Part 10

Above the broken walls the apple boughs Are murmurous with bees; Again the slumbrous breeze Eddies the snow of drifted chestnut flowers, And little ruffling winds go silverly Along the poplar trees. They never speak of it to me, My comrades. Awkward-kind I hear their voices roughen and grow dumb, Remembering I am blind-- But through the dark, I know--I know the spring has come To France!

What matter I’ll not see beneath the wheat Red poppies burn again; The gleam of April rain Along the boulevards; the flower girls With mignonette and pinks and clematis; Not see again the Seine Slip under the silver bridges to Rouen? Ah, no; nor see The pale gold smile of buttercups, that glorifies Gray ruins with bravery Heartbreaking, valiant--the smile that lights the eyes Of France!

For through the sightless mercy of my days White visions come to me-- Beyond the dark I see. Not this worn, steadfast France, wan, gallant, spent, With eyes burned haggard by the spirit of the Maid And Charlotte of Normandy-- But France triumphant, high of heart, Smiling through throbbing drums On Rheims restored, Nancy, Alsace, Lorraine, In that new spring that comes-- The spring we halt and blind and dead bring back again To France!

RAIN ON YOUR OLD TIN HAT

LIEUT. J. H. WICKERSHAM

Written at the battle front in France and sent to his mother, Mrs. W. E. Damon. Lieutenant Wickersham was killed in action September 14, 1918.

The mist hangs low and quiet on a ragged line of hills, There’s a whispering of wind across the flat; You’d be feeling kind of lonesome if it wasn’t for one thing-- The patter of the raindrops on your old tin hat.

An’ you just can’t help a-figuring--sitting here alone-- About this war and hero stuff and that, And you wonder if they haven’t sort of got things twisted up, While the rain keeps up its patter on your old tin hat.

When you step off with the outfit to do your little bit, You’re simply doing what you’re s’posed to do-- And you don’t take time to figure what you gain or what you lose, It’s the spirit of the game that brings you through.

But back at home she’s waiting, writing cheerful little notes, And every night she offers up a prayer And just keeps on a-hoping that her soldier boy is safe-- The mother of the boy who’s over there.

And, fellows, she’s the hero of this great big ugly war, And her prayer is on that wind across the flat; And don’t you reckon maybe it’s her tears, and not the rain, That’s keeping up the patter on your old tin hat?

THE ARMED LINER

H. SMALLEY SARSON

IN THE POETRY REVIEW

The dull gray paint of war Covering the shining brass and gleaming decks That once re-echoed to the steps of youth. That was before The storms of destiny made ghastly wrecks Of peace, the Right of Truth. Impromptu dances, colored lights and laughter, Lovers watching the phosphorescent waves, Now gaping guns, a whistling shell; and after So many wandering graves.

THERE ARE CROCUSES AT NOTTINGHAM

WRITTEN IN THE TRENCHES

Flanders, spring of 1917. Authorship unknown.

Out here the dogs of war run loose, Their whipper-in is Death; Across the spoilt and battered fields We hear their sobbing breath. The fields where grew the living corn Are heavy with our dead; Yet still the fields at home are green And I have heard it said: That-- There are crocuses at Nottingham! Wild crocuses at Nottingham! Blue crocuses at Nottingham! Though here the grass is red.

There are little girls at Nottingham Who do not dread the boche, Young girls at school at Nottingham (Lord! how I need a wash!) There are little boys at Nottingham Who never hear a gun; There are silly fools at Nottingham Who think we’re here for fun. When-- There are crocuses at Nottingham! Young crocus buds at Nottingham! Thousands of buds at Nottingham Ungathered by the Hun.

But here we trample down the grass Into a purple slime; There lives no tree to give the birds House room in pairing time. We live in holes, like cellar rats, But through the noise and smell I often see those crocuses Of which the people tell. Why-- There are crocuses at Nottingham! Bright crocuses at Nottingham! Real crocuses at Nottingham! Because we’re here in Hell.

THE WAR ROSARY

NELLIE HURST

IN THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE

I knit, I knit, I pray, I pray. My knitting is my rosary. And as I weave the stitches gray, I murmur pray’rs continually. Gray loop, a sigh, gray knot, a wish, Gray row a chain of wistful pray’r, For thus to sit and knit and pray-- This is of war the woman’s share.

And so I knit, and thus I pray, And keep repeating night and day, May God lead safely those dear feet That soon shall wear the web of gray. Now and again a selfish strain? But surely woman heart must yearn, And pray sometimes that she may hear The footsteps that return.

But if, O God, Not that. But if it must be sacrifice complete, Then I will trust that afterward Thou wilt guide home those precious feet.

WHEN PRIVATE MUGRUMS PARLEY VOOS

PVT. CHARLES DIVINE

IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A.E.F., FRANCE

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 old 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.

MULES

C. FOX SMITH

IN LONDON PUNCH

Reproduced by special permission of the Proprietors of “Punch”

I never would ’ave done it if I’d known what it would be. I thought it meant promotion and some extra pay for me; I thought I’d miss a drill or two with packs an’ trenchin’ tools, So I said I’d ’andled horses--an’ they set me ’andlin’ mules.

Now ’orses they are ’orses, but a mule, ’e is a mule (Bit o’ devil, bit o’ monkey, bit o’ bloomin’ boundin’ fool!) Oh, I’m usin’ all the adjectives I didn’t learn at school On the prancin’, glancin’, rag-time dancin’ army transport mule.

If I’d been Father Noah when the cargo walked aboard, I’d ’ave let the bears an’ tigers in, an’ never spoke a word; But I’d ’ave shoved a placard out to say the ’ouse was full, An’ shut the ark up suddent when I saw the army mule.

They buck you off when ridden, they squish your leg when led; They’re mostly sittin’ on their tail or standing on their ’ead; They reach their yellow grinders out an’ gently chew your ear, An’ their necks is indiarubber for attackin’ in the rear.

They’re as mincin’ when they’re ’appy as a ladies’ ridin’ school, But when the fancy takes ’em they’re like nothin’ but a mule-- With the off wheels in the gutter an’ the near wheels in the air, An’ a leg across the traces, an’ the driver Lord knows where.

They’re ’orrid in the stables, they’re worse upon the road; They’ll bolt with any rider, they’ll jib with any load; But soon we’re bound beyond the seas, an’ when we cross the foam I don’t care where we go to if we leaves the mules at ’ome.

For ’orses they are ’orses, but a mule ’e is a mule (Bit o’ devil, bit o’ monkey, bit o’ bloomin’ boundin’ fool!) Oh, I’m usin’ all the adjectives I never learnt at school On the rampin’, rawboned, cast-steel-jawboned army transport mule.

AN APRIL SONG

GEORGE C. MICHAEL, LANCE CORPORAL, R. E.

(Written on leave at Stratford-on-Avon.)

Orchard land! Orchard land! Damson blossom, primrose bloom: Avon, like a silver band Winds from Stratford down to Broome: All the orchards simmer white For an April day’s delight: We have risen in our might, Left this land we love, to fight, Fighting still, that these may stand, Orchard land! Orchard land!

Running stream! Running stream! Ruddy tench and silver perch: Shakespeare loved the water’s gleam Sparkling on by Welford church: Water fay meets woodland gnome Where the silver eddies foam Thro’ the richly scented loam: We are fain to see our home, See again thy silver gleam, Running stream! Running stream!

Silver throats! Silver throats! Piping blackbird, trilling thrush: Shakespeare heard your merry notes; Still you herald morning’s blush: You shall sing your anthems grand When we’ve finished what He planned. God will hear and understand. God will give us back our land Where the water-lily floats, Silver throats! Silver throats!

A SONG OF THE AIR

GORDON ALCHIN

From “Oxford and Flanders.” B. H. Blackwell, Publishers, Oxford, England. Special permission to reproduce in this book.

This is the song of the Plane-- The creaking, shrieking plane, The throbbing, sobbing plane, And the moaning, groaning wires:-- The engine--missing again! One cylinder never fires! Hey ho! for the Plane!

This is the song of the Man-- The driving, striving man, The chosen, frozen man:-- The pilot, the man-at-the-wheel, Whose limit is all that he can, And beyond, if the need is real! Hey ho! for the Man!

This is the song of the Gun-- The muttering, stuttering gun, The maddening, gladdening gun:-- That chuckles with evil glee At the last, long drive of the Hun, With its end in eternity! Hey ho! for the Gun!

This is the song of the Air-- The lifting, drifting air, The eddying, steadying air, The wine of its limitless space:-- May it nerve us at last to dare Even death with undaunted face! Hey ho! for the Air!

VICTORY!

S. J. DUNCAN-CLARK

IN THE CHICAGO EVENING POST, NOVEMBER 11, 1918

Permission to reproduce in this book

Out of the night it leaped the seas-- The four long years of night! “The foe is beaten to his knees, And triumph crowns the fight!” It sweeps the world from shore to shore, By wave and wind ’tis flung, It grows into a mighty roar Of siren, bell and tongue. Where little peoples knelt in fear, They stand in joy today; The hour of their redemption here, Their feet on Freedom’s way. The kings and kaisers flee their doom, Fall bloody crown and throne! Room for the people! Room! Make room! They march to claim their own! Now God be praised we lived to see His Sun of Justice rise, His Sun of Righteous Liberty, To gladden all our skies! And God be praised for those who died, Whate’er their clime or breed, Who, fighting bravely side by side, A world from thraldom freed! And God be praised for those who, spite Of woundings sore and deep, Survive to see the Cause of Right O’er all its barriers sweep! God and the people--This our cry! O, God, thy peace we sing! The peace that comes through victory, And dwells where Thou art King.

THE HOMECOMING

LEROY FOLGE

Grief for a brother, an American who was killed in France, brought about the suicide of the author of this poem. The manuscript was found beside his body. The lines were published in THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE.

His regiment came home today, But Jim, old Jim, he’s still away. I know, I know, he’s sleeping there Out on the fields of France somewhere. And yet, I stood out in the rain, To watch the boys come home again, Just wishing that it wasn’t true, And that Jim would be coming, too. Yet, all the while, I knew, I knew--

Old Jim, he’s gone. They tell me how He fell against the Huns, and now, He’s gained a sort of dignity That somehow seems could never be; For Jim, he was so gay and free, With never a thought of greater weight Than just to keep an evening date, Or get some cigarets, perhaps, Or shoot a game or two of craps, Or dance all night, then drive all day His roadster down the speeding way. But, now, Jim’s gone, the folks will say, He was a wonder in his day. Old Jim--he wasn’t old, you know-- I say that for I love him so-- Grew up with me, and he and I Would never let a day go by That I did not see some plan begun In which we both would have some fun. And then, there comes that fateful day, When our men go to join the fray; And Jim can go, but I must stay. “Good-by, old top, if I’m not dead, I’ll give the Kaiser hell,” he said. I think he meant it, but--. Oh, well, He didn’t give the Kaiser hell.

Folks always said that Jim was light, And stayed out much too late at night, Frivolous and never would, Whatever else he did, make good.

Why, no one ever thought to take Jim seriously, the reckless rake! But when the time to charge had come, Jim left the trench, along with some More daring chaps, and crawling, spanned The hell that they call “No Man’s Land.”

They cut the tangled wires away, Then our men charged, but there Jim lay-- What is it that the Scriptures say About the chap that offers up His all, and drinks the bitter cup-- That’s how I like to think of Jim, The glory that is left of him.

THE CROWN

HELEN COMBES

IN LESLIE’S WEEKLY

Write us your verse, oh, soldier, tell us the grim, red tale, Learned on the field of battle, where bullets fell like hail. Pen us the ghastly story, of thousands of slaughtered men, Till our souls are sick with horror. And then, oh, soldier, then,

Tell us in tender accents, how men with hearts of gold Succored their wounded brothers; stripped in the biting cold To cover the dead and dying. Give us our faith again, Our belief in a God Almighty, in a Brotherhood of Man.

Paint us a canvas, soldier, a picture of fire and flame! Men, mad with the lust of killing, playing their grisly game! Show us the dead-strewn hillsides, guarding the blood-drenched plain, A picture of war’s grim horrors. And then, oh, soldier, then,

Draw us the white-capped nurses, doctors with skilful hands, Counting their lives as nothing when human need demands All that they have to offer. Paint us the women and men Who bring the joy of living back to our hearts again.

Sing us a song, oh, soldier, chant in a martial strain, Those who have died in battle, those who come home again. Call us the mothers of heroes, call us the mothers of men, Till our hearts are torn and bleeding. And then, oh, soldier, then,

Play us in minor cadence, a harp with a tautened string, Set to a heavenly music, the songs the angels sing, Of a world by Love safeguarded, where wars shall ever cease, Sing us at last oh, soldier, the Song of Eternal Peace.

OUR SOLDIER DEAD

ANNETTE KOHN

IN NEW YORK TIMES

Permission to reproduce in this book

“In Flanders fields, where poppies blow,” In France where beauteous roses grow, There let them rest--forever sleep, While we eternal vigil keep With our heart’s love--with our soul’s pray’r, For all our Fallen “Over There.”

The sounding sea between us rolls And in perpetual requiem tolls-- Three thousand miles of cheerless space Lie ’twixt us and their resting place; ’Twas God who took them by the hand And left them in the stranger land.

The earth is sacred where they fell-- Forever on it lies the spell Of hero deeds in Freedom’s cause, And men unborn shall come and pause To say a prayer, or bow the head, So leave these graves to hold their dead.

Let not our sighing nor our tears Fall on them through the coming years Who on the land, on sea, in air, With dauntless courage everywhere, Their homes and country glorified-- Stood to their arms and smiling died.

Great France will leave no need nor room That we place flowers on their tomb-- And proudly o’er their resting place, Will float forever in its grace, O’er cross, and star, and symbol tag, Their own beloved country’s flag.

The morning sun will gild with light, The stars keep holy watch at night, The winter spread soft pall of snow, The summer flowers about them grow, The sweet birds sing their springtime call God’s love and mercy guard them all.

LET THERE BE LIGHT!

RUTH WRIGHT KAUFFMAN

IN THE RED CROSS MAGAZINE

Permission to reproduce in this book

Black with the blackness of hell and despair Village and village and village lay there; Never a candle and never a lamp-- Four hundred miles of the enemies’ camp.

Trains of munitions that creak with their loads, Supplies, horses, soldiers engulfed by the roads; An ambulance crawling, a password, and then Through the shell-shattered houses the marching of men.

Black with the blackness of wounds and of death The villages huddled there holding their breath; Black--till there rang this new order to “Cease”-- “It is over!--all over!--the war!--_there is peace!_

Come, dance on the ruins--Look, No Man’s Land there, “Verboten” for years, is a world’s thoroughfare; And village and village, remember the night, But turn it to day--and let there be light.

The sorrow unburied, destruction--how much! Four hundred long miles for the taper to touch! The shades are undrawn, the lamps shining bright; It is dawn in the darkness; again There Is Light!

THE PRESENT BATTLE-FIELD

WRIGHT FIELD

IN THE STARS AND STRIPES

The war is over, over there, And Peace has made her bow-- But the Battle of Verdun is on At Jenkins’ Corners now!

All’s still along the rippling Somme, Likewise at Belleau Wood-- But the Jenkins’ Corners Battle now Is merely going good!

Now beaten into plowshares are The swords once dripping wet With human gore--but Heinies fall At Jenkins’ Corners yet!

The smoke of cannon floats away In France, a fading cloud-- But the war at Jenkins’ Corners is Attracting quite a crowd!

Pop Snider had a navvy there, And old Zeke Wade a son, And since the boys are home again, They’ve waded in like fun.

The checker-board is moved away, A gas-mask takes its place; The floor is neatly sanded, so The campaign they may trace.

Pop Snider knows what he’d have done, And Zekiel has his say On where they made the great mistake And nearly lost the day.

They fight it o’er from A to Z, And slay full many a Hun-- For out at Jenkins’ Corners now The war is just begun!

NOVEMBER ELEVENTH

ELIZABETH HANLY

IN POPULAR EDUCATOR

A thousand whistles break the bonds of sleep With swift exultant summons wild and shrill; Impassioned tongues of flames toward heaven leap To tell us peace has come. The guns are still.

A thousand flags have blossomed in the air Like poppies in a garden by the sea. Beyond the eastern hills a golden flare Foretells the day that broke on Calvary.

Long-darkened Liberty uplifts once more Her torch on Belgium, Poland and Alsace And Flanders--on each desecrated shore, Slow dawns the sun; and on my mother’s face The look, I think, that Mary must have worn In Galilee on Resurrection morn.

OLD JIM

NORMAN SHANNON HALL

IN THE STARS AND STRIPES

Permission to reproduce in this book

Out in that vague, vast “somewhere” of The Line They killed Old Jim, a proven friend of mine. Killed him at night, while he was on patrol; All the company found was just a hole A damned boche shell had dug out where he’d gone. The outfit passed the place just after dawn And saw some bodies; but they couldn’t tell Which one was which. They all were smashed to hell! They put Jim on the list, “Reported Dead”; “Missing in Action,” the home papers said.

I wasn’t in The Line when Jim went out. A piece of shrapnel had hit me a clout Which kept me pretty quiet for a while-- Gray days when it was mighty hard to smile. And when I learned Old Jim had topped the ridge I fell to thinking what a privilege It was to know him. Jim was just the kind That stops to pet a dog or help the blind. The sort you turn to when things don’t go right, And then forget when all the world is bright. Jim had a kindly eye that seemed to see The best in men. What could he see in me? I never knew; but Jim was always glad To give me half of everything he had. That’s why, you see, it cut me mighty deep To know Old Jim was Out There--in a heap.

I’ve said Old Jim was not identified. All the outfit ever knew was--he died! And though there is no way to prove it’s so This Unknown Soldier is Old Jim. I know! The Congress Medal and the D. S. C., Have been given this Lost Identity; And knowing that they both were earned by him, I know the Unknown Soldier is--Old Jim!

THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER ARMISTICE DAY AT ARLINGTON

GRANTLAND RICE

IN THE NEW YORK TRIBUNE

Permission to reproduce in this book

The wind to-day is full of ghosts with ghostly bugles blowing, Where shadows steal across the world, as silent as the dew. Where golden youth is yellow dust, by haunted rivers flowing Through valleys where the crosses grow, as harvest wheat is growing, And only dead men see the line that passes in review.

The gripping clay once more gives way before the Mighty Mother Who waits with everlasting arms to guard her sleeping sons. And lonely mates in silent fields call out to one another The story of an empty grave, where each has lost a brother, Who takes the long, long trail at last beyond the rusting guns.

Gently the east wind brought him home to meet the south wind sighing. Softly the north wind breathes his name that none of us may know. For only those who fell with him, out in the darkness lying, Can tell his company or rank, and they are unreplying, As each dreams on through summer dawns or mantling snow.