Part 2

But there ain’t no stores to buy in; there ain’t no big hotels, When you spend your time in dugouts doing a wholesale trade in shells; It’s nice to know the proper talk for theatres and such, But when it comes to talking, why, it doesn’t help you much. There’s all them friendly kind o’ things you’d naturally say When you meet a feller casual like and pass the time o’ day. Them little things that breaks the ice and kind of clears the air. But when you use your French book, why, them things isn’t there.

I met a chap the other day a-rootin’ in a trench. He didn’t know a word of ours, nor me a word of French; And how we ever managed, well, I cannot understand, But I never used my French book though I had it in my hand. I winked at him to start with; he grinned from ear to ear; An’ he says, “Bong jour, Sammy,” an’ I says “Souvenir”; He took my only cigarette, I took his thin cigar, Which set the ball a-rollin’, and so--well, there you are! I showed him next my wife and kids; he up and showed me his, Them funny little French kids with hair all in a frizz; “Annette,” he says, “Louise,” he says, and his tears begin to fall; We was comrades when we parted, though we’d hardly spoke at all.

He’d have kissed me if I’d let him. We had never met before, And I’ve never seen the beggar since, for that’s the way of war; And though we scarcely spoke a word, I wonder just the same If he’ll ever see them kids of his--I never asked his name.

LITANY

ALLENE GREGORY

IN HARRIET MONROE’S POETRY MAGAZINE

Permission to reproduce in this book

Saint Genevieve, whose sleepless watch Saved threatened France of old, Above the ship that carries him Your sacred vigil hold.

Where all the fair green fields you loved Are scarred with bursting shell, Joan, the Maid who fought for France-- Oh, guard your young knight well.

But if by sea or if by land God set death in his way-- Then, Mother of the Sacrificed, Teach me what prayer to pray!

RAGNAROK

THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS

ARTHUR GUITERMAN

IN THE BELLMAN, MINNEAPOLIS

Permission to reproduce in this book

Ho! Heimdal sounds the Gjallar-horn: The hosts of Hel rush forth And Fenris rages redly From his shackles in the North; Unleashed is Garm, and Lok is loosed, And freed is Giant Rime; The Rainbow-bridge is broken By the hordes of Muspelheim. The wild Valkyries ride the wind With spear and clanging shield Where all the Hates embattled Are met on Vigrid-field; For there shall fall the Mighty Ones By valiant men adored-- Great Odin, Tyr the fearless, And Frey that sold his sword. And Thor shall slay the dragon Whose breath shall be his bane. The gods themselves shall perish; The sons of the gods shall reign!

Old Time shall sound the boding horn Again and yet again, To rouse the warring passions That swell the hearts of men. Revolt shall wake, and Anarchy, With all their horrid throng-- Revenge, Destruction, Rapine, The spawn of ancient Wrong, With all the hosts of slaughter That our own sins must breed-- Cold Hate, Oppression’s daughter, And Rage, the child of Greed. Then, though we stand to battle As men have ever stood, Down, down shall crash our temples, The Evil and the Good; Yea, all that now we cherish Must pass--but not in vain. The gods we love shall perish; The sons of the gods shall reign!

So, strong in faith, or weak in doubt, Or berserk-mad, we range Our spears in that long battle Which means not Death, but Change. Our highest with our lowest Must own the grim behest, And Good shall yield for Better-- Else how should come the Best? Yet if we win our portion How dare we crave the whole? And if we still press forward, Why need we know the goal? But those whose hearts are constant And those whose souls are wise Have said that from our ashes A nobler race shall rise From shreds of shattered altars To rear the Perfect Fane. Our little gods must perish That God Himself shall reign!

THE KID HAS GONE TO THE COLORS

WILLIAM HERSCHELL

IN THE INDIANAPOLIS NEWS

Permission to reproduce in this book

The Kid has gone to the Colors And we don’t know what to say; The Kid we have loved and cuddled Stepped out for the Flag today. We thought him a child, a baby, With never a care at all, But his country called him man-size And the Kid has heard the call.

He paused to watch the recruiting Where, fired by the fife and drum, He bowed his head to Old Glory And thought that it whispered: “Come!” The Kid, not being a slacker, Stood forth with patriot-joy To add his name to the roster-- And God, we’re proud of the boy!

The Kid has gone to the Colors; It seems but a little while Since he drilled a schoolboy army In a truly martial style. But now he’s a man, a soldier, And we lend him listening ear, For his heart is a heart all loyal, Unscourged by the curse of fear.

His dad, when he told him, shuddered, His mother--God bless her!--cried; Yet, blest with a mother-nature, She wept with a mother-pride. But he whose old shoulders straightened Was Granddad--for memory ran To years when he, too, a youngster, Was changed by the Flag to a man!

A SCRAP OF PAPER

HERBERT KAUFMAN

From Mr. Kaufman’s book of poems, “The Hell-Gate of Soissons.” T. Fisher Unwin, Publishers (all rights reserved), London, England. Special permission to reproduce in this book.

“Just for a word, ‘neutrality’ ... just for a scrap of paper, Great Britain was going to make war.”--The German Chancellor to the British Ambassador in Berlin.

Just for a “scrap of paper,” Just for a Nation’s word, Just for a clean tradition, Just for a treaty slurred; Just for a pledge defaulted, Just for a dastard blow, Just for an ally’s summons, Just for a friend struck low; Just for the weal of progress, Just for a trust held dear, Just for the rights of mankind, Just for a duty clear; Just for a Prussian insult, Just for a splendid cause, Just for the hope of progress, Just for the might of laws; Just for the kingdom’s peril, Just for a deed of shame, Just for defense of honor, Just for the British name!

POPPIES

CAPT. JOHN MILLS HANSON, F.A.

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

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 fields; 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.

AS THE TRUCKS GO ROLLIN’ BY

LIEUT. L. W. SUCKERT, A.S., U.S.A.

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

There’s a rumble an’ a jumble an’ a humpin’ 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’ and 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, And 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 ol’ 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.

THE GRAVES OF GALLIPOLI

L. L. (A. N. Z. A. C.)

From “The Anzac Book.” Cassell & Co., Ltd., Publishers, London. Special permission to reproduce in this book.

This poem is one of many that were written to commemorate the stubborn bravery of the Anzacs, the British soldiers from Australia and New Zealand. These indomitables came half way round the globe at Britain’s first call. Their first appearance was in Egypt, where they drove the German-led Turks back into the desert and saved the Suez canal. They were and are officially designated the “Australian and New Zealand Army Corps,” a title too long for common use. They have won fame and the world’s admiration as the “Anzacs,” a word made by running together the first letters of their official title. Australia’s own name for her soldier is Bill-Jim. “The Graves of Gallipoli” is one of the most noble and tender poems that have come to us out of the war.

The herdman wandering by the lonely rills Marks where they lie on the scarred mountain’s flanks, Remembering that wild morning when the hills Shook to the roar of guns, and those wild ranks Surged upward from the sea.

None tends them. Flowers will come again in spring, And the torn hills and those poor mounds be green. Some bird that sings in English woods may sing To English lads beneath--the wind will keep Its ancient lullaby.

Some flower that blooms beside the southern foam May blossom where our dead Australians lie, And comfort them with whispers of their home; And they will dream, beneath the alien sky, Of the Pacific Sea.

“Thrice happy they who fell beneath the walls, Under their father’s eyes,” the Trojan said, “Not we who die in exile where who falls Must lie in foreign earth.” Alas! our dead Lie buried far away.

Yet where the brave man lies who fell in fight For his dear country, there his country is. And we will mourn them proudly as of right-- For meaner deaths be weeping and loud cries: They died pro patria!

Oh, sweet and seemly so to die, indeed, In the high flush of youth and strength and pride. These are our martyrs, and their blood the seed Of nobler futures. ’Twas for us they died. Keep we their memory green.

This be their epitaph. “Traveler, south or west, Go, say at home we heard the trumpet call, And answered. Now beside the sea we rest. Our end was happy if our country thrives: Much was demanded. Lo! our store was small-- That which we had we gave--it was our lives.”

BATTLE OF BELLEAU WOOD

EDGAR A. GUEST

This poem was chosen by Major General John A. Lejeune, Commandant of the United States Marine Corps, as his favorite of all the Marine Corps verse written during the war. It is republished here by permission of the author and of the publishers, Reilly and Lee, who hold the copyright.

It was thick with Prussian troopers, it was foul with German guns; Every tree that cast a shadow was a sheltering place for Huns. Death was guarding every roadway, death was watching every field, And behind each rise of terrain was a rapid-fire concealed; But Uncle Sam’s Marines had orders: “Drive the Boche from where they’re hid. For the honor of Old Glory, take the woods!” and so they did.

I fancy none will tell it as the story should be told-- None will ever do full justice to those Yankee troopers bold. How they crawled upon their stomachs through the fields of golden wheat With the bullets spitting at them in that awful battle heat. It’s a tale too big for writing; it’s beyond the voice or pen, But it glows among the splendor of the bravest deeds of men.

It’s recorded as a battle, but I fancy it will live, As the brightest gem of courage human struggles have to give. Inch by inch, they crawled to victory toward the flaming mounts of guns; Inch by inch, they crawled to grapple with the barricaded Huns; On through fields that death was sweeping with a murderous fire, they went Till the Teuton line was vanquished and the German strength was spent.

Ebbed and flowed the tides of battle as they’ve seldom done before; Slowly, surely, moved the Yankees against all the odds of war. For the honor of the fallen, for the glory of the dead, The living line of courage kept the faith and moved ahead. They’d been ordered not to falter, and when night came on they stood With Old Glory proudly flying o’er the trees of Belleau Wood.

“POOR OLD SHIP!”

C. FOX SMITH

IN PUNCH

Reproduced by special permission of the Proprietors of “Punch”

She wasn’t much to brag about, she wasn’t much to see, A rusty, crusty hooker as a merchant ship could be; They sunk her off the Longships light as night was coming on, And we had to go and leave her there and, poor old ship, she’s gone. All that was good of her, all that was bad of her, All that we gave to her, all that we had of her, Poor old ship, she’s gone!

The times we spent aboard her, they was oftener bad than good, But bad or good, we’d live the lot all over if we could; She’s stood her trick as well as us, she’s had her whack of fun, She’s shared it all with sailormen, and poor old ship, she’s done. Hard times and soft times and all times we’ve been with her, Bad days and good days and all sorts we’ve seen with her, And, poor old ship, she’s done!

She’s stuck her crazy derricks up by half a hundred quays, She’s dipped her dingy duster in the spray of all the seas; Her funnels caked with Cape Horn ice and blistered in the sun, She’s moseyed round above a bit, and, poor old ship, she’s done. North seas and south, and they’ve all had a go at her, Hot winds and cold, and they’ve all had a blow at her, And, poor old ship, she’s done!

She’s trailed her smudge the whole world round in weather gray and blue, She’s churned a dozen oceans with her bloomin’ nine-knot screw; She’s sampled all the harbor mud from Cardiff to Canton, And she’ll never clear another port, for, poor old ship, she’s gone. Ports up and down, and she’s seen many a score of ’em; Seas high and low, and she won’t sail no more of ’em, For, poor old ship, she’s gone!

And chaps that knowed her in her time, ’tween London and Rangoon, In many a sailor’s drinking-place and water-front saloon, Will set their drinks down when they hear her bloomin’ yarn is spun, And say, “I sailed aboard her once, and, poor old ship, she’s done. Many’s the hard word I once used to spend on her, Ah, them was the great days, and now there’s an end on her, Poor old ship, she’s done!”

PASSING THE BUCK

SERGT. NORMAN E. NYGAARD, 313TH SN. TN.

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

The Colonel has a job to do That’s really hard, and puzzling, too; He can’t quite figure what it needs, So hands it out to Major Heeds.

And Major Heeds he thinks it o’er, And thinks it o’er and o’er some more, And he can’t make it out at all, So Captain Jones, he takes a fall.

The Captain shoves his helmet back, And puts his brains all on the rack; But “D--n” is all that can be said, And then it’s up to First Loot Head.

O’ course, he “knows,” but hasn’t time-- The work they shove on him’s a crime; This, and then lots more to boot, So on it goes to the Second Loot.

Now Lieutenant Young is just a kid, A baby mouth by an eyebrow hid; A job like that would knock him cold, He hands it down to Top-soak Gold.

The Top-soak, ’course, is swamped with work; It never was his plan to shirk, But Sergeant Reed, he’s just the man, He’ll sure do it if any can.

But that old sarge must sleep a lot: This biz of overworkin’s rot; He gives the Corp’rul loads of gas, And so that duffer takes a pass.

But Corp’ruls don’t know what to do, They’re only built for bossing, too; So Corp’rul Jenks, he says he’s stuck, And hands it on to a common buck.

And when the job is finished right, And all the things are clear as light, Why, then, it’s found by all the Fates, The job was done by Private Bates.

An’ it’s passin’ the buck, An’ a-passin’ the buck, An’ a-passin’ the buck along, An’ on with the buck With the best o’ luck, An’ I hope you come out wrong.

THE RETURN

THEODORE HOWARD BANKS, JR. IN EVERYBODY’S MAGAZINE

Permission to reproduce in this book

When I return, let us be very still; No mirth, and but one deep, soul-searching glance, Mindful of the unnumbered graves of France, Where love lies buried on each trampled hill.

BULLINGTON

C. FOX SMITH IN PUNCH

Reproduced by special permission of the Proprietors of “Punch”

It was the high midsummer, and the sun was shining strong, And the lane was rather flinty, and the lane was rather long, When--up and down the gentle hills beside the stripling Test-- I chanced to come to Bullington and stayed a while to rest.

It was drowned in peace and quiet, as the river reeds are drowned In the water clear as crystal, flowing by with scarce a sound, And the air was like a posy with the sweet haymaking smells, And the Roses and Sweet Williams and Canterbury Bells.

Far away as some strange planet seemed the old world’s dust and din, And the trout in sun-warmed shallows hardly seemed to stir a fin; And there’s never a clock to tell you how the hurrying world goes on In the little ivied steeple down in drowsy Bullington.

Small and sleepy, there it nestled, seeming far from hastening Time, As a teeny-tiny village in some quaint old nursery rhyme; And a teeny-tiny river by a teeny-tiny weir Sang a teeny-tiny ditty that I stayed a while to hear.

“Oh, the stream runs to the river, and the river to the sea, But the reedy banks of Bullington are good enough for me; Oh, the lane runs to the highway, and the highway o’er the down, But it’s better here in Bullington than there in London town.”

Then high above an aeroplane in humming flight went by, With the droning of its engines filling all the cloudless sky, And like the booming of a knell across that perfect day There came the gun’s dull thunder from the ranges far away.

And while I lay and listened, oh, the river’s sleepy tune Seemed to change its rippling music, like the cuckoo’s stave in June; And the cannon’s distant thunder, and the engines’ warlike drone Seemed to mingle with its burthen in a solemn undertone.

“Oh, the stream runs to the river, and the river to the sea, And there’s war on land and water, and there’s work for you and me! And on many a field of glory there are gallant lives laid down As well for tiny Bullington as mighty London town!”

So I roused me from my daydream, for I knew the song spoke true That it isn’t time for dreaming while there’s duty still to do; And I turned into the highway where it meets the flinty lane, And the world of wars and sorrows was about me once again.

THE PADRE

CAPT. C. W. BLACKALL

’E’s a sportsman is our Padre, Of that there ain’t a doubt. ’E don’t chuck religion at yer, An’ preach at yer an’ spout; An’ if ’e ’ears yer cussin’, As yer fillin’ up ther bags, ’E jest ses, “Fumigate your throat,” An’ ’ands yer out some fags.

’E don’t take all fer granted That yer murderers an’ thieves, An’ always tell yer, now’s ther time Fer turnin’ over leaves. ’E’ll wander round ther trenches, Jest to pass ther time o’ day. An’ there ain’t a bloke as doesn’t feel A _man_ ’as passed that way.

I remember once, near Wipers, When things was pretty ’ot, An’ yer ’ad ter keep yer nut down If yer didn’t want it shot; While they was fairly plasterin’ As fast as they could load, ’E came ridin’--mark yer, _ridin_-- All down ther Menin Road.

’E was dossin’ in a “staminay,” Pyjamas all complete, When a ’igh-explosive carried ’Arf the ’ouse into the street. While other blokes was runnin’ wild, An’ kickin’ up a row, ’E calmly arsts, “Pray, what is the Correct procedure now?”

They tells ’im as ’e’d better Do a bunk for all ’e’s worth, As ’is bloomin’ “staminay” is not Ther safest spot on earth. But ’e ’as a look around ’im, An’ wags ’is bally ’ead; Ses ’e, “It seems quite restful now,” An’ back ’e goes to bed.

But ’e fairly put ther lid on When we made ther last attack: If ’is lads was goin’ ter cop it, ’E weren’t fer ’angin’ back. So ’e ’ops out of ther trenches Level with ther foremost ’ound, An’ natural like ’e stops one An’ gets a little wound.

’E’s a sportsman is our Padre, Of that there ain’t a doubt. ’E don’t chuck religion at yer, An’ preach at yer an’ spout. Still, ’e’ll show ther way ter ’Eaven-- That’s if anybody can-- But we’d follow ’im to ’ell; ’cos why? Our Padre ’e’s a man.

CORP’RAL’S CHEVRONS

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

Oh, the General with his epaulets, 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 miter 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.

THE OLD TOP SERGEANT

BERTON BRALEY

From Mr. Braley’s book, “In Camp and Trench,” published and copyright, 1918, by George H. Doran Company, New York. Special permission to reproduce in this book.

“Shavetail” is a name applied by enlisted men in the regular army to lieutenants fresh from West Point.