Part 8

WILLIAM L. COLESTOCK

I enlisted in the infantry last summer; I was greeted at the training camp with joy; I had hardly gotten settled, when a sergeant Told me I was now the Company’s errand boy. Now, I knew I’d have to start in at the bottom, And acquire my army training bit by bit; But to be assigned to duties quite so humble, Was humiliating, surely you’ll admit.

My first errand was a trip to Field Headquarters. It was raining and the mud was deep and thick. I was ordered to seek out the Major General, And procure a requisition for a brick. ’Twas explained to me, before I left my Company, That our Captain suffered much with chilly feet, And that bricks, when rightly heated, would correct this. What that Major General said, I’ll not repeat.

To our surly Regimental Quartermaster, I was sent to get the Company’s Sunday hats, And my Sergeant said, “to save myself some walking,” I could “also get the First Lieutenant’s spats”; When I told that sour Quartermaster’s seageant What it was I’d like to have for Company A, Gosh, he “bawled me out,” said “Your ears should be longer, And your rations should be changed from beans to hay.”

For a thousand feet of skirmish line I hunted For a half a day, before I saw the joke; Next they sent me for a left-hand canvas stretcher, To repair the Mess-hall windows, which were broke. As the Company Street was slightly rough and bumpy, They dispatched me for a double-jointed plow; And one breakfast-time they sent me to the Colonel, With a pail, to milk the Regimental cow.

Then one day the Sergeant said, “You’ve been promoted. You’re now morning call-boy for the Regiment, And each morning, bright and early, you will sprinkle Drops of water on each face, in every tent.” In the morning I began my sprinkling duties, And had sprinkled in about one dozen tents, When a bunch of fellows rushed me to the hydrant, Where they “soused” me good; since then I’ve had some sense.

As I look back at the time I “ran the paddles,” After having set me down in water wet; Rushing down between two rows of husky messmates, With my arms above my head, I feel it yet. Now, I’ve graduated from the rookie section, And the “awkward squad” will miss me in its ranks, And I’m happy, for a bunch of bloomin’ rookies Have arrived. To those that sent them, Many Thanks.

IN THE FRONT-LINE DESKS

LIEUT. ELMER FRANKLIN POWELL

IN ADVENTURE MAGAZINE

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I tried to be a doughboy, but they said my feet were flat And I’d surely never stand the awful strain. No chance to even argue that I’d like to bet my hat I could out walk any tar-heel in the train. “Awful sorry, but it’s useless,” was the doctor’s mournful wail. “Your eyesight quite unfits you for the guns.” Uselessly I tried to tell him that at dropping leaden hail I could surely decimate a pack of Huns.

Then I hoped for aviation, for my nerve is still in place, But there wasn’t even half a chance for that. A stocky young lieutenant said, “You’ll never hold the pace, For you’ve got a jumpy eyebrow.” Think o’ that!

So they went and made me captain in the Quartermaster Corps, Where I juggle lists of beans the livelong day. Trying hard to grin and bear it as the boys march off to war While I sit and figure up their blasted pay.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN WALKS AT MIDNIGHT

(IN SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS)

VACHEL LINDSAY

From Vachel Lindsay’s book entitled “The Congo and Other Poems,” published and copyright, 1914, by The Macmillan Company, New York. Special permission to insert in this book.

It is portentous, and a thing of state, That here at midnight, in our little town A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, Near the old court house pacing up and down.

Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards He lingers where his children used to play, Or through the market, on the well-worn stones He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.

A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, A famous high-top hat and plain worn shawl Make him the quaint great figure that men love, The prairie lawyer, master of us all.

He cannot sleep upon his hillside now. He is among us;--as in times before! And we who toss and lie awake for long Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.

His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings. Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep? Too many peasants fight, they know not why, Too many homesteads in black terror weep.

The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart. He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main. He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now The bitterness, the folly and the pain.

He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn Shall come;--the shining hope of Europe free; The League of sober folk, the Workers’ Earth Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea.

It breaks his heart that kings must murder still, That all his hours of travail here for men Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace That he may sleep upon his hill again?

THE KINGS

HUGH J. HUGHES

IN FARM, STOCK AND HOME

The Kings are dying! In blood and flame Their sun is setting to rise no more! They have played too long at the ancient game Of their bluer blood and the bolted door.

Now the blood of their betters is on their hands-- The blood of the peasant, the child, the maid; And there are no waters in all the lands Can bathe them clean of the dark stain laid.

They have sinned in malice and craven fear-- For the sake of their tinsel have led us on To the hate-built trench and the death-drop sheer, But the day will come when the Kings are gone.

The Kings are dying! Beat, O drums, The world-wide roll of the democrat! O bugles, cry out for the day that comes When the Kings that were shall be marveled at!

JEAN DESPREZ

ROBERT W. SERVICE

From “Rhymes of a Red Cross Man,” by Robert W. Service, published and copyright, 1916, by Barse & Hopkins, New York. Special permission to reproduce in this book.

Oh ye whose hearts are resonant, and ring to War’s romance, Hear ye the story of a boy, a peasant boy of France; A lad uncouth and warped with toil, yet who, when trial came, Could feel within his soul upleap and soar, the sacred flame; Could stand upright, and scorn and smite, as only heroes may: Oh, harken! Let me try to tell the tale of Jean Desprez.

With fire and sword the Teuton horde was ravaging the land, And there was darkness and despair, grim death on every hand; Red fields of slaughter sloping down to ruin’s black abyss; The wolves of war ran evil-fanged, and little did they miss. And on they came with fear and flame, to burn and loot and slay, Until they reached the red-roofed croft, the home of Jean Desprez.

“Rout out of the village, one and all!” the Uhlan Captain said. “Behold! Some hand has fired a shot. My trumpeter is dead. Now shall they Prussian vengeance know; now shall they rue the day, For by this sacred German slain, ten of these dogs shall pay.”

They drove the cowering peasants forth, women and babes and men, And from the last, with many a jeer, the Captain chose the ten; Ten simple peasants, bowed with toil; they stood, they knew not why Against the grey wall of the church, hearing their children cry; Hearing their wives and mothers wail, with faces dazed they stood. A moment only.... _Ready! Fire!_ They weltered in their blood.

But there was one who gazed unseen, who heard the frenzied cries, Who saw these men in sabots fall before their children’s eyes; A Zouave wounded in a ditch, and knowing death was nigh, He laughed with joy: “Ah! here is where I settle ere I die.” He clutched his rifle once again, and long he aimed and well.... A shot! Beside his victims ten the Uhlan Captain fell.

They dragged the wounded Zouave out; their rage was like a flame. With bayonets they pinned him down, until their Major came. A blond, full-blooded man he was, and arrogant of eye. He stared to see with shattered skull his favorite Captain lie. “Nay, do not finish him so quick, this foreign swine,” he cried; “Go nail him to the big church door: he shall be crucified.”

With bayonets through hands and feet they nailed the Zouave there, And there was anguish in his eyes, and horror in his stare; “Water! A single drop!” he moaned; but how they jeered at him, And mocked him with an empty cup, and saw his sight grow dim; And as in agony of death with blood his lips were wet, The Prussian Major gaily laughed, and lit a cigarette.

But ’mid the white-faced villagers who cowered in horror by, Was one who saw the woeful sight, who heard the woeful cry: “Water! One little drop, I beg! For love of Christ who died....” It was the little Jean Desprez who turned and stole aside; It was the little barefoot boy who came with cup abrim And walked up to the dying man, and gave the drink to him.

A roar of rage! They seize the boy; they tear him fast away. The Prussian Major swings around; no longer is he gay. His teeth are wolfishly agleam; his face all dark with spite: “Go, shoot the brat,” he snarls, “that dare defy our Prussian might. Yet stay! I have another thought. I’ll kindly be, and spare. Quick! give the lad a rifle charged, and set him squarely there, And bid him shoot, and shoot to kill. Haste! Make him understand The dying dog he fain would save shall perish by his hand. And all his kindred they shall see, and all shall curse his name, Who bought his life at such a cost, the price of death and shame.”

They brought the boy, wild-eyed with fear; they made him understand; They stood him by the dying man, a rifle in his hand. “Make haste!” said they; “the time is short, and you must kill or die.” The Major puffed his cigarette, amusement in his eye. And then the dying Zouave heard, and raised his weary head: “Shoot, son, ’twill be the best for both; shoot swift and straight,” he said. “Fire first and last, and do not flinch; for lost to hope am I; And I will murmur: Vive la France! and bless you ere I die.”

Half-blind with blows the boy stood there; he seemed to swoon and sway; Then in that moment woke the soul of little Jean Desprez. He saw the woods go sheening down; the larks were singing clear; And oh! the scents and sounds of spring, how sweet they were! how dear! He felt the scent of new-mown hay, a soft breeze fanned his brow; O God! the paths of peace and toil! How precious were they now!

The summer days and summer ways, how bright with hope and bliss! The autumn such a dream of gold; and all must end in this: This shining rifle in his hand, that shambles all around; The Zouave there with dying glare; the blood upon the ground; The brutal faces round him ringed, the evil eyes aflame; That Prussian bully standing by as if he watched a game. “Make haste and shoot,” the Major sneered; a minute more I give; A minute more to kill your friend, if you yourself would live.”

They only saw a barefoot boy, with blanched and twitching face; They did not see within his eyes the glory of his race; The glory of a million men who for fair France have died, The splendor of self-sacrifice that will not be denied. Yet he was but a peasant lad, and oh! but life was sweet. “Your minute’s nearly gone, my lad,” he heard a voice repeat. “Shoot! Shoot!” the dying Zouave moaned; “Shoot! Shoot!” the soldier said. Then Jean Desprez reached out and shot ... _the Prussian Major dead_!

SUDDENLY ONE DAY

AUTHOR UNKNOWN

FROM THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE

Found in the pocket of Capt. T. P. C. Wilson, a British officer, killed in action.

Suddenly one day The last ill shall fall away. The last little beastliness that is in our blood Shall drop from us as the sheath drops from the bud, And the great spirit of man shall struggle through And spread huge branches underneath the blue. In any mirror, be it bright or dim, Man will see God, staring back at him.

WE’RE MARCHIN’ WITH THE COUNTRY

FRANK L. STANTON

IN JOURNAL OF EDUCATION

The old flag is a-doin’ her very level best, She’s a rainbow roun’ the country from the rosy east to the west; An’ the eagle’s in the elements with sunshine on his breast, An’ we’re marchin’ with the country in the mornin’!

We’re marchin’ to the music that is ringin’ far and nigh; You can hear the hallelujahs as the regiments go by; We’ll live for this old country, or for freedom’s cause we’ll die-- We’re marchin’ with the country in the mornin’!

DO YOUR ALL

EDGAR A. GUEST

From Mr. Guest’s book of war time rhymes, “Over Here.” Published and copyright, 1918, by The Reilly & Britton Company, Publishers, Chicago. Special permission to reproduce in this book.

“Do your bit!” How cheap and trite Seems that phrase in such a fight! “Do your bit!” That cry recall, Change it now to “Do your all!” Do your all, and then do more; Do what you’re best fitted for; Do your utmost, do and give. You have but one life to live.

Do your finest, do your best, Don’t let up and stop to rest, Don’t sit back and idly say, “I did something yesterday.” Come on! Here’s another hour. Give it all you have of power. Here’s another day that needs Everybody’s share of deeds.

“Do your bit!” of course, but then Do it time and time again; Giving, doing, all should be Up to full capacity. Now’s no time to pick and choose. We’ve a war we must not lose. Be your duty great or small, Do it well and do it all.

Do by careful, patient living, Do by cheerful, open giving; Do by serving day by day At whatever post you may; Do by sacrificing pleasure, Do by scorning hours of leisure. Now to God and country give Every minute that you live.

FLAG OF THE FREE

FRANCIS T. SMITH

IN POPULAR EDUCATOR

Float thou majestically, Proudly, triumphantly, Ever protectingly, Flag of the free. No foe our faith shall blight In thy unconquered might, Emblem of truth and right, We bow to thee.

As in grim days of yore-- Now on a hostile shore, Fulfill thy pledge once more, Red, white and blue. Long as thy stately bars And heaven’s reflected stars Dishonor never mars, We will be true.

Prove to the waiting world, When free men are assailed, Our standard is unfurled For justice still. Strengthen us lest we fall, Inspiring one and all, Urging thy righteous call, Under God’s will.

THE SERVICE FLAG

WILLIAM HERSCHELL

IN THE INDIANAPOLIS NEWS

Permission to reproduce in this book

Dear little flag in the window there, Hung with a tear and a woman’s prayer; Child of Old Glory, born with a star-- Oh, what a wonderful flag you are!

Blue is your star in its field of white, Dipped in the red that was born of fight; Born of the blood that our forbears shed To raise your mother, the Flag, o’erhead.

And now you’ve come, in this frenzied day, To speak from a window--to speak and say “I am the voice of a soldier-son Gone to be gone till the victory’s won.

“I am the flag of the Service, sir; The flag of his mother--I speak for her Who stands by my window and waits and fears, But hides from the others her unwept tears.

“I am the flag of the wives who wait For the safe return of a martial mate, A mate gone forth where the war god thrives To save from sacrifice other men’s wives.

“I am the flag of the sweethearts true; The often unthought of--the sisters, too; I am the flag of a mother’s son And won’t come down till the victory’s won!”

Dear little flag in the window there, Hung with a tear and a woman’s prayer; Child of Old Glory, born with a star-- Oh, what a wonderful flag you are!

A SMALL TOWN SPORT

DAMON RUNYON

IN THE HERALD AND EXAMINER, CHICAGO

In this piece of work Mr. Runyon presents a good specimen of a large class, a young fellow who was going the trifling way to the Everlasting Bonfire when the war caught him up and made a man of him. Thousands of such cases, before the war little better than waste human material, went out to fight, and found themselves, and made good, and came home sobered, serious men, worthy to stand among those to whom the nation’s destinies were confided.

Son o’ ol’ Miz McAuliffe, the widder o’ Box-Car Jack, An’ ol’ time shack on the Santa Fe, who run to Dodge and back. He was killed in a wreck at La Junta, and he left the wife and boy-- A kid knee-high to a hop-toad, and tagged by the name o’ Roy.

This Roy was sort o’ onery, and he never would go to school. He spent the most o’ childhood days in learnin’ the game o’ pool. His shoulders grew somewhat rounded, and his chest it grew rather thin-- But, gosh, he grew to a marvel at knockin’ them pool balls in!

Pool-shootin’ Roy, we called him, and many a night I’ve set Watchin’ him clean the table, and puffin’ his cigaret. Sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and playin’ so ca’m and cool-- If ever a lad was born for a thing, he was born for playin’ this pool!

Fifteen balls was a cinch for him--fifteen balls from the break; One ball loose from the bunch a bit, and the whole darned rack he’d take. He was great on a combination, and great on a cut-shot, too-- He’d make those pool balls talk to him when he started handlin’ a cue!

And some of us thought he’d be champeen, but every one didn’t agree, For Doctor Wilcox wanted to bet he’d die of the old T. B. But the war it settled the question, for the first of our kids to go Was Pool-Shootin’ Roy McAuliffe--our poolrooms suffered a blow.

_What is that thing the Frenchmen give to a good game fightin’ boy? Say it again--the Croix de Guerre? Well, that’s what they give to Roy. It seems fifteen Germans were on him, and handlin’ him rather mean, When he got a machine gun to workin’ and pocketed the whole fifteen!_

SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE

LE ROY C. HENDERSON

IN CARTOONS MAGAZINE

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She stands alone beside the gate, Where oft with him she stood before, And seems to hear his voice relate Life’s sweetest story o’er and o’er; A hand she feels upon her own, Unconsciously a tender glance She gives, then starts and stands alone, The lover sleeps--Somewhere in France.

She could have kept him if she would-- His heart and soul were all her own-- But true love knew and understood That Honor is its own true throne; She heard the bugles’ blaring sound And whispered--“Go and take your chance.” There ’mid the scenes of war he found Eternal peace--Somewhere in France.

She knows not where that spot may be-- On barren plain, in hidden dell, On wooded hill, beside the sea-- The lips that would will never tell; She knows not what his last words were, The thoughts that come with Death’s advance, And yet, she feels they were of her, Those last fond thoughts--Somewhere in France.

THE SERVICE FLAG

J. E. EVANS

IN THE SOVEREIGN VISITOR

Say, pa! What is a service flag? I see them everywhere. There’s little stars sewed on them; What are they doing there? Sometimes there’s lots of little stars, And sometimes just a few. Poor Widow Jones has only one-- I saw her crying, too.

My darling boy, those little stars Upon a field of white, Are emblems of our glorious boys Enrolling for the right. The border, as you see, is red, Which represents their blood; The stars are blue, the heavenly hue; The white is always good.

Each star you see means some brave boy Has left his hearth and home And gone to fight for Freedom’s cause Wherever he may roam. So when you see a lot of stars Lift up your heart with joy, And when you see a single one Pray for some mother’s boy.

They go away, those gallant lads, Across the wreck-strewn sea; They go to pledge their country’s faith For God and liberty.

The Stars and Stripes they bear aloft To join the British flag, And, with the colors of brave France, They mean to end “Der Tag.” And soon, my boy, that service flag, Born in the nation’s heart, Will show the world that, when unfurled, We proudly take our part.

“HEARTS ARE TOUCHING”

Poems need not be rhymed, nor wrought in verses. This brave and touching one occurred in a letter written by a French schoolgirl:

“It was only a little river; almost a brook; it was called the Yser. One could talk from one side to the other without raising one’s voice, and the birds could fly over it with one sweep of their wings. And on the two banks there were millions of men, the one toward the other, eye to eye. But the distance which separated them was greater than the stars in the sky; it was the distance which separates right from injustice.

“The ocean is so vast that the sea gulls do not dare to cross it. During seven days and seven nights the great steamships of America, going at full speed, drive through the deep waters before the lighthouses of France come into view; but from one side to the other, hearts are touching.”

MEN OF THE BLOOD AND MIRE

DANIEL M. HENDERSON

IN EVERYBODY’S MAGAZINE

Permission to reproduce in this book

We whom the draft rejected; We who stay by the stuff; We who measure our manhood And find that it isn’t enough; We who are gray and burdened; We whom the trades require-- Will you permit us to hail you, Men of the Blood and Mire?

We of the thundering forum; We of the pen and press; We who are pouring our utmost Into our land’s success; We of the Cross and Triangle, Lofty in deed and desire-- God, how we shrivel before you, Men of the Blood and Mire!

Aye, we are square with conscience-- We are reservists all; Aye, when your ranks are gaping, We will fight where you fall; Yet, while we wait, your altar Flames in the gas and fire-- We are the shade of your glory, Men of the Blood and Mire!

THE SONG OF THE DEAD

J. H. M. ABBOTT

IN THE LONDON OUTLOOK

Large numbers of Australian and New Zealand volunteers are already on the water bound for Vancouver, en route for Europe.--Paragraph of War News, 1915.

Oh, Land of Ours, hear the song we make for you-- Land of yellow wattle bloom, land of smiling Spring-- Hearken to the after words, land of pleasant memories, Shea-oaks of the shady creeks, hear the song we sing. For we lie quietly, underneath the lonely hills, Where the land is silent, where the guns have ceased to boom, Here we are waiting, and shall wait for Eternity-- Here on the battle-fields, where we found our doom.

Spare not thy pity--Life is strong and fair for you-- City by the waterside, homestead on the plain. Keep ye remembrance, keep ye a place for us-- So all the bitterness of dying be not vain. Oh, be ye mindful, mindful of our honor’s name; Oh, be ye careful of the word ye speak in jest-- For we have bled for you; for we have died for you-- Yea, we have given, we have given our best.