                  It’s gimme, lemme take!
                        FRANK EISENBERG, Pvt., Tel. Bn.




                               CAMOUFLAGE


                 They tell us tales of camouflage,
                 The art of hiding things;
                 Of painted forts and bowered guns
                 Invisible to wings.
                     Well, it’s nothing new to us,
                     To us, the rank and file;
                     We understand this camouflage
                     —We left home with a smile.

                 We saw the painted battleships
                 And earthen-colored trains,
                 And planes the hue of leaden skies,
                 And canvas-hidden lanes.
                     Well, we used the magic art
                     That day of anxious fears;
                     We understand this camouflage
                     —We laughed away your tears.

                 They say that scientific men
                 And artists of renown
                 Debated long on camouflage
                 Before they got it down.
                     Well, it came right off to us,
                     We didn’t have to learn;
                     We understand this camouflage
                     —We said we’d soon return.

                 We understand this camouflage,
                 This art of hiding things;
                 It’s what’s behind a soldier’s jokes
                 And all the songs he sings.
                     Yes, it’s nothing new to us,
                     To us, the rank and file;
                     We understand this camouflage
                     —We left home with a smile.
                                                 M. G.




                               TRENCH MUD


               We have heard of Texas gumbo
                 And the mud in the Philippines,
               Where, if we had legs like Jumbo,
                 The mud would cover our jeans.
               But never did we get a chance
               To feel real mud till we hit France.

                         Our shoes are deep in it,
                         We often sleep in it,
                         We almost weep in it—
                             It’s everywhere;
                         We have to fight in it,
                         And vent our spite in it,
                         We look a sight in it,
                             But we don’t care!

               The mud that lies in No Man’s Land
                 Is as thick on the other side,
               And where the Germans make their stand
                 Is where we’ll make them slide,
               For our hob-nailed shoes will force a way,
               And we’ll knock them cold—for the U.S.A.

                         Though we must eat in it,
                         Wash our feet in it,
                         Try to look neat in it,
                             This mud and slime;
                         Though we get sore in it,
                         Grumble and roar in it,
                         _We’ll win the war in it_
                             In our good time!
                               JOHN J. CURTIN, Sgt., Inf.




                           I LOVE CORNED BEEF


              I LOVE corned beef—I never knew
              How good the stuff COULD taste in stew!
              I love it WET, I love it DRY,
              I love it baked and called MEAT PIE.
              I love it camouflaged in HASH—
              A hundred bucks I’d give—in CASH
              To have a BARREL of such chow
              A-standing here before me now.
              I say “YUM YUM” when “soupie” blows,
              I SNIFF and raise aloft my nose:
              CORNED WILLIE! Ha! Oh, BOY, that’s FINE!
              Can hardly keep my place in LINE.
              I kick my heels and wildly yell:
              “Old Sherman said that ‘WAR IS HELL,’
              But GLADLY would I bear the heat
              If corned beef I could get to eat!”
              I love it HOT—I love it COLD,
              Corned Willie never WILL grow old.
              I love it—now PAUSE—listen, friend:
              When to this war there comes an end
              And PEACE upon the earth shall reign,
              I’ll hop a boat for HOME again.
              Then to a RESTAURANT I’ll speed—
              No dainty MANNERS will I heed—
              But to the waiter I will cry:
              “Bring me—well, make it corned beef PIE!
              And—better bring some corned beef STEW,
              And corned beef COLD—I’ll take that, too.
              And—now, don’t think I’m CRAZY, man,
              But could you bring a corned beef CAN?
              And—WAIT!—I’m not through ORDERING yet—
              I want a SIRLOIN STEAK—you BET,
              With hash browned SPUDS—now, LISTEN, friend,
              I’ve got the CASH, you may depend—
              Right HERE it is—let’s see, I’ll try—
              Oh, bring a piece of hot MINCE PIE
              And ALL this stuff that’s printed here;
              My appetite is HUGE, I fear.”

              Then, when he’s filled my festive board
              With all these eats, I’ll thank the Lord
              (For that’s the PROPER thing to do),
              And then I’ll take the corned beef STEW,
              The corned beef PIE and corned beef COLD,
              The corned beef CAN I’ll then take hold
              And RAM the whole WORKS into it
              And say: “NOW, damn you, THERE you’ll sit.
              You’ve haunted every DREAM I’ve had—
              You don’t know what shame IS, egad!
              Now SIT there, Bo—See how you FEEL—
              And watch me eat a REG’LAR meal!”
                                              A. P. B.




                          A CHAPLAIN’S PRAYER


               O Lord, I am not worthy to
                 Be found amid these reddened hands
               Who offer an atoning due,
                 Themselves, to Thee, great martyr bands.

               Let me but kiss the ground they tread,
                 And breathe a prayer above their sod,
               And gather up the drops they shed,
                 These heroes in the cause of God.
                     THOMAS F. COAKLEY, Lt., Chaplain.




                                BILLETS


  (Dedicated to the gallant peasants of sunny France, who
  own them, and the officers of the A.E.F. who made the
  selection for the proletariat.)

               I’ve slept with horse and sad-eyed cow,
                 I’ve dreamed in peace with bearded goat,
               I’ve laid my head on the rusty plow,
                 And with the pig shared table d’hôte.
               I’ve chased the supple, leaping flea
                 As o’er my outstretched form he sped,
               And heard the sneering rooster’s crow
                 When I chased the rabbit from my bed.
               I’ve marked the dog’s contented growl,
                 His wagging tail, his playful bite;
               With guinea pig and wakeful owl
                 I’ve shared my resting place at night,
               While overhead, where cobweb lace
                 Like curtains drapes the oaken beams,
               The spiders skipped from place to place
                 And sometimes dropped in on my dreams.
               And when the morning, damp and raw,
                 Arrived at last as if by chance,
               I’ve crawled from out the rancid straw
                 And cussed the stable barns of France.

               And sometimes when the day is done
                 And lengthening shadows pointing long,
               I dream of days when there was sun
                 And street cars in my daily song.
               But over here—ah! what a change,
                 The clouds are German-silver lined—
               Who worries when we get the mange?
                 What boots it if our shoes are shined?
               The day speeds by and night again
                 Looms up a specter grim and bare;
               We trek off to the hen house then
                 And climb the cross barred ladder there—
               Another biologic night
                 Spent in a state sans peace, sans sleep;
               And as I soothe some stinging bite,
                 I mark the gentle smell of sheep,
               The smell that wots of grassy dell,
                 Of hillsides green where fairies dance....
               The vision’s past—I’m back in hell,
                 An ancient stable barn of France.

               We’ve slept with all the gander’s flock,
                 By waddling duck we’ve slumbered on—
               In fact, we’ve slept with all the stock,
                 And they will miss us when we’re gone.
               We’ve seen at times the nocturne eyes
                 Of playful mouse on evening spree,
               And the coastwise trade at night he plies
                 With Brother Louse on a jamboree.
               We’ve scratched and fought with foe unseen,
                 And with the candle hunted wide
               For the bug that thrives on Paris green,
                 But cashes in on bichloride.

               Perchance may come a night of stars,
                 Perchance the snow drift through the tile,
               Perchance the evil face of Mars
                 Peeks in and shows his wicked smile;
               ’Tis then we dream of other days
                 When we were free and in the dance,
               And followed in the old time ways,
                 Far from the stable barns of France.




                           THE MULE SKINNERS


           A wet and slippery road,
             And dusky figures passing in the night,
           The smell of steaming hide and soaking leather,
           The muttered oath,
             The sharp command as troops give way to right,
           Then clatter on through mud and streaming weather.

           The creak and groan of wheels,
             And batteries that rumble down the road
           With pound and splash of hoof and chains a-rattle,
           The driver’s spurring chirp,
             The tugging as the mules take up the load,
           And ’bove it all the roar of distant battle.

           All night we do our job,
             Hauling the supplies up from the rear,
           Past streams of troops and shell-shot habitation,
           Through rut-worn road,
             By blackened walls without a light to cheer,
           On through the night and storm and desolation.

           This the life we know,
             The seeming endless driving and the strain,
           The ever pushing toil, without cessation,
           Necessity to do,
             Through biting wind and cold and chilling rain,
           And sleepless nights and lack of rest, privation.

           This the life we lead,
             Reckless of screaming shell, and trusting chance,
           A soldier’s humble task, a soldier’s ration.
           But who of us would trade
             His soldier’s lot nor want to be in France?
           Who would not live his life in soldier fashion?
                 WILLIAM BRADFORD, 2nd Lt., A.G.D.




                          THE OLD OVERSEAS CAP


       The war of the Trojans and all the Greek crew
       Was fought for the sake of a fair lady who
       Went absent without leave, for weal or for woe,
       And took her permission to Paris to go.

       All Greeks grasped steel helmets and trench knives and tanks
       And wheel teams and chariots and fell into ranks.
       Shipping boards gave no trouble with quarrels or slips:
       The beauty of Helen had launched all the ships.

       All cautioned their sweethearts that since they must go,
       To keep home hearths heated, on flirting go slow;
       For each warrior was off to the battle and strife
       To make the world safe for a good-looking wife.

       But they’d never have fought if they’d read Helen’s note,
       Which just before leaving she hastily wrote:
       “Menelaus just entered our once happy home
       With an overseas cap on the top of his dome!”
               FAIRFAX D. DOWNEY, 1st Lt., F.A.




                               HOGGIN’ IT


  Well, I’ve eaten food sublime, and I’ve eaten food that’s rotten,
  From Alaska’s coldest corner to where the landscape’s cotton;
  At times there has been plenty, then there’s times when there’s been
     none,
  And I’ve kept me upper stiffest, for complainin’ I’m not one.
  But it’s now that I’m protestin’—oh, I’ve suffered silence long—
  It’s fancy food I’m cravin’, for me system’s goin’ wrong.

          Oh, it’s bacon, bacon, bacon,
          Till your belly’s fairly achin’
      For some biscuits or some hot cakes that in your mouth would melt;
          There’s no German dog could dare me,
          No fear of death would scare me,
      If I only had some chicken à la King beneath me belt.

  Now I read where Mr. Hoover tells the folks to lay off hoggin’,
  We’ll be needin’ lots of grub to put the Fritz on the toboggan;
  And the way that they’ve responded makes you feel so awful proud
  That you’d like to meet old Bill to take his measure for a shroud.
  Lord, it’s plenty that we’re gettin’, but I’d be dancin’ jigs
  If they’d pass an order home to stop a-killin’ off the pigs.

          For it’s bacon, bacon, bacon,
          Till your very soul is shakin’—
      If I could pick me eatin’, it’s a different song I’d sing;
          I’d not miss a raidin’ party,
          For patrol I’d be quite hearty,
      Oh, I’d swap me chance of Heaven for some chicken à la King.
                                MED. MIQUE.




                                THE MAN


    Here today in the sunshine I saw a soldier go
      Out of Life’s heated battle into the evening glow.
    He was just a common soldier, one of a mighty clan,
      But every watcher bared his head in honor to the Man.
    We stood there at attention, and the flag-draped coffin came,
      And we snapped up to salute him, though we never knew his name.
    He was just a common soldier, but we couldn’t salute as well
      The best old major general on this bright side o’ hell!
                                        H. T. S.




                            SONG OF THE GUNS


              This is the song that our guns keep singing,
              Here where the dark steel shines;
              This is the song with their big shells winging
              Over the German lines—

              “We are taking you home by the shortest way,
              We are taking you out of this blood and slime
              To the land you left in an ancient day,
              Where lost lanes wander at twilight time;
              We are bringing you peace
              In the swift release
              From the grind where the gas drifts blur;
              On a steel shod track
              We are taking you back,
              We are taking you back to Her!”

              This is the song that our guns keep roaring,
              Out through the night and rain;
              This is the song with their big shell soaring
              Over the battered plain—

              “We are taking you home by the only way,
              By the only road that will get you back
              To the dreams you left where the dusk was gray
              And the night wind sang of a long-lost track;
              We are bringing you rest
              From the bitter test,
              From the pits where the great shells whirr;
              Through the bloody loam
              We are taking you home,
              We are taking you home to Her!”
                          GRANTLAND RICE, 1st Lt., F.A.




                           THROUGH THE WHEAT

                          (The Sergeant’s Story)


                 “There’s a job out there before us,”
                   Said the Captain, kinder solemn;
                 “There’s a crop out there to gather
                   Through the wheat fields just ahead.”
                 Through the wheat of Château-Thierry
                   That was soon to hold our column,
                 “There’s a crop out there to gather,”
                   That was all the Captain said.
                 (Oh, at dawn the wheat was yellow,
                   But at night the wheat was red.)

                 “There’s a crop out there to gather,”
                   And we felt contentment stealin’
                 Like a ghost from out the shadows
                   Of a lost, old-fashioned street;
                 For the crop out there before us
                   Brought a kinder home-like feelin’,
                 Though the zippin’ German bullets
                   Started hissin’ through the wheat.
                 But it didn’t seem to bother
                   As we slogged along the beat.

                 “There’s snakes here,” whooped a private
                   As the bullets started hissin’;
                 And we saw that Hun machine guns
                   In the thicket formed our crop;
                 So we started for the harvest
                   Where a bunch of them was missin’,
                 But a bunch of them was hittin’
                   Where we hadn’t time to stop.
                 But we damned ’em to a finish
                   As we saw a bunkie drop.

                 So we gathered in the harvest,
                   And we didn’t leave one missin’;
                 (We had gathered crops before this
                   With as tough a job ahead.)
                 Through the wheat of Château-Thierry,
                   With the German bullets hissin’,
                 “There’s a crop out there to gather,”
                   That was all the Captain said.
                 (Oh, at dawn the wheat was yellow,
                   But at night the wheat was red.)




                                 ALLIES


         The French, the British, and the Portugee,
         Captain, or colonel, or king though he be,
         Gives a salute in response to me,
         Buck private in Uncle Sam’s Infantry.
             There’s much that a soldier’s salute implies,
             But it means the most when it means, “We’re Allies!”

         In Belgium and France and Italy
         They talk in ways that are Greek to me,
         But the speech of soldiers’ courtesy
         Is a Lingua Franca wherever you be.
             With a single gesture, I recognize
             That I am one of the Twenty Allies.

         I never could tell just why it should be
         That the first salute should be up to me
         In this queer, new army democracy,
         But every commander must answer me,
         British, or French, or Indo-Chinee,
         Captain, or colonel, or king though he be.
             There’s much that a soldier’s salute implies,
             But it means the most when it means, “We’re Allies!”
                     MERRITT Y. HUGHES, Pvt., Inf.




                                TO BUDDY


                 It’s a tough fight for you, Buddy,
                 And it takes a heap of grit
                   To stick and win
                   And keep your grin
                 When you’re in the thick of it.

                 It’s no cinch for you, Buddy,
                 When the dreams with which you came
                   Melt into naught
                   As you are taught
                 The horrid, bitter game.

                 It’s a hard pull for you, Buddy,
                 And oft times it looks damned blue,
                   But square your chin
                   And vow to win,
                 And play the game clean through.

                 For there’s a great time coming, Buddy,
                 A time worth waiting for,
                   When Kultur’s done
                   And all is won,
                 And the boys come home from war.

                 Oh, she’ll be waiting, Buddy,
                 And the lovelight in her eye
                   Will shine with joy
                   As Her Big Boy
                 Goes proudly marching by.

                 It’s a hard road for you, Buddy,
                 But it’s more than worth the game
                   To buck all fears
                   So Mother’s tears
                 Will be for joy, not shame.
                       HOWARD J. GREEN, Corp., Inf.




                    THE WOOD CALLED ROUGE-BOUQUET[1]


  (Dedicated to the memory of 19 members of Co. E.,
  165th Infantry, who made the supreme sacrifice at
  Rouge-Bouquet, Forest of Parroy, France, March 7; read
  by the chaplain at the funeral, the refrain echoing
  the music of Taps from a distant grove.)


                                   I

               In the woods they call Rouge-Bouquet
               There is a new-made grave today,
               Built by never a spade or pick,
               Yet covered by earth ten metres thick.

                 There lie many fighting men,
                   Dead in their youthful prime,
                 Never to laugh or live again
                   Or taste of the summer time;

               For death came flying through the air
               And stopped his flight at the dugout stair,
                 Touched his prey—
               And left them there—
                 Clay to clay.
               He hid their bodies stealthily
               In the soil of the land they sought to free,
                 And fled away.

               Now over the grave, abrupt and clear,
                 Three volleys ring;
               And perhaps their brave young spirits hear:
                 Go to sleep—
                 Go to sleep—
                             (_Taps sounding in distance._)


                                   II

               There is on earth no worthier grave
               To hold the bodies of the brave
               Than this spot of pain and pride
               Where they nobly fought and nobly died.
                 Never fear but in the skies
                   Saints and angels stand,
                 Smiling with their holy eyes
                   On this new come band.

               St. Michael’s sword darts through the air
               And touches the aureole on his hair,
               As he sees them stand saluting there
                 His stalwart sons;
               And Patrick, Bridget, and Columbkill
               Rejoice that in veins of warriors still
                 The Gael’s blood runs

               And up to Heaven’s doorway floats,
                 From the woods called Rouge-Bouquet,
               A delicate sound of bugle notes
                 That softly say:
                   Farewell—
                   Farewell—
                             (_Taps sounding in distance._)


                                L’ENVOI

                       Comrades true,
                       Born anew,
                       Peace to you;
               Your souls shall be where the heroes are,
               And your memory shine like the morning star,
                       Brave and dear,
                       Shield us here—
                         Farewell!
                             JOYCE KILMER, Sgt., Inf.
                         Killed in action, July 30, 1918.

Footnote 1:

                 Copyright, 1918, Charles Scribner’s Sons.
                 Copyright, 1919, George H. Doran Co.




                                GOOD-BYE


                Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye,
                  We’re on the seas for France,
                We’re on our way to make them pay
                  The piper for the dance.
                To starboard and to port
                  Our paint-splotched convoys toss,
                Grim thunderbolts in rainbow garb,
                  We jam a path across.
                Our guns are slugged and set
                  To smack the U-boat’s eye—
                God help the Hun that tries his luck—
                  Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye.

                Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye,
                  The decks are deep with men,
                We’re going out to God knows what,
                  We’ll be back God knows when.
                Old friends are at our sides,
                  Old songs drift out to sea,
                Oh, it is good to go to war
                  In such a company.
                The sun is on the waves
                  That race to meet the sky,
                Where strange new shores reach out to us—
                  Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye.

                Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye,
                  A long and weary while,
                Through all the drab and empty days,
                  Remember us and smile.
                Our good ship shoulders on
                  Along a lane of foam,
                And every turn the screw goes round
                  Is farther still from home.
                We’ll miss the things we left,
                  The more the white miles fly,
                So keep them till we come again—
                  Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye.




                        THE FIELDS OF THE MARNE


      The fields of the Marne are growing green,
        The river murmurs on and on;
      No more the hail of mitrailleuse,
        The cannon from the hills are gone.

      The herder leads the sheep afield,
        Where grasses grow o’er broken blade;
      And toil-worn women till the soil
        O’er human mold, in sunny glade.

      The splintered shell and bayonet
        Are lost in crumbling village wall;
      No sniper scans the rim of hills,
        No sentry hears the night bird call.

      From blood-wet soil and sunken trench,
        The flowers bloom in summer light;
      And farther down the vale beyond,
        The peasant smiles are sad, yet bright.

      The wounded Marne is growing green,
        The gash of Hun no longer smarts;
      Democracy is born again,
        But what about the troubled hearts?
                      FRANK CARBAUGH, Sgt., Inf.
      (Written while lying wounded in hospital; died August, 1918.)




                            A NURSE’S PRAYER


                O Lord, I must not cry,
                And yet mine eyes contain
                Such floods of scalding tears
                That they will never dry,
                Descending soft as rain,
                Through all the coming years.

                Cor Jesu, I must weep,
                When I behold the sight!
                These men who fought and bled,
                Who moan and cannot sleep,
                Their souls so snowy white,
                The wounded and the dead.
                        THOMAS F. COAKLEY, Lt., Chaplain.




             LINES ON LEAVING A LITTLE TOWN WHERE WE RESTED


                    We with the war ahead,
                      You who have held the line,
                    Laughing, have broken bread
                          And taken wine.

                    We cannot speak your tongue,
                      We cannot fully know
                    Things hid beneath your smile
                          Four years ago.

                    Things which have given us,
                      Grimly, a common debt,
                    Now that we take the field,
                          We won’t forget!
                            RUSSELL LORD, Corp., F. A.




                                POPPIES


   Poppies in the wheat fields on the pleasant hills of France,
   Reddening in the summer breeze that bids them nod and dance;
   Over them the skylark sings his lilting, liquid tune—
   Poppies in the wheat fields, and all the world in June.

   Poppies in the wheat fields on the road to Monthiers—
   Hark, the spiteful rattle where the masked machine guns play!
   Over them the shrapnel’s song greets the summer morn—
   Poppies in the wheat fields—but, ah, the fields are torn.

   See the stalwart Yankee lads, never ones to blench,
   Poppies in their helmets as they clear the shallow trench,
   Leaping down the furrows with eager, boyish tread
   Through the poppied wheat fields to the flaming woods ahead.

   Poppies in the wheat fields as sinks the summer sun,
   Broken, bruised and trampled—but the bitter day is won;
   Yonder in the woodland where the flashing rifles shine,
   With their poppies in their helmets, the front files hold the line.

   Poppies in the wheat field; how still beside them lie
   Scattered forms that stir not when the star shells burst on high;
   Gently bending o’er them beneath the moon’s soft glance,
   Poppies of the wheat fields on the ransomed hills of France.
           JOSEPH MILLS HANSON, Capt., F.A.




                                 POILU


   You’re a funny fellow, poilu, in your dinky little cap
     And your war worn, faded uniform of blue,
   With your multitude of haversacks abulge from heel to flap,
     And your rifle that is ’most as big as you.
   You were made for love and laughter, for good wine and merry song,
     Now your sunlit world has sadly gone astray,
   And the road today you travel stretches rough and red and long,
     Yet you make it, petit soldat, brave and gay.

   Though you live within the shadow, fagged and hungry half the while,
     And your days and nights are racking in the line,
   There is nothing under heaven that can take away your smile,
     Oh, so wistful and so patient and so fine.
   You are tender as a woman with the tiny ones who crowd
     To upraise their lips and for your kisses pout,
   Still, we’d hate to have to face you when the bugle’s sounding loud
     And your slim, steel sweetheart Rosalie is out.
   You’re devoted to mustaches which you twirl with such an air
     O’er a cigarette with nigh an inch to run,
   And quite often you are noticed in a beard that’s full of hair,
     But that heart of yours is always twenty-one.
   No, you do not “parlee English,” and you find it very hard,
     For you want to chum with us and words you lack;
   So you pat us on the shoulder and say, “Nous sommes camarades.”
     We are that, my poilu pal, to hell and back.
             STEUART M. EMERY, Pvt., M. P.




                             AS THINGS ARE


                  The old home State is drier now
                    Than forty-seven clucks
                  Of forty-seven desert hens
                    A-chewin’ peanut shucks.

                  There everybody’s standin’ sad
                    Beside the Fishhill store,
                  A-sweatin’ dust an’ spittin’ rust
                    Because there ain’t no more.

                  The constable, they write, has went
                    A week without a pinch.
                  There ain’t no jobs, so there’s a gent
                    ’At sure has got a cinch.

                  I ain’t a’gonna beef a bit,
                    But still, it’s kinda nice,
                  A-knowin’ where there’s some to git
                    Without requestin’ twice.




                           THE GIRL OF GIRLS


               When the war god reached out his talons
                 And showed me the way to the fray,
               My sweethearts shed tears by the gallons—
                 There was weeping and gnashing that day.

               Don’t blame them for crying like babies;
                 I’m surprised they recovered at all,
               ’Cause I sure made a hit with the ladies,
                 Just one look at me and they’d fall.

               Take Evelyn or Peggy or Jennie—
                 They surely were there with the looks,
               And I’ve never regretted a penny
                 I blew in on flowers and books.

               And Mildred—that kid was a thriller,
                 A complexion like peaches and cream;
               She was sweeter than Marilynn Miller,
                 And Phyllis—oh, boy, what a dream!

               And now that I’m over the ocean,
                 I remember them each by their smile;
               But there’s one who gets all my devotion,
                 And I’m thinking of her all the while.

               When my clothes need mending and scrubbing,
                 And only one sock I can find,
               And my knuckles are swollen with rubbing,
                 Why, girlies, you’re far from my mind.

               My thoughts are for one who is dearer
                 Than Phyllis or Peggy or Mae;
               Each day that I’m gone she seems nearer—
                 And she’s feeble, but smiling and gay.
                   HOWARD A. HERTY, Corp., 1st Army Hq.




                           THE LITTLE DREAMS


          Now, France is a pleasant land to know
            If you’re back in a billet town,
          And a hell of a hole for the human mole
            Where the trenches burrow down;
          But where doughboys be in their worn O.D.,
            Whatever their daily grinds,
          There’s a little dream on this sort of theme
            In the background of their minds:

          “Oh, gee whiz, I’d give my mess kit
            And the barrel off my gat
          Just to take a stroll up Main Street
            In a new Fedora hat;
          Just to hit the Rexall drug store
            For an ice-cream soda stew,
          And not a doggoned officer
            To tell me what to do.”

          Here’s a youngster sprawled in an old shell hole
            With a Chauchat at his eye;
          There’s some wide H.E. on the next O.P.
            And a Fokker in the sky.
          It’s a hundred yards to his jump-off trench
            And ten to the German wire,
          But what does he hear, more loud and clear
            Than the crack of harassing fire?

          Echoed footsteps on the marble
            Throbs of a revolving door,
          And the starter’s ticking signal—
            “Up! Express here—fourteenth floor!”
          Click of coins on the cigar stand;
            Two stout parties passing by—
          “I sold short and took no chances;
            Lackawanna’s too damn high.”

          Here’s a C.O. down in his dugout deep
            Who once was a poor N.G.
          The field phone rings and someone sings,
            “Red Gulch, sir. 12–9–3
          Is spilling lach on Mary Black;
            Have Jane retaliate.”
          Two minutes more and he hears Jane roar,
            While he thinks this hymn of hate:

          “That north forty must look pretty,
            Head high, now, and ears all set;
          And the haystacks in the meadow—
            Wonder if they’ve mowed it yet?
          Crickets clicking in the stubble;
            Apples reddening on the trees—
          Oh, good Lord, I’m seeing double;
            That’s not gas that made me sneeze.”

          Here’s a Q.M. warehouse, locked and still,
            At the end of a village street;
          The sunset red on the woods ahead,
            And a sentry on his beat.
          The hour chimes from the ancient spire,
            A child laughs out below,
          And the sentry’s eyes, on the western skies,
            Behold, in the afterglow,

          Row on row of smoking chimneys,
            Long steel roofs and swinging cranes,
          Maze of tracks and puffing engines,
            Creeping strings of shunted trains,
          Asphalt streets and stuccoed houses,
            Lots, with brick and lath piled high;
          Whips of shade trees by the curbings,
            Yellow trolleys clanging by.

          These are tawdry thoughts in an epic time
            For martial souls to own?
          They are thoughts, my friend, that we would not mend,
            That are bred of our blood and bone.
          A mustard shell it is very well,
            And an egg grenade’s O.K.,
          But we get our steam from our little dream
            Of the good old U.S.A.

          Cotton fields along the river,
            Night lights streaming from a mill;
          Corn, with curling leaves a-quiver,
            Dump cars lining out a fill;
          Presses roaring in a basement,
            Woods, with waters gleaming through—
          Kaiser Bill, we’ll up and go there
            When we’ve rid the world of you!
                  JOSEPH MILLS HANSON, Capt., F.A.




                               THE R.T.O.


              O hear the song of the R.T.O.
              With his “40 Hommes or 8 Chevaux.”
              He works in the day and he works at night,
              For the men must go or the men can’t fight.
              They call him here and they call him there,
              They ask him Why and they ask him Where.
              O his cars don’t come, but his cars must go,
              Be it wet or dry or rain or snow,
              If they call for Hommes or they want Chevaux.
              Thus goes the song of the R.T.O.

              O it’s “How we love you, R.T.O.,
              With your ’40 Hommes or 8 Chevaux’!
              Say, whadja do before the war—
              Work in a packin’ house? O Lor’!
              We got an army in here now,
              And we ain’t got room for our packs and chow.
              They’s 40 Hommes aboard, you KNOW,
              So come ahead with your 8 Chevaux,
              And shout ‘Allez’ and away we’ll go.
              O how we LOVE you, R.T.O.!”

              Heaven help the R.T.O.
              With his “40 Hommes or 8 Chevaux”!
              He’s got five hundred men to load
              On a few small cars and a busy road.
              O the war won’t end if he don’t make good,
              ’Cause he’s got to send ’em the men and food,
              Be it wet or dry or rain or snow.
              And they call for Hommes or they want Chevaux,
              There’s hell to pay if the stuff don’t go,
              So Heaven help the R.T.O.
                                A. P. BOWEN, Sgt., R.T.O.




                            THE MACHINE GUN


                   Anywhere and everywhere,
                     It’s me the soldiers love,
                   Underneath a parapet
                     Or periscoped above;
                   Backing up the barrage fire,
                     And always wanting more;
                   Chewing up a dozen disks
                     To blast an army corps;
                   Crackling, spitting, demon-like,
                     Heat-riven through and through,
                   Fussy, mussy Lewis gun,
                     Three heroes for a crew!

                   Advocate of peace am I,
                     Which same some won’t admit;
                   Say! I’d like to see that crowd
                     Come out and do their bit!
                   Out to where the boys have died,
                     That peace on earth might come
                   Sooner than if He above
                     Had based His hopes on some!
                   Whimper not, my friends, when men
                     Have holy work to do,
                   Tuning up the Vickers gun,
                     Three heroes for a crew!

                   Anywhere and everywhere,
                     From Loos to Ispahan,
                   Yankee, Poilu, Tommy’s
                     Been with me to a man;
                   Pacifist and fighter, too,
                     I care not where I go,
                   Crashing, smashing at the lines
                     That shield the common foe.
                   Anywhere and everywhere,
                     Heat-riven through and through,
                   Fussy, mussy Browning gun,
                     Three heroes for a crew!
                       ALBERT JAY COOK, Corp., M.G. Bn.




                                OUR DEAD


                 They lie entombed in serried ranks,
                   A cross atop each lonely grave.
                 They rest beneath the peaceful banks
                   They fought so valiantly to save.

                 This ground made sacred by their tears,
                   Our starry flag above each head,
                 For upwards of a thousand years
                   A shrine shall be unto our dead.




                           EVERYBODY’S FRIEND


         At first we wuz gay as the ship slipped away
           From the land where we’d lived all our lives,
         An’ we laughed an’ we sang till the whole harbor rang,
           An’ threw kisses to mothers and wives.

         But after a while as we stood there in file,
           An’ the people wuz only a blur,
         Things sort o’ calmed down, an’ we jus’ watched the town
           Till we couldn’t see nothin’ o’ her.

         Say, then we felt blue, an’ you couldn’t tell who
           Felt the worst, fer we all darn near cried;
         ’Twas jus’ like when night is a-comin’ in sight,
           An’ you’ve been where somebody’s died.

         First thing we knew came a roar, an’ it grew
           Till I’ll bet that the Kaiser could hear;
         Fer there off one side, lookin’ at us with pride,
           Wuz Liberty! Who wouldn’t cheer?

         I s’pose she’s still there with the crown in her hair
           An’ her lamp givin’ light to the land;
         That may all be so, but there’s lots of us know
           How we still feel the touch of her hand.

         Sometimes in the night when there ain’t any fight,
           An’ we’re standin’ on guard all alone,
         Like an angel o’ grace she comes near, an’ her face
           Cheers our hearts which wuz colder’n a stone.

         In the thick of a scrap, with sweat oozin’ like sap,
           She puts her cool hand into ours;
         An’ like that everywhere, we c’n feel that she’s there,
           With her help, and her smile like the flowers.
                 FREDERICK W. KURTH, Sgt., M.T.D.




                             THE STEVEDORE


  We don’t pack no gat or rifle, we don’t juggle pick or spade,
  Nor go stunnin’ peevish Germans in no dashin’ midnight raid;
  But we hit the warehouse early and we quit the warehouse late,
  And there ain’t no G.O. limits on the speed we truck the freight.
  We don’t hike along the roadway in them iron derby hats
  While the shrapnel punctuates the breeze and gas floats o’er the
     flats;
  We just dodge the fallin’ cases and we slap them back on high,
  For it’s just a pile o’ pilin’ in the Service of Supply.

  No, we ain’t no snappy soldiers, and our daily round of drills
  Includes a lot of movements minus military thrills;
  But we drill them bloomin’ box cars, double timin’ on the bends,
  And we slam them full of boxes till they’re bulgin’ at the ends.
  We ain’t sniped no Fritzie snipers, and we ain’t wrecked no tanks,
  And we don’t go dashin’ forward with the ever-thinnin’ ranks;
  But some nights we gets an order for a shipment on the fly,
  Then we plug right through till mornin’, in the Service of Supply.

  We ain’t got no dugout movies, nor a Charlie Chaplin laugh;
  We ain’t got no handsome colonel with his neat and nifty staff,
  Nor a brave and fearless captain with a flashing sword and gun
  To yell, “Now up and at ’em, boys! We’ve got ’em on the run!”
  We ain’t soaring round in biplanes, punching holes in Boche balloons,
  Nor corralling frightened Fritzies by battalions and platoons,
  But when they yell, “Rush order!” then we get around right spry,
  For the boys are up there waitin’—on the Service of Supply.
                  C. C. SHANFELTER, Sgt., S.C.




                            BLACK AND WHITE


                   I was like the child
                   Who believed there was
                   A Santa Claus
                   But had never seen him,
                   Only
                   I have seen another world
                   And know it exists.

                   I used to think that
                   There was only one world—
                   A world of
                   Mud
                   And bursting shells
                   Which killed and wounded
                   Me and my pals;
                   A world of
                   Hizzing bullets
                   And mustard gas,
                   And cold, sleepless nights,
                   And no food for days,
                   And Huns who cried
                   “Kamerad!”
                   (When their ammunition was gone),
                   And filthy clothes,
                   And cooties
                   And cooties
                   And cooties.

                   But now I know that there is also
                   A world of—
                   Clean sheets and pajamas,
                   And good food
                   And plenty of it,
                   And kind, gentle women
                   In white
                   Who give you cocoa and soup,
                   And doctors who give you more than
                   “C.C.” pills,
                   And peaceful days
                   Without a single shell,
                   And peaceful nights,
                   And officers who wear white collars
                   And have only heard of cooties,
                   And visitors who sit on your bed
                   And murmur “How thrilling,”
                   And street cars and taxis,
                   And buildings without
                   A single shell hole in them,
                   And everything
                   I only dreamed of before.
                   Gosh! but it’s a wonderful war—
                   BACK HERE.
                                                 HARV.




                          THE OL’ CAMPAIGN HAT


    No more against a battle sky with swooping pilots lined,
    No more where charging heroes die my peakéd top you’ll find.
    In training camps and peaceful climes the war is not for me,
    Yet still I dream of other times and what I used to be.
    The Mauser crackles once again—the smoky Springfield roar
    Avenges those who manned the _Maine_ upon the Cuban shore.
    Fedora-style I did my bit in jungle sun and dirt,
    And now I’ve got a mortal hit, just like the old blue shirt!

    I hear the tingling ’Frisco cheers, the squat “Kilpatrick” sway,
    As boldly swung we from the piers, Manila months away.
    Luzon, Panay—I saw them all, Pekin was not the least—
    O I have felt the siren call that sweeps from out the East.
    Below the line of Capricorn in divers times and places
    I’ve heard retreating yowls of scorn from herds of Spiggot races.
    The Rio Grande and Vera Cruz—I knew them like a map,
    And now it looks as though I lose—the jackpot to a cap!

    No more against a blazing sky where hard-pressed Fokkers flee,
    No more where charging heroes die, my peakéd top you’ll see.
    The trade mark of the Johnnie’s gone, but, just between us two,
    I’ll bet you I come back again when this damn war is through!




                     WHEN THE GENERAL CAME TO TOWN


                 We wuz workin’ in th’ offus—
                   That is, all exceptin’ me—
                 An’ I wuz jest a-settin’,
                   As a orderly should be,

                 When a feller wearin’ eagles
                   Perchin’ on his shoulder straps,
                 Poked his head right in th’ winder,
                   An’ he talks right out an’ snaps,

                 “Who’s th’ officer commandin’
                   Over this detachment here?”
                 An’ th’ looey he salutes him,
                   While us rest wuz feelin’ queer.

                 “I am, sir,” th’ looey tells him,
                   Wonderin’ what th’ row’s about.
                 “Pershing’s comin’ in five minits,”
                   Says th’ kernel. “All troops out.”

                 Gosh, how we did hurry,
                   For we looked a doggone fright—
                 Some had hats a-missin’,
                   An’ they warn’t a coat in sight.

                 First we cleaned up in th’ offus,
                   Then we swept up in th’ street,
                 An’ it wasn’t many seconds
                   Till th’ place wuz hard t’ beat.

                 Next we hunted up our clothin’,
                   Borried some an’ swiped some more,
                 Then th’ looey got us standin’
                   In a line afore th’ door.

                 Mighty soon around th’ corner
                   Come two scrumptious lookin’ cars,
                 An’ they wasn’t any licence
                   On th’ first one—’cept four stars.

                 When the car had stopped right sudden,
                   Then th’ gineral he stepped out,
                 An’ without much parley-vooin’
                   He begin t’ look about.

                 They wuz lots o’ darkey soldiers
                   What wuz lined up in a row,
                 An’ he shore looked at ’em careful,
                   Walkin’ past ’em mighty slow.

                 An’ th’ Frenchmen come a-flockin’,
                   An’ they couldn’t understand
                 Why he warn’t a-wearin’ medals,
                   An’ gold braid t’ beat th’ band.

                 Then he made a little lectur,
                   Givin’ all them Frenchmen thanks,
                 Since they’d acted mighty kind-like
                   In a-dealin’ with his Yanks.

                 All th’ peepul started clappin’
                   When his talk kum to a close,
                 An’ a purty little lassie
                   Offered him a dandy rose.

                 Shore he tuk it, smilin’ pleasant,
                   Like a gift he couldn’t miss—
                 An’ th’ little maid wuz happy
                   When he paid her with a kiss.

                 Then he stepped into his auto,
                   An’ he hurried on his way—
                 While us guys went back t’ workin’,
                   Feelin’ we had had SOME day.
                           VANCE C. CRISS, Corp., Engrs.




                               SEICHEPREY


                  A handful came to Seicheprey
                    When winter woods were bare,
                  When ice was in the trenches
                    And snow was in the air.
                  The foe looked down on Seicheprey
                    And laughed to see them there.

                  The months crept by at Seicheprey
                    The growing handful stayed,
                  With growling guns at midnight,
                    At dawn, the lightning raid,
                  And learned, in Seicheprey trenches,
                    How war’s red game is played.

                  September came to Seicheprey;
                    A slow-wrought host arose
                  And rolled across the trenches
                    And whelmed its sneering foes,
                  And left to shattered Seicheprey
                    Unending, sweet repose.
                                                J. M. H.




                             BEFORE A DRIVE


       Loud spitting motor truck and wagon trains,
       And caissons and guns and Infantry,
       All jammed together in the dark
       And mud and rain of northern France,
       Moving toward the Front.

       Night after night it had been thus,
       With days of hard, relentless drudgery
       Spent over maps of war and battle plans,
       With one or two or three, perhaps,
       Short hours of sleep in every twenty-four,
       Only what chance afforded,
       Till I had lost all trace of time.
       Day meant but heavy toil,
       And night dull tramping onward in the mud,
       Buffeted about by caissons and guns and motor trucks;
       Life was but mud and rain and weary men.

       And then—one evening ere the march began,
       I chanced to pause and gaze into the West,
       And there was all the beauty of the world
       Lying a-top the rain-bejewelled trees
       In stripes of crimson, lavender, and blue,
       And all the other colors known to man!

       Then darkness came, and I was tramping northward once again,
       Buffeted about by caissons and guns and motor trucks.
       But lo! the road that night was smooth;
       My feet were steady and my heart was gay,
       For I had looked into the West I love
       And there had seen the magic of your smile.
                         CHARLES LYN FOX, Inf.




                        PRIVATE JONES, A. E. F.


  “Who is the boy and what does he do, and what do the gold stripes
     mean?
  And why is his mouth so grim and hard while those eyes of his are
     a-dream?
  Only a private soldier, eh, and he holds his head that high?
  Putting on airs a bit, I’d say; nothing about him that’s shy.

  “He’s been through hell three times, you say, and turned up with a
     grin?
  He’s faced the great unknown so much it holds no fear for him?
  He’s seen the highest lights of life and deepest shadows, too?
  He knows what glory means when mixed with mud, red blood and blue?

  “He’s slept in the slush and rain and hummed a tune as the big guns
     barked?
  He’s eaten a single meal a day, and kept ragtime in his heart?
  He’s fallen three times, you say, in the dark, with limp, still things
     around,
  And he called the nurse ‘kid’ and asked her to help him get back to
     that ground?

  “No wonder the mouth is grim and set, no wonder the eyes a-dream;
  The best and worst in life and death the plain buck private has seen.
  Ah, well, I suppose he’d like to quit and get an easier job.
  No? Not he? He told you, you say, he wouldn’t trade bunks with God?”
              WILLIAM I. ENGLE, Pvt., Inf.




                         “HOMMES 40, CHEVAUX 8”


     Roll, roll, roll, over the rails of France,
     See the world and its map unfurled, five centimes in your pants.
     What a noble trip, jolt and jog and jar,
     Forty we, with Equipment C in one flat-wheeled box-car.

           We are packed by hand,
             Shoved aboard in ’teens,
           Pour a little oil on us
             And we would be sardines.

     Rations? Oo-la-la! and how we love the man
     Who learned how to intern our chow in a cold and clammy can.
     Beans and beef and beans, beef and beans and beef,
     Willie raw, he will win the war, take in your belt a reef.

           Mess kits flown the coop,
             Cups gone up the spout;
           Use your thumbs for issue forks,
             And pass the bull about.

     Hit the floor for bunk, six hommes to one homme’s place;
     It’s no fair to the bottom layer to kick ’em in the face.
     Move the corp’ral’s feet out of my left ear;
     Lay off, sarge, you are much too large, I’m not a bedsack, dear.

           Lift my head up, please,
             From this bag of bread;
           Put it on somebody’s chest,
             Then I’ll sleep like the dead.

     Roll, roll, roll, yammer and snore and fight,
     Travelling zoo the whole day through and bedlam all the night.
     Four days in the cage, going from hither hence;
     Ain’t it great to ride by freight at good old Unc’s expense?




                               THE BUGLER

                     (A patient in Base Hospital 48)


              “I can’t blow taps no more,”
                          He says to me.
              (They’d kidded him outside the barracks door.)
              “I used to do it pretty well before—
              Before I played my buddy off. It’s war,
                          But don’t you see?

              “The moon was full and white,
                          And shinin’ free,
              About the way it’s shinin’ there tonight.
              We started up, and Buddy got it right—
              A piece of shrap; it dropped him out the fight
                          Alongside me.

              “We laid him in the clay;
                          And it was me
              That sounded taps; there was no other way ...
              I can’t blow taps no more ... but say!
              I tapped a German skull the other day.
                          And that squares me!”
                                        LIN DAVIES, Pvt.




                       THE RETURN OF THE REFUGEES


            They pick their way o’er the shell-pocked road
              As the evening shadows fall,
            A man and woman, their eyes a-gleam
              With awe at war’s black pall.

            The straggling strands of her snowy hair
              Are tossed in the wind’s rude breath;
            His frail form shakes as the whistling gusts
              Sweep o’er the field of death.

            With straining eyes, hearts beating fast,
              They seek to gaze ahead
            To where they left their little home
              When from the Hun they fled.

            ’Neath the heights of a hill o’erlooking the vale,
              Half hid in a purple shade,
            The dim outline of the town comes to view,
              And they hasten down the glade.

            At last the town, the street, and home!
              But God! Can it be this?—
            This pile of stones, this hideous hulk,
              This gaping orifice?

            The sun has set. The evening star
              Sends down its soothing light.
            Gone are the tears; their hearts are strong—
              “For God, for France, and Right!”
                  FREDERICK W. KURTH, Sgt., M.T.D.




                      AS THE TRUCKS GO ROLLIN’ BY


   There’s a rumble an’ a jumble an’ a bumpin’ an’ a thud,
   As I wakens from my restless sleep here in my bed o’ mud,
   ’N’ I pull my blankets tighter underneath my shelter fly,
   An’ I listen to the thunder o’ the trucks a-rollin’ by.

   They’re jumpin’ an’ they’re humpin’ through the inky gloom o’ night,
   ’N’ I wonder how them drivers see without a glim o’ light;
   I c’n hear the clutches roarin’ as they throw the gears in high,
   An’ the radiators boilin’ as the trucks go rollin’ by.

   There’s some a-draggin’ cannons, you c’n spot the sound all right—
   The rumblin’ ones is heavies, an’ the rattly ones is light;
   The clinkin’ shells is pointin’ up their noses at the sky—
   Oh, you c’n tell what’s passin’ as the trucks go rollin’ by.

   But most of ’em is packin’ loads o’ human Yankee freight
   That’ll slam the ol’ soft pedal ontuh Heinie’s hymn o’ hate;
   You c’n hear ’em singin’ “Dixie,” and the “Sweet Bye ’N’ Bye,”
   ’N’ “Where Do We Go from Here, Boys?” as the trucks go rollin’ by.

   Some’s singin’ songs as, when I left, they wasn’t even ripe
   (A-showin’ ’at they’s rookies wot ain’t got a service stripe),
   But jus’ the same they’re good ole Yanks, and that’s the reason why
   I likes the jazz ’n’ barber shop o’ the trucks a-rollin’ by.

   Jus’ God and Gen’rul Pershing knows where these here birds’ll light,
   Where them bumpin’ trucks is bound for under camouflage o’ night,
   When they can’t take aero pitchers with their Fokkers in the sky
   Of our changes o’ location by the trucks a-rollin’ by.

   So altho’ my bed is puddles an’ I’m soaked through to the hide,
   My heart’s out with them doughboys on their bouncin’, singin’ ride,
   They’re bound for paths o’ glory, or, p’raps, to fight ’n’ die—
   God bless that Yankee cargo in the trucks a-rollin’ by.
                 L. W. SUCKERT, 1st Lt., A.S.




                            GETTIN’ LETTERS


   When you’re far away from home an’ you’re feelin’ kind o’ blue,
   When the world is topsy turvy, nothin’ sets jest right fer you,
   Yuh can sneer at all yer troubles, an’ yer cares yuh never mind,
   When you’ve really had a letter from the Girl yuh left behind.

   When the cook is downright nutty, an’ his biskits never raise,
   When he feeds yuh canned tomatoes fer jes’ seventeen straight days,
   Yuh can quite fergit he’s nutty, yuh can treat him fairly kind,
   If you’ve really had a letter from the Girl yuh left behind.

   When the Captain’s got a grouch on, an’ has bawled yuh out fer fair,
   When some pesky Lieut has sassed yuh which to home he wouldn’t dare,
   Yuh can lift yer chin an’ whistle, an’ that’s easy, yuh will find,
   If you’ve really had a letter from the Girl yuh left behind.

   When a letter comes yuh grab it right before the other guys,
   An’ yuh git a little vision of the light that’s in Her eyes;
   Yuh can see Her smiles an’ dimples, an’ fer other girls you’re blind
   When you’ve really had a letter from the Girl yuh left behind.

   Jest a sheet or two of paper with a purple stamp or two,
   But it means the whole creation to the heart an’ soul o’ you,
   An’ yuh git to feelin’ pious, an’ yuh pray a bit, yuh mind,
   For the great Almighty’s blessin’ on the Girl yuh left behind.
                     E. C. D., Field Hospital.




                       TO THE CHILDREN OF FRANCE


                I wish you, children, playing round
                On this too-rudely trampled ground,
                Only the good things I would send
                To all the children I befriend.

                But one wish circles all: To know
                Little of what your elders do,
                And somehow into the sunlight grow
                Out of the mists they stumble through.
                              R. R. KIRK, Pvt., G2, S.O.S.




                      THEN WE’LL COME BACK TO YOU


            Some day, when screaming shells are but a dream
              That vanished with the dawn of better days,
            When Love and Faith are really what they seem,
              And Treachery is lost in fleeting haze;
            When each sweet day recalls a noble deed,
              Wherein a blinding flash plays not a part,
            And Truth at last has sown the godly seed
              That springs to Trust and Joy in every heart;
            Some day, though it be farther down the years
              Than ever mortal gazed or planned ahead,
            When we have made them pay for all your tears,
              And squared accounts for comrades who have bled;
            When we can feel that storms of Greed and Lust
              Will nevermore engulf our skies of blue;
            When you can live and know each sacred trust—
              And not till then—will we come back to you.
                              Corp. HOWARD H. HERTY,
                                        1st Army Hq. Reg.




                             TO A DOUGHBOY


              I watched you slog down a dusty pike,
              One of many so much alike,
              With a spirit keen as a breath of flame,
              Ready to rise and ready to strike
              Whenever the fitting moment came;
              Just a kid with a boyish grin,
              Waiting the order to hustle in
              And lend your soul to the battle thrill,
              Unafraid of the battle din
              Or the guns that crashed from a hidden hill.

              I watched you leap to the big advance,
              With a smile for Fate and its fighting chance,
              Sweeping on till the charge was done;
              I saw your grave on a slope of France
              Where you fell asleep when the fight was won.
              Just a kid who had earned his rest
              With a rifle and helmet above his breast,
              Who proved, in answer to German jeers,
              That a kid can charge a machine gun nest
              Without the training of forty years.

              I watched the shadows drifting by
              As gray dusk came from a summer’s sky,
              And lost winds came from beyond the fight,
              And I seemed to hear them croon and sigh:
              “Sleep, little dreamer, sleep tonight;
              Sleep tonight, for I’m bringing you
              A prayer and a dream from the home you knew;
              And I’ll take them word of the big advance,
              And how you fought till the game was through,
              And you fell asleep in the dust of France.”




                            LIL’ PAL O’ MINE


                 Just a wee remembrance
                   Of a little child so fair,
                 From Dad, who coaxed himself away
                   To leave you over there.

                 Just a little thought or two,
                   A dream, a wish, a prayer,
                 For you, my little smiler Girl,
                   Across the sea back there.

                 Just a bit of Daddy love,
                   To you I send it all,
                 Your eyes, your smile, your golden hair,
                   Your love for “raggy doll.”

                 Just a little tear sometimes,
                   Yes, men they weaken too,
                 War is hard, but harder still
                   Is bein’ ’way from you.
                                                 E. S. E.




                           PERFECT CONTRITION


                 “Send for a priest,” the small disc read
                   That clasped his neck around;
                 But he, brave soul, was long since dead
                   When found upon the ground.

                 A crucifix was in his hand,
                   Stained by his bloody kiss,
                 This newest of the martyr band
                   To taste of Heaven’s bliss.
                     THOMAS F. COAKLEY, Lt., Chaplain.




                    WHEN PRIVATE MUGRUMS PARLAY VOOS


                   I can count my francs an’ santeems—
                     If I’ve got a basket near—
                   An’ I speak a wicked “bon jour,”
                     But the verbs are awful queer,
                   An’ I lose a lot o’ pronouns
                     When I try to talk to you,
                   For your eyes are so bewitchin’
                     I forget to parlay voo.

                   In your pretty little garden,
                     With the bench beside the wall,
                   An’ the sunshine on the asters,
                     An’ the purple phlox so tall,
                   I should like to whisper secrets,
                     But my language goes askew
                   With the second person plural
                     For the more familiar “too.”

                   In your pretty little garden
                     I could always say “juh tame,”
                   But it ain’t so very subtle,
                     An’ it ain’t not quite the same
                   As “You’ve got some dandy earrings,”
                     Or “Your eyes are nice an’ brown”—
                   But my adjectives get manly
                     Right before a lady noun

                   Those infinitives perplex me,
                     I can say you’re “tray jolee,”
                   But beyond that simple statement
                     All my tenses don’t agree.
                   I can make the Boche “comprenney”
                     When I meet ’em in a trench,
                   But the softer things escape me
                     When I try to yap in French.

                   In your pretty little garden
                     Darn the idioms that dance
                   On your tongue so sweet and rapid,
                     Ah, they hold me in a trance!
                   Though I stutter an’ I stammer,
                     In your garden, on the bench,
                   Yet my heart is writin’ poems
                     When I talk to you in French.
                                   CHARLES DIVINE, Pvt.




                           IF I WERE A COOTIE


         If I were a cootie (pro-Ally, of course),
         I’d hie me away on a Potsdam-bound horse,
         And I’d seek out the Kaiser (the war-maddened cuss),
         And I’d be a bum cootie if I didn’t muss
         His Imperial hide from his head to his toe!
         He might hide from the bombs, but I’d give him no show!
         If I were a cootie, I’d deem it my duty
         To thus treat the Kaiser,
                   Ah, oui.

         And after I’d thoroughly covered Bill’s area,
         I’d hasten away to the Prince of Bavaria,
         And chew him a round or two—under the Linden—
         Then pack up my things and set out for old Hinden—
         (Old Hindy’s the guy always talking ’bout strafing)—
         To think what I’d do to that bird sets me laughing!
         If I were a cootie, I’d deem it my duty
         To thus threat the Prince and old Hindy,
                   Ah, oui!

         I’d ne’er get fed up on Imperial gore—
         I might rest for a while, but I’d go back for more.
         I’d spend a few days with that Austrian crew,
         And young Carl himself I’d put down for a chew;
         There’d be no meatless days for this cootie, I know,
         They’d all get one jolly good strafing or so.
         For if I were a cootie, I’d deem it my duty
         To thus treat their damnships,
                   Ah, oui!
                             A. P. BOWEN, Sgt., R.T.O.




                                THE LILY


                The lily sadly drooped her head;
                “My France is bowed in grief!” she said.
                “Must I live on to satisfy
                The conquering Teuton’s lustful eye?
                Lord, let me wither!
                Let me die!”

                The lily proudly raised her head;
                “My France is free once more!” she said.
                “Free from dark and blood-smirched gloom!
                The ruthless Hun has met his doom.
                Lord, let me gladden!
                Let me bloom!”
                            HOWARD J. GREEN, Corp., Inf.




                         ME,—AN’ WAR GOIN’ ON!


  Me!—a-leadin’ a column!
  Me!—that women have loved—
  Me, a-leadin’ a column o’ Yanks, an’ tracin’ Her name in the Stars!
  Me, that ain’t seen the purple hills before all mixed in the skies
  With the gray dawn meltin’ to azure there;
  Me, that ain’t a poet, growin’ poetic;
  An’ the flash o’ the guns on the skyline,
  An’ red wine—an’ France!
  An’ me laughin’—and War!
  An’ Slim Jim singin’ a song;
  An’ a lop-eared mule a-kickin’ a limber
  An’ axles ’thout no grease hollerin’ Maggie at me!
  Me, that women have loved—
          An’ War goin’ on!

  Mornin’ comin’,
  An’ me—a-leadin’ a column
  Along o’ them from the College,
  Along o’ them from the Streets,
  An’ them as had mothers that spiled them, and them as hadn’t,—
  Lovin’ names in the Stars,
  An’ Slim Jim singin’ a song,
  An’ Folks to Home watchin’ them, too,
  An’ Maggie that never had loved me, lovin’ me now,
  An’ thinkin’ an’ cryin’ for me!—
  For me that loved Maggie that never loved me till now.

  Mornin’ comin’,
  An’ me—a-leadin’ a column,
  An’ a town in the valley
  Round the bend in the road,
  An’ Ginger strainin’ his neck
  An’ thinkin’ o’ Picket Lines—
  An’ me an’ the rest o’ them thinkin’ o’ home and eggs down there in
     the village,
  An’ Coney startin’ to close at Home
  An’ Maggie mashed in the crowd—
  An’ me a-leadin’ a column—
          An’ War goin’ on!

  Me that hollered for water,
  With a splinter o’ hell in my side;
  Me that have laid in the sun a-cursin’ the beggars and stretchers
  As looked like they’d never a-come;
  Me that found God with the gas at my throat
  An’ raved like a madman for Maggie,
  An’ wanted a wooden cross over me!
  Me—an’ Slim Jim back o’ me singin’,
  An’ tracin’ a name in the fade o’ the Stars!

  Me—knowin’ that some’ll be ridin’ that’s walkin’ tonight—
  Knowin’ that some’ll never see Broadway again,
  An’ red wine,
  An’ Little Italy,
  An’ Maggies like Mine,—
  Me!—a-murmurin’ a prayer for Maggie
  An’ stoppin’ to laugh at Slim,
  An’ shoutin’ “To the right o’ the road for the Swoi-zant-canze!”
  Them babies that raise such hell up the line,
  An’ marchin’,
  An’ marchin’ by night,
  An’ sleepin’ by day,
  An’ France,
  An’ red wine,
  An’ me thinkin’ o’ Home,
  Me—a-leadin’ a column,—
          An’ War goin’ on!
                JOHN PALMER CUMMING, Inf.




                         THE ROAD TO MONTFAUCON


             “M. P., the road from Avocourt
               That leads to Montfaucon?”
             “The road, sir, black with mules and carts
               And brown with men a-marching on—
             The Romagne woods that lie beyond
               The ruined heights of Montfaucon—

             “North over reclaimed No Man’s Land
               The martyred roadway leads,
             Quick with forward moving hosts
               And quick with valiant deeds
             Avenging Rheims, Liége, and Lille,
               And outraged gods and creeds.

             “There lies the road from Avocourt
               That leads to Montfaucon,
             Past sniper and machine gun nest,
               By steel and thermite cleansed. They’ve gone—
             And there in thund’rous echelon
               The ruined heights of Montfaucon.”
                     HAROLD RIEZELMAN, 1st Lt., C.W.S.




                              VESTAL STAR


             The long, long march is o’er, the weary roaming;
               We bivouac, yearning for a peaceful night;
             I lie and dream amid the purple gloaming,
               And scan the heavens for a beacon light.

             As graying shadows lengthen o’er the landscape,
               And gentle zephyrs lightly stir the air,
             In yon first twinkling star I gleam a vision
               Of little sister offering up a prayer.
                                           FRA GUIDO, F.A.




                         THE DOUGHBOY PROMISES


                                  SHE

                When you come back—
              Ah, ’twill be such returning
        As only lips like mine can sanctify!
              Then will my arms, that ache with endless yearning,
              Find sweet surcease from the regret of learning
        To give you up, if need there be, to die.

                Should you come back
              Aged from the toil of fighting,
        Marred, it may be, though perfect you set out,
              What matters, so your heart has known no blighting,
              Your soul has met the test without affrighting?
        What is there, dear one, after that, to doubt!

          _Oh, but you must come back to me, beloved!
            Wounded or no, you must come back._


                                   HE

                 When I come back,
               Beneath my helmet muddy,
         There’ll be a smile, stored through the strife, for you;
               There’ll be a kiss, tender and warm—aye, ruddy
               With hint of Gallic skies, for my real buddy
         (That’s soldier talk, and soldier talk rings true).

                 As I come back,
               Down the street flags adorning,
         Half seeing all the pomp for sight of you,
               Foretaste I’ll know of gladsome days a-borning
               For us, come out of Night at last to Morning
         From the Long Trail that terminates for two.

           _Oh, but I will come back to you, my Mother!
             Wounded? Why, no! ... I will come back!_
                     ARTHUR MCKEOGH, Lt., Inf.




                             OLD LADY RUMOR


        There is nothing like a rumor just to set the gang afire,
                They receive it,
                And believe it,
        Does it matter who’s the liar?
        No, it doesn’t. For as often as we hear of something new,
                Though it’s doubted,
                It is shouted
        By our gossip-loving crew.
        Conversation is a morsel, and, with greedy appetite,
                How we chew it,
                As we brew it,
        Be it daytime, be it night.
        Back in the States it started and continues o’er the foam,
                And we’ll swally
                It, by golly,
        When we join the Soldiers’ Home!
                              A-h-h-h—men-n!
                    C. H. MACCOY, Base Hosp. 38.




                             THE LOST TOWNS


               Beneath the new moon sleeping
                 The little lost towns lie;
               Their streets are very white and hushed,
                 Their black spires tilt the sky.

               Across the darkened meadows
                 A plaintive night bird calls;
               The sea of fog that clouds the fields
                 Rolls softly to their walls.

               Within their shuttered houses
                 No midnight candles glance;
               Their womenfolk are all abed,
                 Their menfolk fight for France.

               They dream the little lost towns
                 Of Alsace and Lorraine,
               The vision of the patient years,
                 The old frontier again.

               Sleep on, nor cease your dreaming,
                 Who pitted men and crowns,
               We’ll bring you back, we’ll bring you back,
                 Oh, little, long lost towns.
                           STEUART M. EMERY, Pvt., M.P.




                                DER TAG

  (In answer to the German toast “Der Tag” in which the
  German war lords toasted the time when Deutschland would
  be “über alles.”)


           Here’s to the day when the whole thing is won!
           Here’s to the day when the Kaiser is done!
           Here’s to the day when we break his swelled dome!
           Here’s to the day that we go marching home!

                     Long, restless nights
                     With cursed cootie bites
                     Things of the past!
                     Hot baths at last!
                     Real dollar bills!
                     No more O.D. pills!

           Chicken instead of our canned willie chow!
           All of the ice cream the law will allow!
           Mess in the way we want to be messed!
           Dress in the way we like to be dressed!

                     Neckties and suits!
                     No more salutes!
                     A nice, comfy bed
                     With a mattress instead
                     Of some billet floor
                     That makes your ribs sore.

           The day when we no longer blister our heels,
           But know how a ride in the old subway feels!
           The day that we no longer parlez Français,
           But speak once again in the good old home way!

           Keep running, Fritz, as you’re now on the run,
           And before very long you will be a licked Hun,
           With “Der Tag” that you toasted time-worn and passé,
           While we drink triumphantly: Here’s to Our Day!
                       HOWARD J. GREEN, Corp., Inf.




                   THERE’S ABOUT TWO MILLION FELLOWS—


  There’s about two million fellows from the North, South, East and West
  Who scurried up the gang plank of a ship;
  They have felt the guy ropes paying and the troopship gently swaying
  As it started on its journey from the country of the blest.
  They have washed in hard salt water, bucked the Army transport grub,
  Had a hitch of crow’s nest duty on the way;
  Strained their eyes mistaking white caps for a humpback Prussian sub
  Just at twilight when “the danger’s great, they say.”
  When their ship had lost the convoy they were worried just a bit,
  And rather thought the skipper should be canned;
  And the sigh of heartfelt feeling almost set the boat to reeling
  When each of those two million sighted land.

  There’s about two million fellows that have landed here in France,
  They’re scattered God and G.H.Q. know where;
  By the cranes where steamers anchor, schooner, tramp, or greasy
     tanker,
  There’s an O.D. outfit waiting just to make the cargo dance.
  They are chopping in the forest, double-timing on the roads,
  Putting two-ways where a single went before;
  In the cabs of sweating engines, pushing, pulling double loads
  When the R.T.O.’s in frenzied tones implore.
  For it’s duty, solid duty with the hustling men behind,
  From the P. of E.’s on up to No Man’s Land;
  And there’s never chance of shirking when the boys up front are
     working—
  Night and day must go the answer to the front line’s stern demand.

  There’s about two million fellows and there’s some of them who lie
  Where eighty-eights and G.I.’s gently drop;
  Where the trucks and trains are jamming and the colonel he is damning
  Half the earth and in particular the Service of Supply.
  They have had a stretch of trenches, beat the Prussian at his best,
  Seen their buddies fall like heroes right beside;
  But—there’s nigh two million fellows from the country of the blest
  Who know the cause for which their comrades died,
  Who have crossed the sluggish shallows where their little life streams
     ran
  And broadened just a trifle, you will find;
  And their vision’s cleaner, clearer and they hold just that much
     dearer
  The great and glorious land they left behind!
                          ALBERT J. COOK,
              Sgt., Hq. Detch.,—Army Corps.

[Illustration: C. LeRoy Baldridge Pvt A E F Audenarde Belgium Nov.
11/1918]




                           NOVEMBER ELEVENTH


          We stood up and we didn’t say a word,
          It felt just like when you have dropped your pack
          After a hike, and straightened out your back
          And seem just twice as light as any bird.

          We stood up straight and, God! but it was good!
          When you have crouched like that for months, to stand
          Straight up and look right out toward No-Man’s-Land
          And feel the way you never thought you could.

          We saw the trenches on the other side
          And Jerry, too, not making any fuss,
          But prob’ly stupid-happy, just like us,
          Nobody shot and no one tried to hide.

          If you had listened then I guess you’d heard
          A sort of sigh from everybody there,
          But all we did was stand and stare and stare,
          Just stare and stand and never say a word.
                          HILMAR R. BAUKHAGE,
                                    Pvt., A. E. F.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                           TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


   1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
        spelling.
   2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as
        printed.
   3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 69980 ***