Part 8

But yet there is one thing to say--one thing that pays for all, Whatever lot our bodies know, whatever fate befall, We hold the line! We hold it still! My fields are No Man's Land, But the good God is debonair and holds us by the hand. "_On les aura!_" See there! and there I soaked heaps of huddled, grey! My fields shall laugh--enriched by those who sought them for a prey.

_James H. Knight-Adkin_

TO AN OLD LADY SEEN AT A GUESTHOUSE FOR SOLDIERS

Quiet thou didst stand at thine appointed place, There was no press to purchase--younger grace Attracts the youth of valour. Thou didst not know, Like the old, kindly Martha, to and fro To haste. Yet one could say, "In thine I prize The strength of calm that held in Mary's eyes." And when they came, thy gracious smile so wrought They knew that they were given, not that they bought. Thou didst not tempt to vauntings, and pretence Was dumb before thy perfect woman's sense. Blest who have seen, for they shall ever see The radiance of thy benignity.

_Alexander Robertson_

THE CASUALTY CLEARING STATION

A bowl of daffodils, A crimson-quilted bed, Sheets and pillows white as snow-- White and gold and red-- And sisters moving to and fro, With soft and silent tread.

So all my spirit fills With pleasure infinite, And all the feathered wings of rest Seem flocking from the radiant West To bear me thro' the night.

See, how they close me in. They, and the sisters' arms. One eye is closed, the other lid Is watching how my spirit slid Toward some red-roofed farms, And having crept beneath them slept Secure from war's alarms.

_Gilbert Waterhouse_

HILLS OF HOME

Oh! yon hills are filled with sunlight, and the green leaves paled to gold, And the smoking mists of Autumn hanging faintly o'er the wold; I dream of hills of other days whose sides I loved to roam When Spring was dancing through the lanes of those distant hills of home.

The winds of heaven gathered there as pure and cold as dew; Wood-sorrel and wild violets along the hedgerows grew, The blossom on the pear-trees was as white as flakes of foam In the orchard 'neath the shadow of those distant hills of home.

The first white frost in the meadow will be shining there to-day And the furrowed upland glinting warm beside the woodland way; There, a bright face and a clear hearth will be waiting when I come, And my heart is throbbing wildly for those distant hills of home.

_Malcolm Hemphrey_

THE RED CROSS SPIRIT SPEAKS

Wherever war, with its red woes, Or flood, or fire, or famine goes, There, too, go I; If earth in any quarter quakes Or pestilence its ravage makes, Thither I fly.

I kneel behind the soldier's trench, I walk 'mid shambles' smear and stench, The dead I mourn; I bear the stretcher and I bend O'er Fritz and Pierre and Jack to mend What shells have torn.

I go wherever men may dare, I go wherever woman's care And love can live, Wherever strength and skill can bring Surcease to human suffering, Or solace give.

I helped upon Haldora's shore; With Hospitaller Knights I bore The first red cross; I was the Lady of the Lamp; I saw in Solferino's camp The crimson loss.

I am your pennies and your pounds; I am your bodies on their rounds Of pain afar: I am _you_, doing what you would If you were only where you could-- Your avatar.

The cross which on my arm I wear, The flag which o'er my breast I bear, Is but the sign Of what you'd sacrifice for him Who suffers on the hellish rim Of war's red line.

_John Finley_

CHAPLAIN TO THE FORCES

["I have once more to remark upon the devotion to duty, courage, and contempt of danger which has characterized the work of the Chaplains of the Army throughout this campaign."--_Sir John French, in the Neuve Chapelle dispatch_.]

Ambassador of Christ you go Up to the very gates of Hell, Through fog of powder, storm of shell, To speak your Master's message: "Lo, The Prince of Peace is with you still, His peace be with you, His good-will."

It is not small, your priesthood's price. To be a man and yet stand by, To hold your life while others die, To bless, not share the sacrifice, To watch the strife and take no part-- You with the fire at your heart.

But yours, for our great Captain Christ, To know the sweat of agony, The darkness of Gethsemane, In anguish for these souls unpriced. Vicegerent of God's pity you, A sword must pierce your own soul through.

In the pale gleam of new-born day, Apart in some tree-shadowed place, Your altar but a packing-case, Rude as the shed where Mary lay, Your sanctuary the rain-drenched sod, You bring the kneeling soldier God.

As sentinel you guard the gate 'Twixt life and death, and unto death Speed the brave soul whose failing breath Shudders not at the grip of Fate, But answers, gallant to the end, "Christ is the Word--and I his friend."

Then God go with you, priest of God, For all is well and shall be well. What though you tread the roads of Hell, Your Captain these same ways has trod. Above the anguish and the loss Still floats the ensign of His Cross.

_Winifred M. Letts_

SONG OF THE RED CROSS

O gracious ones, we bless your name Upon our bended knee; The voice of love with tongue of flame Records your charity. Your hearts, your lives right willingly ye gave, That sacred ruth might shine; Ye fell, bright spirits, brave amongst the brave, Compassionate, divine.

Example from your lustrous deeds The conqueror shall take, Sowing sublime and fruitful seeds Of _aidos_ in this ache. And when our griefs have passed on gloomy wing, When friend and foe are sped, Sons of a morning to be born shall sing The radiant Cross of Red; Sons of a morning to be born shall sing The radiant Cross of Red.

_Eden Phillpotts_

THE HEALERS

In a vision of the night I saw them, In the battles of the night. 'Mid the roar and the reeling shadows of blood They were moving like light,

Light of the reason, guarded Tense within the will, As a lantern under a tossing of boughs Burns steady and still.

With scrutiny calm, and with fingers Patient as swift They bind up the hurts and the pain-writhen Bodies uplift,

Untired and defenceless; around them With shrieks in its breath Bursts stark from the terrible horizon Impersonal death;

But they take not their courage from anger That blinds the hot being; They take not their pity from weakness; Tender, yet seeing;

Feeling, yet nerved to the uttermost; Keen, like steel; Yet the wounds of the mind they are stricken with, Who shall heal?

They endure to have eyes of the watcher In hell, and not swerve For an hour from the faith that they follow, The light that they serve.

Man true to man, to his kindness That overflows all, To his spirit erect in the thunder When all his forts fall,--

This light, in the tiger-mad welter, They serve and they save. What song shall be worthy to sing of them-- Braver than the brave?

_Laurence Binyon_

THE RED CROSS NURSES

Out where the line of battle cleaves The horizon of woe And sightless warriors clutch the leaves The Red Cross nurses go. In where the cots of agony Mark death's unmeasured tide-- Bear up the battle's harvestry-- The Red Cross nurses glide.

Look! Where the hell of steel has torn Its way through slumbering earth The orphaned urchins kneel forlorn And wonder at their birth. Until, above them, calm and wise With smile and guiding hand, God looking through their gentle eyes, The Red Cross nurses stand.

_Thomas L. Masson_

KILMENY

(A SONG OF THE TRAWLERS)

Dark, dark lay the drifters, against the red west, As they shot their long meshes of steel overside; And the oily green waters were rocking to rest When _Kilmeny_ went out, at the turn of the tide. And nobody knew where that lassie would roam, For the magic that called her was tapping unseen, It was well nigh a week ere _Kilmeny_ came home, And nobody knew where _Kilmeny_ had been.

She'd a gun at her bow that was Newcastle's best, And a gun at her stern that was fresh from the Clyde, And a secret her skipper had never confessed, Not even at dawn, to his newly wed bride; And a wireless that whispered above like a gnome, The laughter of London, the boasts of Berlin. O, it may have been mermaids that lured her from home, But nobody knew where _Kilmeny_ had been.

It was dark when _Kilmeny_ came home from her quest, With her bridge dabbled red where her skipper had died; But she moved like a bride with a rose at her breast; And "Well done, Kilmeny!" the admiral cried.

Now at sixty-four fathom a conger may come, And nose at the bones of a drowned submarine; But late in the evening _Kilmeny_ came home, And nobody knew where _Kilmeny_ had been.

There's a wandering shadow that stares at the foam, Though they sing all the night to old England, their queen, Late, late in the evening _Kilmeny_ came home, And nobody knew where _Kilmeny_ had been.

_Alfred Noyes_

THE MINE-SWEEPERS

Dawn off the Foreland--the young flood making Jumbled and short and steep-- Black in the hollows and bright where it's breaking-- Awkward water to sweep. "Mines reported in the fairway, Warn all traffic and detain. Sent up _Unity_, _Claribel_, _Assyrian_, _Stormcock_, and _Golden Gain_."

Noon off the Foreland--the first ebb making Lumpy and strong in the bight. Boom after boom, and the golf-hut shaking And the jackdaws wild with fright. "Mines located in the fairway, Boats now working up the chain, Sweepers--_Unity_, _Claribel_, _Assyrian_, _Stormcock_, and _Golden Gain_."

Dusk off the Foreland--the last light going And the traffic crowding through, And five damned trawlers with their syreens blowing Heading the whole review! "Sweep completed in the fairway. No more mines remain. Sent back _Unity_, _Claribel_, _Assyrian_, _Stormcock_, and _Golden Gain_."

Rudyard Kipling_

MARE LIBERUM

You dare to say with perjured lips, "We fight to make the ocean free"? _You_, whose black trail of butchered ships Bestrews the bed of every sea Where German submarines have wrought Their horrors! Have you never thought,-- What you call freedom, men call piracy!

Unnumbered ghosts that haunt the wave Where you have murdered, cry you down; And seamen whom you would not save, Weave now in weed-grown depths a crown Of shame for your imperious head,-- A dark memorial of the dead,-- Women and children whom you left to drown.

Nay, not till thieves are set to guard The gold, and corsairs called to keep O'er peaceful commerce watch and ward, And wolves to herd the helpless sheep, Shall men and women look to thee-- Thou ruthless Old Man of the Sea-- To safeguard law and freedom on the deep!

In nobler breeds we put our trust: The nations in whose sacred lore The "Ought" stands out above the "Must," And Honor rules in peace and war. With these we hold in soul and heart, With these we choose our lot and part, Till Liberty is safe on sea and shore.

_Henry van Dyke_

_February 11, 1917_

THE DAWN PATROL

Sometimes I fly at dawn above the sea, Where, underneath, the restless waters flow-- Silver, and cold, and slow, Dim in the east there burns a new-born sun, Whose rosy gleams along the ripples run, Save where the mist droops low, Hiding the level loneliness from me.

And now appears beneath the milk-white haze A little fleet of anchored ships, which lie In clustered company, And seem as they are yet fast bound by sleep, Although the day has long begun to peep, With red-inflamèd eye, Along the still, deserted ocean ways.

The fresh, cold wind of dawn blows on my face As in the sun's raw heart I swiftly fly, And watch the seas glide by. Scarce human seem I, moving through the skies, And far removed from warlike enterprise-- Like some great gull on high Whose white and gleaming wings beat on through space.

Then do I feel with God quite, quite alone, High in the virgin morn, so white and still, And free from human ill: My prayers transcend my feeble earth-bound plaints-- As though I sang among the happy Saints With many a holy thrill-- As though the glowing sun were God's bright Throne.

My flight is done. I cross the line of foam That breaks around a town of grey and red, Whose streets and squares lie dead Beneath the silent dawn--then am I proud That England's peace to guard I am allowed; Then bow my humble head, In thanks to Him Who brings me safely home.

_Paul Bewsher_

DESTROYERS OFF JUTLAND

["If lost hounds could speak when they cast up next day after an unchecked night among the wild life of the dark they would talk much as our destroyers do."--_Rudyard Kipling_.]

They had hot scent across the spumy sea, _Gehenna_ and her sister, swift _Shaitan_, That in the pack, with _Goblin_, _Eblis_ ran And many a couple more, full cry, foot-free; The dog-fox and his brood were fain to flee, But bare of fang and dangerous to the van That pressed them close. So when the kill began Some hounds were lamed and some died splendidly.

But from the dusk along the Skagerack, Until dawn loomed upon the Reef of Horn And the last fox had slunk back to his earth, They kept the great traditions of the pack, Staunch-hearted through the hunt, as they were born, These hounds that England suckled at the birth.

_Reginald McIntosh Cleveland_

BRITISH MERCHANT SERVICE

Oh, down by Millwall Basin as I went the other day, I met a skipper that I knew, and to him I did say: "Now what's the cargo, Captain, that brings you up this way?"

"Oh, I've been up and down (said he) and round about also.... From Sydney to the Skagerack, and Kiel to Callao.... With a leaking steam-pipe all the way to Californ-i-o....

"With pots and pans and ivory fans and every kind of thing, Rails and nails and cotton bales, and sewer pipes and string.... But now I'm through with cargoes, and I'm here to serve the King!

"And if it's sweeping mines (to which my fancy somewhat leans) Or hanging out with booby-traps for the skulking submarines, I'm here to do my blooming best and give the beggars beans!

"A rough job and a tough job is the best job for me, And what or where I don't much care, I'll take what it may be, For a tight place is the right place when it's foul weather at sea!"

* * * * *

There's not a port he doesn't know from Melbourne to New York; He's as hard as a lump of harness beef, and as salt as pickled pork.... And he'll stand by a wreck in a murdering gale and count it part of his work!

He's the terror of the fo'c's'le when he heals its various ills With turpentine and mustard leaves, and poultices and pills.... But he knows the sea like the palm of his hand, as a shepherd knows the hills.

He'll spin you yarns from dawn to dark--and half of 'em are true! He swears in a score of languages, and maybe talks in two! And ... he'll lower a boat in a hurricane to save a drowning crew.

A rough job or a tough job--he's handled two or three-- And what or where he won't much care, nor ask what the risk may be.... For a tight place is the right place when it's wild weather at sea!

_C. Fox Smith_

TO A SOLDIER IN HOSPITAL

Courage came to you with your boyhood's grace Of ardent life and limb. Each day new dangers steeled you to the test, To ride, to climb, to swim. Your hot blood taught you carelessness of death With every breath.

So when you went to play another game You could not but be brave: An Empire's team, a rougher football field, The end--perhaps your grave. What matter? On the winning of a goal You staked your soul.

Yes, you wore courage as you wore your youth With carelessness and joy. But in what Spartan school of discipline Did you get patience, boy? How did you learn to bear this long-drawn pain And not complain?

Restless with throbbing hopes, with thwarted aims, Impulsive as a colt, How do you lie here month by weary month Helpless, and not revolt? What joy can these monotonous days afford Here in a ward?

Yet you are merry as the birds in spring, Or feign the gaiety, Lest those who dress and tend your wound each day Should guess the agony. Lest they should suffer--this the only fear You let draw near.

Greybeard philosophy has sought in books And argument this truth, That man is greater than his pain, but you Have learnt it in your youth. You know the wisdom taught by Calvary At twenty-three.

Death would have found you brave, but braver still You face each lagging day, A merry Stoic, patient, chivalrous, Divinely kind and gay. You bear your knowledge lightly, graduate Of unkind Fate.

Careless philosopher, the first to laugh, The latest to complain. Unmindful that you teach, you taught me this In your long fight with pain: Since God made man so good--here stands my creed-- God's good indeed.

_Winifred M. Letts_

BETWEEN THE LINES

When consciousness came back, he found he lay Between the opposing fires, but could not tell On which hand were his friends; and either way For him to turn was chancy--bullet and shell Whistling and shrieking over him, as the glare Of searchlights scoured the darkness to blind day. He scrambled to his hands and knees ascare, Dragging his wounded foot through puddled clay, And tumbled in a hole a shell had scooped At random in a turnip-field between The unseen trenches where the foes lay cooped Through that unending-battle of unseen, Dead-locked, league-stretching armies; and quite spent He rolled upon his back within the pit, And lay secure, thinking of all it meant-- His lying in that little hole, sore hit, But living, while across the starry sky Shrapnel and shell went screeching overhead-- Of all it meant that he, Tom Dodd, should lie Among the Belgian turnips, while his bed.... If it were he, indeed, who'd climbed each night, Fagged with the day's work, up the narrow stair, And slipt his clothes off in the candle-light, Too tired to fold them neatly in a chair The way his mother'd taught him--too dog-tired After the long day's serving in the shop, Inquiring what each customer required, Politely talking weather, fit to drop....

And now for fourteen days and nights, at least, He hadn't had his clothes off, and had lain In muddy trenches, napping like a beast With one eye open, under sun and rain And that unceasing hell-fire.... It was strange How things turned out--the chances! You'd just got To take your luck in life, you couldn't change Your luck. And so here he was lying shot Who just six months ago had thought to spend His days behind a counter. Still, perhaps.... And now, God only knew how he would end!

He'd like to know how many of the chaps Had won back to the trench alive, when he Had fallen wounded and been left for dead, If any!... This was different, certainly, From selling knots of tape and reels of thread And knots of tape and reels of thread and knots Of tape and reels of thread and knots of tape, Day in, day out, and answering "Have you got"'s And "Do you keep"'s till there seemed no escape From everlasting serving in a shop, Inquiring what each customer required, Politely talking weather, fit to drop, With swollen ankles, tired.... But he was tired Now. Every bone was aching, and had ached For fourteen days and nights in that wet trench-- Just duller when he slept than when he waked-- Crouching for shelter from the steady drench Of shell and shrapnel.... That old trench, it seemed Almost like home to him. He'd slept and fed And sung and smoked in it, while shrapnel screamed And shells went whining harmless overhead-- Harmless, at least, as far as he.... But Dick-- Dick hadn't found them harmless yesterday, At breakfast, when he'd said he couldn't stick Eating dry bread, and crawled out the back way, And brought them butter in a lordly dish-- Butter enough for all, and held it high, Yellow and fresh and clean as you would wish-- When plump upon the plate from out the sky A shell fell bursting.... Where the butter went, God only knew!... And Dick.... He dared not think Of what had come to Dick.... or what it meant-- The shrieking and the whistling and the stink He'd lived in fourteen days and nights. 'T was luck That he still lived.... And queer how little then He seemed to care that Dick.... perhaps 't was pluck That hardened him--a man among the men-- Perhaps.... Yet, only think things out a bit, And he was rabbit-livered, blue with funk! And he'd liked Dick ... and yet when Dick was hit He hadn't turned a hair. The meanest skunk He should have thought would feel it when his mate Was blown to smithereens--Dick, proud as punch, Grinning like sin, and holding up the plate-- But he had gone on munching his dry hunch, Unwinking, till he swallowed the last crumb. Perhaps 't was just because he dared not let His mind run upon Dick, who'd been his chum. He dared not now, though he could not forget.

Dick took his luck. And, life or death, 't was luck From first to last; and you'd just got to trust Your luck and grin. It wasn't so much pluck As knowing that you'd got to, when needs must, And better to die grinning.... Quiet now Had fallen on the night. On either hand The guns were quiet. Cool upon his brow The quiet darkness brooded, as he scanned The starry sky. He'd never seen before So many stars. Although, of course, he'd known That there were stars, somehow before the war He'd never realised them--so thick-sown, Millions and millions. Serving in the shop, Stars didn't count for much; and then at nights Strolling the pavements, dull and fit to drop, You didn't see much but the city lights. He'd never in his life seen so much sky As he'd seen this last fortnight. It was queer The things war taught you. He'd a mind to try To count the stars--they shone so bright and clear.

One, two, three, four.... Ah, God, but he was tired.... Five, six, seven, eight.... Yes, it was number eight. And what was the next thing that she required? (Too bad of customers to come so late, At closing time!) Again within the shop He handled knots of tape and reels of thread, Politely talking weather, fit to drop....

When once again the whole sky overhead Flared blind with searchlights, and the shriek of shell And scream of shrapnel roused him. Drowsily He stared about him, wondering. Then he fell Into deep dreamless slumber.

* * * * *