Part 7
O thrill and laughter of the busy town! O flower valleys, trees against the skies, Wild moor and woodland, glade and sweeping down, O land of our desire! like men asleep We have let pass the years, nor felt you creep So close into our hearts’ dear sanctities.
So, we are dreamers; but our dreams are cast Henceforward in a more heroic mold; We have kept faith with our immortal past. Knights--we have found the lady of our love; Minstrels--have heard great harmonies above The lyrics that enraptured us of old.
The dawn’s aglow with luster of the sun O love, O burning passion, that has made Our day illustrious till its hours are done-- Fire our dull hearts, that, in our sun’s eclipse, When Death stoops low to kiss us on the lips, He still may find us singing, unafraid.
One thing we know, that love so greatly spent Dies not when lovers die: From hand to hand We pass the torch and perish--well content, If in dark years to come our countrymen Feel the divine flame leap in them again, And so remember us and understand.
“BLIGHTY” AND “GONE WEST”
British soldiers in France have developed a terminology that is plain to them, but confusing to civilians. They speak of “Blighty,” for example, and of “Gone West.” These two terms express hopes--Blighty meaning home; in common acceptance, home for rest and recuperation. “Gone West” means gone from the east with its conflict to the refuge of death, where peace waits in the glory of sunset.
“Blighty” is of Hindu origin. British officers in South Africa who had served in India used the word, which is an Anglicized form of the Indian word “vilayti,” meaning European. Englishmen being about the only Europeans the natives knew, its application narrowed down to England only; and the army fell into a way of using it as a synonym of home. When the troops from India came into action early in the war, their wounded were sent to the nearest English great hospital, at Brighton, just across the channel. The consonance of Brighton and vilayti or Blighty was so close that these men used their own word as a matter of course, and in this way it floated into general use.
It has acquired a new sense of late. Casualties intermediate to those too severe for removal and those that can be treated in field hospitals, are sent to England--to Blighty--and are themselves called Blighty, meaning wounds that get a man home. Lieut. Siegfried Sassoon has woven the idea into a plaintively whimsical bit of verse which he calls
BLIGHTY
He woke: the clank and racket of the train Kept time with angry throbbings in his brain, At last he lifted his bewildered eyes And blinked, and rolled them sidelong; hills and skies. Heavily wooded, hot with August haze, And, slipping backward, golden for his gaze, Acres of harvest.
Feebly now he drags Exhausted ego back from glooms and quags And blasting tumult, terror, hurtling glare, To calm and brightness, havens of sweet air.
He sighed, confused; then drew a cautious breath; This level journeying was no ride through death. “If I were dead,” he mused, “there’d be no thinking-- Only some plunging underworld of sinking, And hueless, shifting welter where I’d drown.” Then he remembered that his name was Brown.
But was he back in Blighty? Slow he turned, Till in his heart thanksgiving leaped and burned. There shone the blue serene, the prosperous land, Trees, cows and hedges; skipping these he scanned, Large, friendly names that change not with the year, Lung Tonic, Mustard, Liver Pills and Beer.
Hugh Pendexter, in Adventure Magazine, says “going west,” as used by the men overseas to mean death, is of peculiarly American origin. The Karok Indians of California believed the spirit of the good Karok went to the “happy western land.” The Cherokee myths picture the west as the “ghost country,” the twilight land where go the dead. The Shawnee tell of the boy who “traveled west” to find his sister in the spirit land. The Chippewa believes the spirit “followed a wide, beaten path toward the west.” The spirit world of the Fox Indians is at the setting of the sun. And so on, in the theology of many Indian nations we find the West as the storied abode of the great majority--who have passed over.
* * * * *
The phrase traces back to the Œdipus Tyrannus of Sophocles:
Toward the Western shore Soul after soul is known to take her flight.
Its later significance is tenderly sung by Eleanor Jewett in The Chicago Tribune:
GOING WEST
West to the hills, the long, long trail that strikes Straight and away into the sunset’s glow, Ribbed by the narrow barriers of Death-- Dark are the waters that beside it flow. The red flowers fade upon the fields of France, The soaring larks are fallen to their nest. The glare of battle soothes a little space.... As they go west....
SPRING
F.M.H.D., F.A.
IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A.E.F., FRANCE
It’s Spring at home; I know the signs-- The buds are bursting on the vines, The birds speed high with happier wings, The heart of youth is glad, and sings.
It’s Spring in France; I know the signs-- The massed reserves behind the lines; The heart of youth burgeons once more To manhood, and resurgent war!
ON HIS OWN
ADOLPHE E. SMYLIE
OF THE VIGILANTES
Permission to reproduce in this book
“You see that young kid lying there Playing a game of solitaire? All shot to pieces in the air; By Heck, Sarge, he’s a wonder. The gamest kid I ever met; They’re probing him for bullets yet, But s--sh; here comes his nurse Yvette-- Kept _him_ from going under.
You think she’s passing by him? Nit! D’you get that smile? He waves his mitt; I think he’s stuck on her a bit, Can’t blame him for that matter, She watches him just like a hawk. Now listen to their daily talk. She’s all Paree, he’s all New York; Sit quiet, hear their chatter.”
“Pardonnez-moi, désirez-vous----” “Oh, fine and dandy! How are you?” “Quelque chose? Comprenez-vous?----” “Ah, now I know you’re kiddin’.” “Vous avez bonne mine aujourd’hui----” “It’s high time you were nice to me.” “Time? Je comprends, il est midi----” “Bright eyes, I think I’m skiddin’.”
“Je crois que je vous donnerai----” I’ll back up anything you say----” “Un petit morceau de poulet----” “You fascinating creature!” “Avec le crême, dans la coquille,----” “Rats! There she goes! I always feel Some blessy’s S. O. S. appeal Will call off my French teacher.”
The Sarge here nudged my splintered ribs; “Well, I’ll be damned! Here comes His Nibs!” And down the aisle stalked General Gibbs With all the famous aces. They formed around the sick boy’s bed, He gasped, saluted, then turned red: “Looks like I’m pinched!” was all he said, Scanning their smiling faces.
“So,” spoke the General, “you alone Brought down three Taubes on your own! Another Yankee Ace is known To everyone in Blighty. I’m proud to know you,--put it there,-- And now we’re going to let you wear This gallantly won Croix de Guerre I’m pinning on your nighty.”
THEY SHALL NOT PASS
ALISON BROWN
OF THE VIGILANTES
Permission to reproduce in this book
They shall not pass, While Britain’s sons draw breath, While strength is theirs to strike with shining sword. They shall not pass, Except they pass to Death-- For British fighting men have pledged their word.
They shall not pass-- For France knows no defeat, Nor hesitates to nobly pay the price. They shall not pass Till brave hearts cease to beat, And none shall stand to fall in sacrifice.
They shall not pass-- America will stand As long as lips can answer her, “I come.” They shall not pass, To strike the lovéd land, That freedom’s children rise to call their home.
SHIPS THAT SAIL IN THE NIGHT
DYSART McMULLEN
IN MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE
Permission to reproduce in this book
“Not a light visible. Not a man above the deck.”--From a correspondent’s description.
Hail and farewell, Ships that pass to the sea! Hail and a long farewell, Soldiers of destiny!
Not with rolling of drums, Not with music and songs, Not with laughter and weeping, Or cheering of passionate throngs;
But silently, as is fitting, Gray ghosts passing from sight; Great ships like sea-gulls flitting Against the curtain of night.
JOHN DOE--BUCK PRIVATE
ALLAN P. THOMSON
IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A.E.F., FRANCE
Who was it, picked from civil life And plunged in deadly, frenzied strife Against a devil’s dreadful might? Just plain “John Doe--Buck Private.”
Who jumped the counter for the trench, And left fair shores for all the stench And mud, and death, and bloody drench? Your simple, plain “Buck Private.”
Who, when his nerves were on the hop, With courage scaled the bloody top? Who was it made the Fritzies stop? “J. Doe (no stripes), Buck Private.”
Who, underneath his training tan Is, every single inch, a man! And, best of all, American? “John Doe, just plain Buck Private.”
Who saw his job and did it well? Who smiles so bland--yet fights like hell? Who rang again old Freedom’s bell? ’Twas only “Doe--Buck Private.”
Who was it lunged, and struck, and tore His bayonet deep in flesh and gore? Who was it helped to win the war? “John Doe (no brains), Buck Private.”
Who, heeding not the laurel pile That scheming other men beguile, Stands modestly aside the while? “John Doe (God’s kind), Buck Private.”
KNITTING SOCKS
The Boston Transcript reprinted the following poem in 1917, just as it appeared in that paper November 27, 1861.
Click, click! how the needles go Through the busy fingers, to and fro-- With no bright colors of berlin wool, Delicate hands today are full: Only a yarn of deep, dull blue, Socks for the feet of the brave and true. Yet click, click, how the needles go, ’Tis a power within that nerves them so. In the sunny hours of the bright spring day, And still in the night time far away. Maiden, mother, grandame sit Earnest and thoughtful while they knit. Many the silent prayers they pray, Many the tear drops brushed away. While busy on the needles go, Widen and narrow, heel and toe. The grandame thinks with a thrill of pride How her mother knit and spun beside For that patriot band in olden days Who died the Stars and Stripes to raise-- Now she in turn knits for the brave Who’d die that glorious flag to save. She is glad, she says, “the boys” have gone, ’Tis just as their grandfathers would have done. But she heaves a sigh and the tears will start, For “the boys” were the pride of grandame’s heart. The mother’s look is calm and high, God only hears her soul’s deep cry-- In Freedom’s name, at Freedom’s call, She gave her sons--in them her all. The maiden’s cheek wears a paler shade, But the light in her eyes is undismayed. Faith and hope give strength to her sight, She sees a red dawn after the night. Oh, soldiers brave, will it brighten the day, And shorten the march on the weary way, To know that at home the loving and true Are knitting and hoping and praying for you? Soft are the voices when speaking your name, Proud are their glories when hearing your fame. And the gladdest hour in their lives will be When they greet you after the victory.
THE GOLDENROD
“ANCHUSA”
FROM B. L. T.’S COLUMN IN THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE
Some day the fields of Flanders shall bloom in peace again, Field lilies and the clover spread where once was crimson stain, And a new, cheerful golden spray shine through the sun and rain.
The clover’s for the English who sleep beneath that sod, The lily’s for the noble French whose spirits rest with God, But where our sacred dead shall sleep must bloom the goldenrod.
For every flower of summer those meadows will have room, And yet I think no Flemish hand will touch the kaiser-bloom, Whose growing blue must evermore whisper of grief and doom.
But clover for the English shall blossom from the sod, And glorious lilies for the French whose spirits rest with God. And where our own lads lie asleep the prairie goldenrod.
Once more the Flemish children shall laugh through Flemish lanes, And gather happy garlands through fields of bygone pains, And, as they run and cull their flowers, sing in their simple strains:
“These clovers are for English who fought to save this sod, These lilies for the valiant French--may their souls rest in God! And for the brave Americans we pluck this goldenrod.”
MAGPIES IN PICARDY
“TIPCUCA”
IN THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE
The magpies in Picardy Are more than I can tell. They flicker down the dusty roads And cast a magic spell On the men who march through Picardy, Through Picardy to hell.
(The blackbird flies with panic, The swallow goes like light, The finches move like ladies, The owl floats by at night; But the great and flashing magpie He flies as artists might.)
A magpie in Picardy Told me secret things-- Of the music in white feathers, And the sunlight that sings And dances in deep shadows-- He told me with his wings.
(The hawk is cruel and rigid, He watches from a height; The rook is slow and somber, The robin loves to fight; But the great and flashing magpie He flies as lovers might.)
He told me that in Picardy, An age ago or more, While all his fathers still were eggs, These dusty highways bore Brown, singing soldiers marching out Through Picardy to war.
He said that still through chaos Works on the ancient plan, And that two things have altered not Since first the world began-- The beauty of the wild green earth And the bravery of man.
(For the sparrow flies unthinking And quarrels in his flight. The heron trails his legs behind, The lark goes out of sight; But the great and flashing magpie He flies as poets might.)
SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE, 1918
ALMON HENSLEY
IN EVERYBODY’S MAGAZINE
Permission to reproduce in this book
Leave me alone here, proudly, with my dead, Ye mothers of brave sons adventurous; He who once prayed: “If it be possible Let this cup pass,” will arbitrate for us. Your boy with iron nerves and careless smile Marched gaily by and dreamed of glory’s goal; Mine had blanched cheek, straight mouth and close-gripped hands And prayed that somehow he might save his soul. I do not grudge your ribbon or your cross, The price of these my soldier, too, has paid; I hug a prouder knowledge to my heart, The mother of the boy who was afraid!
He was a tender child with nerves so keen They doubled pain and magnified the sad; He hated cruelty and things obscene And in all high and holy things was glad. And so he gave what others could not give, The one supremest sacrifice he made, A thing your brave boy could not understand; He gave his all because he was afraid!
AFTERWARD
CHARLES HANSON TOWNE
IN THE NEW YORK TRIBUNE
The sick man said: “I pray I shall not die Before this tumult which now rocks the earth Shall cease. I dread far journeyings to God Ere I have heard the final shots of war, And learned the outcome of this holocaust.”
Yet one night, while the guns still roared and flashed, His spirit left his body; left the earth Which he had loved in sad, disastrous days, And sped to heav’n amid the glittering stars And the white splendor of the quiet moon.
One instant--and a hundred years rushed by! And he, a new immortal, found his way Among the great celestial hills of God. Then suddenly one memory of earth Flashed like a meteor’s flame across his mind.
One instant--and another hundred years! And even the dream of that poor little place Which he had known was lost in greater spheres Through which he whirled; and old remembrances Were but as flecks of dust blown down the night; And nothing mattered, save that suns and moons Swung in the ether for unnumbered worlds High, high above the pebble of the earth.
THE SONG OF THE GUNS
HERBERT KAUFMAN
From Mr. Kaufman’s book of poems, “The Hell Gate of Soissons.” T. Fisher Unwin, Publisher’s (all rights reserved), London, England. Special permission to reproduce in this book.
Hear the guns, hear the guns! High above the splutter-sputter Of the Maxim, and the stutter Of the rifles, hear them shrieking. See the searching shells come sneaking, Softly speaking, Slyly seeking, Thirsting, bursting, shrapnel-leaking Where the ranks are thickest--tearing Mighty gaps among the daring. Charging horse and rider stumble, And brigades fall in a jumble; Earthworks crumble, Standards tumble, And the driving bayonets fumble, But unsated, Still the hated Cannon thunder, unabated. Hear them rumble, Hear them grumble, Hear the old song of the guns! “Send your sons, Send your sons, All your near ones, All your dear ones; Give us food! Give us food! Give the strongest of your brood. Let us feed! Let us feed! On the bravest that you breed. Give us meat, Give us meat, Oh, the blood of Valor’s sweet!”
And the women make reply: Ah, the glory of the lie-- “Look, no tear is in our eye. Rather would we see you die For your country, than stand by. Rather would we boast to tell To your children that you fell, Than to have you lurk and sell Honor for a coward’s breath; Better far the soldier’s death. Go and battle for the land. Make a stand! Make a stand! Go and join the dauntless band. Take a hand! Take a hand! Count not us--God will provide!”
Thus the women in their pride Mask their hearts--their anguish hide. Thus the mother and the bride Bid their men to march and ride To the guns, Hungry guns, Rumbling, grumbling for their sons. Thus the women ever give, Give their nearest, dearest ones At the summons of the guns.
What is war to men--they _die_. But the widowed women, aye, To the end alone, must _live_.
TELLING THE BEES
(AN OLD GLOUCESTERSHIRE SUPERSTITION)
G. E. R.
IN THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE
They dug no grave for our soldier lad, who fought and who died out there: Bugle and drum for him were dumb, and the padre said no prayer; The passing bell gave never a peal to warn that a soul was fled, And we laid him not in the quiet spot where cluster his kin that are dead.
But I hear a foot on the pathway, above the low hum of the hive, That at edge of dark, with the song of the lark, tells that the world is alive: The master starts on his errand, his tread is heavy and slow, Yet he cannot choose but tell the news--the bees have a right to know.
Bound by the ties of a happier day, they are one with us now in our worst; On the very morn that my boy was born they were told the tidings the first: With what pride they will hear of the end he made, and the ordeal that he trod-- Of the scream of shell, and the venom of hell, and the flame of the sword of God.
Wise little heralds, tell of my boy; in your golden tabard coats Tell the bank where he slept, and the stream he leapt, where the spangled lily floats: The tree he climbed shall lift her head, and the torrent he swam shall thrill, And the tempest that bore his shouts before shall cry his message still.
THE RETINUE
KATHARINE LEE BATES
IN THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY
Permission to reproduce in this book
Archduke Francis Ferdinand, Austrian heir-apparent, Rideth through the Shadow Land, not a lone knight errant, But captain of a mighty train, millions upon millions, Armies of the battle slain, hordes of dim civilians;
German ghosts who see their works with tortured eyes, the sorry Spectres of sacred tyrants, Turks hunted by their quarry, Liars, plotters red of hand--like waves of poisonous gases, Sweeping through the Shadow Land the host of horror passes;
Spirits bright as broken blades drawn for truth and honor, Sons of Belgium, pallid maids, martyrs who have won her Love eternal, bleeding breasts of the French defiance, Russians on enraptured quests, Freedom’s proud alliance.
Through that hollow hush of doom, vast, unvisioned regions, Led by Kitchener of Khartum, march the English legions: Kilt and shamrock, maple leaf, dreaming Hindu faces, Brows of glory, eyes of grief, arms of lost embraces.
Like a moaning tide of woe, midst those pale battalions From the Danube and the Po, Arabs and Australians, Pours a ghastly multitude that breaks the heart of pity, Wreckage of some shell-bestrewed waste that was a city; Flocking from the murderous seas, from the famished lowland, From the blazing villages of Serbia and Poland, Woman phantoms, baby wraiths, trampled by war’s blindness, Horses, dogs, that put their faiths in human loving kindness.
Tamburlane, Napoleon, envious Alexander Peer in wonder at the wan, tragical commander, Archduke Francis Ferdinand--when shall his train be ended?-- Of all the lords of Shadow Land most royally attended!
VIVE LA FRANCE!
CHARLOTTE HOLMES CRAWFORD
By permission: From Scribner’s Magazine, copyright, 1916, by Charles Scribner’s Sons.
Franceline rose in the dawning gray, And her heart would dance though she knelt to pray, For her man Michel had holiday, Fighting for France.
She offered her prayer by the cradle-side, And with baby palms folded in hers she cried: “If I have but one prayer, dear, crucified Christ--save France!
“But if I have two, then, by Mary’s grace, Carry me safe to the meeting place, Let me look once again on my dear love’s face, Save him for France!”
She crooned to her boy: “Oh, how glad he’ll be, Little three-months old, to set eyes on thee! For ‘Rather than gold, would I give,’ wrote he, ‘A son to France.’
“Come, now, be good, little stray _sauterelle_, For we’re going by-by to thy papa Michel, But I’ll not say where for fear thou wilt tell, Little pigeon of France!
“Six days’ leave and a year between! But what would you have? In six days clean, Heaven was made,” said Franceline, “Heaven and France.”
She came to the town of the nameless name, To the marching troops in the street she came, And she held high her boy like a taper flame Burning for France.
Fresh from the trenches and gray with grime, Silent they march like a pantomime; “But what need of music? My heart beats time-- Vive la France!”
His regiment comes. Oh, then where is he? “There is dust in my eyes, for I cannot see,-- Is that my Michel to the right of thee, Soldier of France?”
Then out of the ranks a comrade fell-- “Yesterday--’twas a splinter of shell-- And he whispered thy name, did poor Michel, Dying for France.”
The tread of the troops on the pavement throbbed Like a woman’s heart of its last joy robbed, As she lifted her boy to the flag, and sobbed “Vive la France!”
THE WOES OF A ROOKIE