Part 4

“I’d sent four of ’em back with the R. I. P. sign, Which means to return if you can, But none of ’em got through the curtain of fire; My hurry call died with the man. Then Runner McGee said he’d try to get through. I hated to order the kid On his mission of death; thought he’d never get by, But somehow or other he did.

“Yes, he’s dead. Died an hour after bringing us word That the chief was aware of our plight, An’ for us to hang onto the ditch that we held; The reserves would relieve us at night. Then we stuck to our trench an’ we stuck to our guns; You know how you’ll fight when you know That new strength is coming to fill up the gaps. There’s heart in the force of your blow.

“It wasn’t till later I got all the facts. They wanted McGee to remain. They begged him to stay. He had cheated death once, An’ was foolish to try it again. ‘R. I. P. are my orders,’ he answered them all, ‘An’ back to the boys I must go; Four of us died comin’ out with the news. It will help them to know that you know.’”

THE SOLDIER’S FOLKS AT HOME

FROM THE CHRISTIAN HERALD

We often sit upon the porch on sultry August nights, When fireflies out upon the lawn are soft enchanted lights From Fairyland; when, far away, a vagrant nightingale Is sobbing from a bursting heart his tragic untold tale. We often sit upon the porch, quite silently, for we Are seeing golden wonder-worlds that no one else may see.

My mother sighs; I feel her hand upon my ruffled hair, The while I know she thinks of one, of one who is not there.... And grandma, with her down-bent head, is dreaming of the day When to the strains of “Dixie Land” her sweetheart marched away. And brother stares into the dusk, with vivid eyes aflame, And hears the stirring call to arms, to battle and to fame!

My little sister, half asleep, holds tight against her breast A battered doll with china eyes that she herself has dressed; And baby brother holds my hand, and thinks of cakes and toys That grow on trees in some fair land for perfect little boys. And auntie holds her head erect, and seems to dare the fates With eyes that hold the glowing look of one who hopes and waits.

We often sit upon the porch on sultry August nights When fireflies out upon the lawn are vague enchanted lights, And no one speaks, for each one dreams and plans, perhaps, and strays, A wanderer through years to come, a ghost through bygone days, And as the stars far in the sky come shining softly through, My heart and soul are all one prayer--one silver prayer for you.

THREE HILLS

EVERARD OWEN

From Mr. Owen’s book, “Three Hills and Other Poems.” Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd., Publishers, London, England. Special permission to insert in this book.

There is a hill in England, Green fields and a school I know, Where the balls fly fast in summer, And the whispering elm-trees grow, A little hill, a dear hill, And the playing fields below.

There is a hill in Flanders, Heaped with a thousand slain, Where the shells fly night and noontide And the ghosts that died in vain-- A little hill, a hard hill, To the souls that died in pain.

There is a hill in Jewry, Three crosses pierce the sky, On the midmost He is dying To save all those who die-- A little hill, a kind hill To souls in jeopardy.

MIKE DILLON, DOUGHBOY

LIEUT. JOHN PIERRE ROCHE

From Lieutenant Roche’s book of poems, “Rimes in Olive Drab.” Robert M. McBride & Company, Publishers, New York. Copyright, 1918. Special permission to insert in this book.

“Doughboy” is an old nickname for a United States infantryman. When our army went into what is now New Mexico, Arizona and California to quiet the Mexicans hostilities that preceded the war of 1846, the infantry fell into a way of camping in houses built by the natives with sun-dried bricks of adobé mud. The cavalry, having to lie in the open with the horses, were joked thereat and came back by calling the infantry dobie boys. The name stuck and by an easy slide arrived at the present form.

Mike Dillon was a doughboy And wore the issue stuff; He wasn’t much to look at-- In fact, was rather rough; He served his time as rookie-- At drilling in the sun, And cleared a lot of timber And polished up his gun.

Mike Dillon was a private With all the word entails; He cussed and chewed tobacco And overlooked his nails. You never saw Mike Dillon At dances ultra nice; In fact, inspection found him Enjoying body lice.

If Mike had married money Or had a little drag, He might have got a brevet And missed a little “fag”; But as a social figure He simply wasn’t there-- So Mike continued drilling And knifing up his fare.

In course of time they shipped ’em And shipped ’em over where A man like Mike can sidestep The frigid social stare, And do the job of soldier Without the fancy frills, And keep a steady footing In the pace that really kills.

Now Mike did nothing special; He only did his best: He stuck and “went on over”-- And got it in the chest; He played it fair and squarely Without a social air, And Mike is now in heaven And at least a corporal there!

WHEN THE FRENCH BAND PLAYS

ANONYMOUS

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

There’s a military band that plays, on Sunday afternoons, In a certain nameless city’s quaint old square. It can rouse the blood to battle with its patriotic tunes, And still render hymns as gentle as a prayer. When it starts “Ave Maria” there is no one in the throng But would doff his cap, his heart to heaven raise; And who would shrink from combat when, with brasses sounding strong, There is flung out on the breeze “La Marseillaise”?

When it starts to render “Sambre et Meuse,” the march that won the day At the battle of the Marne, one sees again The grey-green hosts of Hundom melt before the stern array Of our gallant sister-ally’s blue-clad men. And when it plays our Anthem, with rendition bold and clear-- While the khaki lads stand steady--then we feel That, though tongues and ways may vary, we’ve found brothers over here, Tried in war, and in allegiance true as steel.

For it’s olive-drab, horizon-blue, packed closely side by side, Till their colors set ablaze the grey old square; And it’s olive-drab, horizon-blue, whatever may betide, That will blaze the way to victory “up there.” So, while standing thus together, let us pledge anew our troth To the Cause--the world set free!--for which we fight. As the evening twilight gilds the ranks of blue and khaki both, And the bugles die away into the night.

THE OLD GANG ON THE CORNER

WILLIAM HERSCHELL

IN COLLIER’S WEEKLY

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The Old Gang on the Corner! What an arrant tribe they were; The Widow Kelly’s Connie--he had always worried her! The Schultz boys, Jake and Rudy; the parson’s own, Chub Smith, “Who,” sister told the neighbors, “they can’t do nothin’ with.” Young Tony Boots, the Dago, and Scamp, the tinner’s son-- To them a mischief thought of was a mischief quickly done.

The Old Gang on the Corner! In the arc light’s friendly glow They trooped each night till Tim the Cop came by and made them go. But all that now is ended, for the Sword of Hate is drawn-- The Old Gang on the Corner from its happy haunt is gone. The street lamp idly sputters; Tim, the lonely, walks his beat, His good heart well ahunger for the Old Gang in the street.

The Old Gang on the Corner! Now each loyal mother brags No other neighborhood can boast as many service flags. Con Kelly’s won a sergeantcy; the parson’s black-sheep son Has had his picture printed for heroic deeds he’s done. The Schultz boys, in the navy, though they yet are in their teens, Are mates with Scamp and Tony in the chase for submarines.

The Old Gang on the Corner! Yes, we’ve all forgotten now The Hallowe’en they calcimined McDougall’s muley cow, We’ve put aside the memories of cream and cake they stole When our church had a festival to pay for last year’s coal. All that is in the Yesterday--they’re now our fighting men-- And, God, won’t we be happy if they all come home again?

THE BATTLE-LINE

J. B. DOLLARD

IN THE GLOBE, TORONTO

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Athwart that land of bloss’ming vine Stretches the awful battle-line; A lark hangs singing in the sky, With sullen shrapnel bursting nigh! Along the poplar-bordered road The peasant trudges with his load, While horsemen and artillery Rush to red fields that are to be! The plains for tillage furrowed well Are now replowed with shot and shell! The ditches, swollen by the rain, Show bloated faces of the slain. The hedge-rows sweet with leaf and flower Now mask the cannon’s murderous power! Small birds by household cares opprest Beg truce and time to build their nest. The sun sinks down--oh, blest release! And the spent world cries out for peace, In vain! In vain! Tho’ mild stars shine, War wakes the thundering battle-line.

A CHANT OF ARMY COOKS

ANONYMOUS

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

We never were made to be seen on parade When sweethearts and such line the streets; When the band starts to blare, look for us--we ain’t there-- We’re mussing around with the eats. It’s fun to step out to the echoing shout Of a crowd that forgets how you’re fed, While we’re soiling our duds hacking eyes out of spuds-- You know what Napoleon said.

When the mess sergeant’s gay, you can bet hell’s to pay For the boys who are standing in line; When the boys get a square, then the sergeant is there With your death warrant ready to sign. If you’re long on the grub, then you’re damned for a dub, If you’re short, you’re a miser instead, But, however you feel, you must get the next meal-- You know what Napoleon said.

You think it’s a cinch when you come to the clinch For the man who is grinding the meat; In the heat of the fight, why the cook’s out of sight With plenty of room to retreat. But a plump of a shell in a kitchen is hell When the roof scatters over your head, And you crawl on your knees to pick up the K. P.’s-- You know what Napoleon said.

If the war ever ends, we’ll go back to our friends-- In the army we’ve nary a one; We’ll list to the prattle of this or that battle, And then, when the story is done, We’ll say, when they ask, “Now what was your task, And what is the glory you shed?” “You see how they thrive--well, we kept ’em alive! You know what Napoleon said.”

THE DRUM

JOSEPH LEE

“Come to me, and I will give you flesh.”--Old Pibrochadh.

Come! Says the drum; Though graves be hollow, Yet follow, follow: Come! Says the drum.

Life! Shrills the fife, Is in strife-- Leave love and wife: Come! Says the drum.

Ripe! Screams the pipe, Is the field-- Swords and not sickles wield: Come! Says the drum.

The drum Says, Come! Though graves be hollow, Yet follow, follow: Come! Says the drum.

THE GREAT ADVENTURE

MAJOR KENDALL BANNING

SIGNAL RESERVE CORPS, AVIATION SECTION, U. S. ARMY

God, the Master Pilot, Or gods, if such there be-- Pour me no weakling’s measure When ye pour the wine for me! Of pain, of love, of pleasure, I’ll drain the draught ye give; Of good and ill, give me the fill Of the life ye bade me live!

Spare me no tithe of favor, With fortune pave my path, Nor hold the hand of vengeance When I deserve your wrath. Whatever fates ye send me, Whatever cast the sky, Grant me the grace to live a man And as a man to die!

Upon the good I render Let shine your proudest sun: And rest me in the valleys When my last trick is done. For these your utmost portions, I’ll pay the utmost toll, So this my life, become the great Adventure of my soul!

TO THE WRITER OF “CHRIST IN FLANDERS”

E. M. V.

IN THE SPECTATOR

On the battlefields of Flanders men have blessed you in their pain; For you told us Who was with us, and your words were not in vain.

All you said was very gentle, but we felt you knew our ways; And we tried to find the Footprints we had missed in other days.

When we found Those blood-stained Footsteps, we have followed to the End; For we know that only Death can show the features of our Friend.

In the Mansions of the Master, He will make the meaning plain Of the battlefields of Flanders, of the Crucifix of Pain.

TO SOMEBODY

HAROLD SETON

IN MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

Permission to reproduce in this book.

They’ve put us through our paces; They say we’re doing fine; We’ll soon go to our places Upon the firing-line. Some chaps will fight for mothers, And some for wives so true; For sweethearts many others, And I will fight for you!

Through all these months of training We’ve cherished hopeful thoughts And drilled without complaining, Like soldiers and good sports. We’re warring for a reason, We’ve sworn to see this through; To falter would be treason, And I will fight for you!

Your presence will be near me, Your voice will call my name; You’ll comfort me and cheer me, Your love, behold, I claim! ’Twould take more than an ocean To separate us two; I’ll hold unto this notion, And I will fight for you!

WAR

COL. WILLIAM LIGHTFOOT VISSCHER

IN THE SCOOP, THE CHICAGO PRESS CLUB’S MAGAZINE

By blazing homes, through forests torn And blackened harvest fields, The grim and drunken god of war In frenzied fury reels.

His breath--the sulph’rous stench of guns-- That death and famine deals And Pity, pleading, wounded falls Beneath his steel-shod heels.

A MARCHING SOLILOQUY

BY A MEMBER OF THE S. A. T. C., NORTHWESTERN COLLEGE, NAPERVILLE, ILL.

“Left! Left!” Had a good girl when I “Left! Left!” Mighty good pal when I “Left!” “One! Two! Three! Four!” How many miles more? “Left!

“Left! Left!” Booked for a wife when I “Left! Left!” That was my life when I “Left!” “One! Two! Three! Four!” Hear old Lieutenant roar “Left!”

WHILE SUMMERS PASS

ALINE MICHAELIS

IN THE ENTERPRISE, BEAUMONT, TEXAS

Summer comes and summer goes, Buds the primrose, fades the rose; But his footfall on the grass, Coming swiftly to my door, I shall hear again no more, Though a thousand summers pass.

Once he loved the clovers well, Loved the larkspur and bluebell. And the scent the plum-blooms yield; But strange flowers his soul beguiled, Pallid lilies, laurels wild, Blooming in a crimson field.

So he plucked the laurels there, And he found them sweet and fair In that field of blood-red hue; And, when on a summer night Moonlight drenched my clovers white, Lo! He plucked Death’s lilies, too.

It may be that e’en to-night, In the Gardens of Delight, Where his shining soul must dwell, He has found some flowers more sweet Than the clovers at my feet, Some celestial asphodel.

But while summer comes and goes, With the primrose and the rose Comes his footfall on the grass-- Gladly, lightly to my door-- I shall hear it echo o’er, Though a thousand summers pass.

THE MARINES

ADOLPHE E. SMYLIE

OF THE VIGILANTES

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“Pardon! he has no Engleesh, heem, Il ne parle que Française, I spik it leetle some Monsieur, Vaire bad, j’en suis fâché-- Marines? Mais oui! I fight wiz zem At Château Thierry An’ on ze Ourcq an’ Marne in grand Bon camaraderie. I see zem fight at bois Belleau, Like sauvage make ze yell,-- Sacre nom de Dieu! zoze sailor man Eez fightin’ like ze hell! All time zey smile when make ze push, Magnifique zaire élan, Zey show ze heart of lion For delight our brav Franchman. An’ in ze tranch at rest, zoze troop From ze Etats Unis Queeck make ze good frien’ of poilu Wiz beeg slap on ze knee! Zey make ze song an’ joke, si drôle An’ pass ze cigarette; Zey call us goddam good ol’ scout Like Marquis La Fayette. Next day, mebbee, again ze taps-- Ze volley in ze air.-- Adieu! some fightin’ sailor man Eez gone West. C’est la guerre! No more ze smile, ze hug, ze hand Queeck wiz ze cigarette; C’est vrai, at funerall of _heem_ Ze poilu’s eye eez wet. But, every day like tidal wave,-- Like human avalanche,-- Ze transport bring more Yankee troop, To get ze beeg revanche! Zen from ze heart Américaine Come milliards of monnaie; Eet eez ze end! Your country bring Triomphant liberté. So, au revoir! I mus’ go on But first I tell to you What some high Officier remark Zat day at bois Belleau. He says, our great Napoleon Wiz envy would turn green Eef he could see zoze sailor man,-- Zoze Uncle Sam Marines!”

AN AMBULANCE DRIVER’S PRAYER

LIEUT. CHAPLAIN THOMAS F. COAKLEY

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

’Mid blinding rain this inky night, Loud bursting shells each foot of road, Thy Light, O Christ, will guide me right, To save this gasping, dying load.

Their shattered limbs have followed Thee; Their wounded hands have done Thy work. They bled, O Lord, to make men free; They fought the fight--they did not shirk.

NOT TOO OLD TO FIGHT

T. C. HARBAUGH

IN THE CHICAGO LEDGER

My name is Danny Bloomer and my age is eighty-three, Years ago I went with Sherman to the ever sunny sea. I stood my ground at Gettysburg, that bloody summer day, When gallant Pickett rushed the hill and lost his boys in gray; And now our starry banner is insulted and defied, The kaiser tears it into shreds and glories in his pride; Just pass the word across the sea to his stronghold of might, And say that Danny Bloomer’s here and not too old to fight.

I gave my youth to Uncle Sam in years I’ll ne’er forget, In mem’ry of those stirring times my old blood tingles yet. With four score years upon me I can lift the same old gun, And to face our Flag’s insulter will be everlasting fun. Please say that Danny Bloomer is ready for the fray, Cry “Forward, march!” and see him in the good old ranks today. I love the flag of Washington because it stands for Right, And that is why I tell you I am not too old to fight.

’Tis true I’m somewhat crippled, but I do not care for that, I feel as young as when I saw the tilt of Sherman’s hat; I want to do my duty again before I die, And see Old Glory proudly in the streets of Berlin fly. I do not know the kaiser, but I hope within a year Amid the roar of cannon he will say, “Old Bloomer’s here!” Yes, hand me down a rifle and I will use it right, Your Uncle Danny Bloomer isn’t yet too old to fight. We’ve borne their insults long enough--they make me long to go. I want to squint along my gun and aim it at the foe; I’ll eat the same old rations that I ate in ’64, And feel the blood of youth again amid the battle’s roar. I haven’t long to tarry here until my work is done, But I want to show the kaiser we’re not in it for fun; So give me marching orders and I’ll disappear from sight, For I am Danny Bloomer, and I’m not too old to fight.

A WAYSIDE IN FRANCE

ADOLPHE E. SMYLIE

IN THE NEW YORK HERALD

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“Come shake hands, my little peach blossom. That’s right, dear, climb up on my knee. This big Yankee soldier is lonesome-- Ah, now we’ll be friends, ma chérie. We won’t understand one another, Your round eyes are telling me so, But the cling of your chubby fingers Is a language that all daddies know. When I caught a sight of your pigtails And those eyes of violet blue, It made me heart-hungry, ma petite, For I’ve a wee girl just like you. She lives ’way across the wide ocean, Out where the bald eagles nest, And she knows all the chipmunks and gophers At my shack out in the West.”

“Tu dis l’ouest! Est-ce ton pays? Veux-tu, quand tu iras chez-toi-- Maman est toujours à pleurer-- Me retrouver mon soldat Papa? Il etait avec sa batterie Près des Anglais la, en campagne, Mais Papa est allé dans l’ouest, Des Anglais disaient à Maman. Alors, Maman sera heureuse Et, tu vois elle ne pleurera plus; Je veux te donner un baiser,-- Merci! Tu es si bon pour nous!”

There she goes! She told me her secret, Kissed me and then flew away,-- Say, Poilu! You savez some English, Now what did that little tot say? “She say Engleeshman tol’ her Mama Zat her soldat Papa eez gone West! You said West, bien! Zen you live zaire, So she make you her leetle request, Zat you find heem in your countree So her Mama no more she weel cry; Zen she thank you an’ kees you, si joyeuse,-- Pauvre mignonne, she think you weel try!”

MISSING

“IRIS”

FROM B. L. T.’S COLUMN IN THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE

The soldier boys are marching, are marching past my door; They’re off to fight for Freedom, to wage and win the war; And yet I cannot cheer them, my eyes are full of tears-- My son, who should be with them, is dead these many years.

I’ve missed his boyish laughter, I’ve missed his sunny ways, I’ve lived alone with sorrow through endless empty days. But now my bitter longing dims all the grief before-- His boyhood friends are marching, without him, past my door.

I’ve envied happy mothers the children at their knee; Their very joys seemed given to mock my grief and me. Time healed those wounds, but this one will pain me while I live-- When Freedom called her warriors, I had no son to give.

And still the boys are marching, are marching toward the sea, To suffer and to conquer, that all men may be free. Be glad for them, O mothers! and leave to me the tears-- My son, who should be with them, is dead these many years.

THE RIVERS OF FRANCE

H. J. M.

IN THE ENGLISH REVIEW

The rivers of France are ten score and twain, But five are the names that we know-- The Marne, the Vesle, the Ourcq, and the Aisne, And the Somme of the swampy flow.

The rivers of France, from source to the sea, Are nourished by many a rill, But these five, if ever a drought there be, The fountains of sorrow would fill.

The rivers of France shine silvery white, But the waters of five are red With the richest blood, in the fiercest fight For Freedom, that ever was shed.

The rivers of France sing soft as they run, But five have a song of their own, That hymns the fall of the arrogant one And the proud cast down from his throne.