Chapter 2

After hanging out a winter in this Cimmerian hole We're forgetting sheets, and baths, and tidy skins. In the dark and deadly calm last night they took us on patrol. Seven, little fellows, thinking of their sins.

It was ours like blinded snails to prowl the soggy, slimy night, With a feeler pricking out at every pore For the death that stalks in darkness, or the blinking stab of light, And the other trifling matters that are war.

That's the stuff to get your liver, that's the acid on a man, For it tries his hones, and seeks his marrow throngh. You have got the thought to comfort you that life is but a span, If Fritz squirts his loathly limelight over you.

We got back again at daybreak. Cobber ducked to doss and said, From the soft, embracing mud: "No more I'll roam. "Oh, thank Heaven, blokes," he murmured, "for the comforts of a bed! Gorstruth, but ain't it good to have a home!"

MICKIE MOLLYNOO.

A MILE-LONG panto dragon ploddin' 'opeless all the day, Stuffed out with kits, 'n' spiked with rifles, steamin' in its sweat, A-heavin' down the misty road, club-footed through the clay, By waggons bogged 'n' buckin' guns, the wildest welter yet, Like 'arf creation's tenants shiftin' early in the wet.

We're marchin' out, we dunno where, to meet we dunno who; But here we lights eventual, 'n' sighs 'n' slips the kit, 'N', 'struth, the first to take us on is Mickie Mollynoo! A copper of the Port he was, when 'istory was writ. Sez I : "We're sent to face the foe, 'n', selp me, this is It."

A shine John. Hop is Mollynoo. A mix-up with the push Is all his joy. One evenin' when his baton's flyin' free I takes a baby brick, 'n' drives it hard agin the cush, 'N' Privit Mick is scattered out fer all the world to see, But not afore indelible he's put his mark on me.

I got the signs Masonic all inlaid along me lug Where Molly, P.C., swiped me in them 'appy, careless days. He's sargin' now, a vet'ran; I'm a newchum and a mug, 'N' when he sorter fixes me there's some- thin' in his gaze That's pensive like. "Move on!" sez he. "Keep movin' there!" he says.

If after this I dreams of scraps promiscuous and crool, The mills in Butcher's Alley when the watch is on the wine, Those nights he raided Wylie's shed to break the two-up school, I takes a screw at Molly. With a grin that ain't divine He's toyin' with a scar of old I reckernise as mine.

'N' so I'm layin' for it, 'n' I'm wonderin' how 'n' what. We're signed on with the Germans, 'n' there ain't a vacant date; But sure it's comin' to me, 'n' it's comin' 'ard 'n' 'ot. Me lurk is patient waitin', but I'm trim- min' while I wait A brick to jab or swing with, in a willin' tatertate.

Oh, judge me wonder! There's a scrim that follers on a raid. I'm roughin' it all-in with Hans. He sock me such a bat I slides on somethin' narsty, 'n' me little grave is made; But Molly butts my Hun, 'n' leaves no face beneath his hat, 'N', "'Scuse me, Mister Herr," sez he, "I have a lien on that!"

He helps me under cover, 'n' he 'ands me somethin' wet (I've got a lick or two that leaves me feelin' pretty sick). "Lor love yeh, ole John Hop," sez I, "yiv buried me in debt." "Don't minton ut at all," he sez, 'n' eyes me arf-a-tick. 'N' back there in the trench I sits, 'n' trims another brick.

'Tis all this how a month or more; then Mollynoo sez he: "Come aisy, Jumm, yeh loafer, little hell 'n' all to view. A job most illegant is on, cut out fer you 'n' me. The damnedest, dirtiest fighter on the Continent is you, Bar one, yeh gougin' thafe, 'n' that is Sargin' Mollynoo!"

I take, with knife 'n' pistol, arf a brick to line me shirt. We creeps a thousan' yards or so to jigger up a gun Which seven Huns is workin' on the Irish like a squirt. We gets across them, me 'n' him. I pots the extra one; Mick chokes his third in comfort, 'n', be'old, the thing is done!

He stands above me, rakin' sweat from off his gleamin' nut. "Me dipper's leakin', Mick," sez I; "me leg is bit in two." Sez he: "Bleed there in comfort, I'm for bringin' help, ye scut." He's back in twenty minutes, with a dillied German crew. "Three'll carry in the gun," sez he, "the rest will carry you."

I dunno how he got 'em, but he made them barrer me. They lugged the gun before him, 'n' he yarded them like geese. Then Mickie s'lutes the Major. "They're in custody," sez he, "Fer conduc' calculated to provoke a breach iv peace, A-tearin' iv me uniform, 'n' 'saultin' the po-lice."

Then down he dumped. His wounds would make a 'arf a column list. When hack to front I chucks me bricks 'n' smiles the best I can. He grins at me: "Yer right," sez he, "Hold out yer bla'-guard fist, I couldn't fight yeh, blarst yeh, if yeh dinted in me pan. This messin' round wid Germans makes a chicken iv a man."

JAM. (A Hymn of Hate).

WHAT is meant by active service 'Ere where sin is leakin' loose, 'N' the oldest 'and's as nervis As a dog-bedevilled goose, Has bin writ be every poet What can rhyme it worth a dam, But the 'orror as we know it Is jist jam, jam, JAM! Oh, the 'ymn of 'ate we owe it-- Stodgy, splodgy, seepy, soaky, sanguinary jam!

There's the "fearful roar iv battle," What gets underneath yer 'at, Mooin' like a million cattle Each as big as Ararat; There's the red field green 'n' slippy (And I'm cleaner where I am), But the thing that's got me nippy It is jam, jam, JAM! Druv us sour it has, 'n' dippy, Sticky, sicky, slimy, sloppy, stummick-strafin' jam!

Of the mud that's in the trenches Writers make a solemn fuss; For the vermin 'n' the stenches Little ladies pity us; But the yearn that's honest dinkum, 'N' the prayer what ain't a sham Is that Fritz may bust 'n' sink 'em Ships of jam, jam, JAM! For we bolt 'em, chew 'em, drink 'em, Million billion bar'ls of beastly, cloyin' clammy jam!

We are sorry-sick of peaches, 'N' we're full right up of plum, 'N' innards fairly screeches When the tins of apple come. Back of Blighty piled in cases, Jist as close as they can cram, Fillin' all the open spaces, Is the 'jam, jam, JAM! Oh, the woe the soldiers face is, Monday, Sunday, ruddy, muddy, boundless bogs of jam.

WEEPIN' WILLIE.

WHEY our trooper hit wide water every heart was yearin' back To the little 'ouse at Coogee or a hut at Bar- renjack. She was 'ookin' up to spike the stars, or rootin' in the wave, An' me liver turned a hand spring with each buck the beggar gave. Then we pulls a sick 'n' silly smile 'n' tips a saucy lid, Crackin' hardy. Willie didn't. Willie snivelled like a kid.

At Gallip' the steamer dumped us, 'n' we got right down to work, Whoopin' up the hill splendacious, playin' tiggie with the Turk. When the stinkin' Abdul hit us we curled down upon a stone, 'N' we yelled for greater glory, crackin' 'ardy on our own. Not so Willie. He was cursin', cold ez death 'n' grey ez steel, 'N' the smallest thing that busted made the little blighter squeal.

In the bitter day's that follered, spillin' life be- side the sea, We would fake a spry expression for the things that had to be, Always dressin' up the winder, crackin' 'ardy though we felt Fearful creepy in the whiskers, very cold be- neath the belt. But his jills would sniff 'n' shiver in the mother of a fright, 'N' go blubberin' 'n' quakin' out to waller in the fight.

In the West we liked the weather, 'n' we fat- tened in the mud, Crackin' 'ardy, stewed together, rats an' slurry men 'n' blood. Weepin' Willie wouldn't have it these was pleasin' things abed, 'N' he shuddered in his shimmy if they passed him with the dead. When he cried about his mother, in a gentle voice he'd tell Them as dumb-well didn't like it they could go to sudden 'ell.

There was nothin' sweet for Willie in a rough- up in the wet; But if all things scared him purple, not a thing had stopped him yet. If some chaps was wanted urgent special dirty work to do Willie went in with a shudder, but he alwiz saw it through. Oh, a busy little body was our Willie in a crush! Then he'd cry out in the night about the faces in the slush.

Well they pinked him one fine mornin' with a thumpin' 'unk iv shell; Put it in 'n' all across him. What he was you couldn't tell. I saw him stitched 'n' mended where he whimpered in his bed, 'N' he'd on'y lived because he was afraid to die, he said. Sez he "Struth, they're out there fightin', trimmin' Boshes good 'n' smart, While I'm bedded here 'n' 'elpless. It fair breaks a feller's 'eart."

But he came again last Tuesday '-n' we go it in a breath-- "London's big 'n' black 'n' noisy. It would scare a bloke to death." He's away now in the trenches, white 'n' nervous, but, you bet, Playin' lovely 'ands of poker with his busy bay-o-net, 'Fraid of givin' 'n' of takin', 'fraid of gases, 'fraid of guns-- But a champion lightweight terror to the gor- forsaken 'Uns!

BILLJIM

DOWN to it is Plugger Bill, Lyin' crumpled, white 'n' still. Me 'n' him Chips in when the scrap begins, Carin' nothin' for our skins, Chi-iked as the 'Eavenly Twins- Bill 'n' Jim.

They 'ave outed Bill at last, Slugged me cobber hard 'n' fast. It's a kill. See the purple of his lip 'N' the red 'n' oozy drip! Ends our great ole partnership- Jim 'n' Bill

Mates we was when we was kids; Camp, 'n' ship, 'n' Pyramids, Him 'n' me Hung together, 'n' we tore Up the heights from Helles shore, Bill a long 'arf head afore, Fine to see!

Then it was we took a touch- Simple puncture, nothin' much; But we lay 'N' we stays the count, it seems, In a sorter realm of dreams Where the sun infernal gleams Night 'n' day;

Boilin', fryin' achin', dumb, Waitin' till the stretchers come, Patiently. I hangs on to 'arf a cup. Which I wants ole Bill to sup. Damn if he ain't savin' up His for me!

When they come to lift my head I am softly kiddin' dead, For a game, So's they'll first take on his gills. Over, though, me scheme he spills- Bli'me, this ole take-down Bill's Done the same!

But he isn't kiddin' now, And it knocks me anyhow Seein' him. We was both agreed before, Though it got 'em by the score, Two was goin' to beat this war- But 'n' Jim.

Mate o' mine, yiv stayed it through. Hard luck, Bill-for me 'n' you Hard 'n' grim. They have got me Cobber true, But I'm stickin' tight ez glue.... Bill, there's one who'll plug for two- It is Jim!

THE CRUSADERS.

WHAT price yer humble, Dicko Smith, in gaudy putties girt, With sand-blight in his optics, and much leaner than he started, Round the 'Oly Land cavorting in three- quarters of a shirt, And imposin' on the natives ez one Dick the Lion 'Earted?

We are drivin' out the infidel, we're hittin' up the Turk, Same ez Richard slung his right across the Saracen invader In old days of which I'm readin'. Now we're gettin' in our work, 'N' what price me nibs, I ask yeh, ez a qualified Crusader!

'Ere I am, a thirsty Templar in the fields of Palestine, Where that hefty little fighter, Bobby Sable, smit the heathen, And where Richard Coor de Lion trimmed the Moslem good 'n' fine, 'N' he took the belt from Saladin, the slickest Dago breathin'.

There's no plume upon me helmet, 'n' no red cross on me chest, 'N' so fur they haven't dressed me in a swanking load of metal; We've no 'Oly Grail I know of, but we do our little best With a jamtin, 'n' a billy, 'n' a battered ole mess kettle.

Quite a lot of guyver missin' from our brand of chivalry; We don't make a pert procession when we're movin' up the forces; We've no pretty, pawin' stallion, 'n' no pennants flowin' free, 'N' no giddy, gaudy bedquilts make a circus of the 'orses.

We 'most always slip the cattle 'n' we cut out all the dog When it fairly comes to buttin' into battle's hectic fever, Goin' forward on our wishbones, with our noses in the bog, 'N' we 'eave a pot iv blazes at the cursed unbeliever.

Fancy-dress them old Crusaders wore, and alwiz kep' a band. What we wear's so near to nothin' that it's often 'ardly proper, And we swings a tank iv iron scrap across the 'Oly Land From a dinkie gun we nipped ashore the other side of Jopper.

We ain't ever very natty, for the climate here is hot; When it isn't liquid mud the dust is thicker than the vermin. Ten to one our bold Noureddin is some wad- dlin' Turkish pot, 'N' the Saladin we're on to is a snortin' red-eyed German.

But be'old the eighth Crusade, 'n' Dicko Smith is in the van, Dicko Coor de Lion from Carlton what could teach King Dick a trifle, For he'd bomb his Royal Jills from out his baked-pertater can, Or he'd pink him full of leakage with a quaint repeatin' rif1e.

We have sunk our claws in Mizpah, and Siloam is in view. By my 'alidom from Agra we will send the Faithful reelin'! Those old-timers botched the contract, but we mean to put it through. Knights Templars from Balmain, the Port, Monaro, Nhill, andl Ealin'.

We 'are wipin' up Jerus'lem; we were ready with a hose Spoutin' lead, a dandy cleaner that you bet you can rely on; And Moss Isaacs, Cohn, and Cohen, Moses, Offelbloom 'n' those Can all pack their bettin' bags, and come right home again to Zion.

PEACE, BLESSED PEACE.

HERE in the flamin' thick of thick of things, With Death across the way, 'n' traps What little Fritz the German flings Explodin' in yer lunch pe'aps, It ain't all glory for a bloke', It ain't all corfee 'ot and stoo, Nor wavin' banners in the smoke, Or practisin' the bay'net stroke-- We has our little troubles, too!

Here's Trigger Ribb bin seein' red 'N' raisin' Cain because he had, Back in the caverns iv his 'ead, A 'oller tooth run ravin' mad. Pore Trigger up 'n' down the trench Was jiggin' like a blithered loan, 'N' every time she give a wrench You orter seen the beggar blench, You orter 'eard him play a toon.

The sullen shells was pawin' blind, A-feelin' for us grim as sin, While now 'n' then we'd likely find A dizzy bomb come limpin' in. But Trigger simply let 'er sizz. He 'ardly begged to be excused. This was no damn concern of his. He twined a muffler round his phiz, 'N' fearful was the words he used.

Lest we be getting' cock-a-whoop Ole 'Ans tries out his box of tricks. His bullets all around the coop Is peckin' like a million chicks. But Trigger when they barks his snout Don't sniff at it. He won't confess They're on the earth--ignores the clout, 'N' makes the same old sung about His brimmin' mug of bitterness.

They raided us there in the mud One day afore the dead sun rose. Me oath, the mess of stuff and blood Would give a slaughterman the joes! And when the scrap is past and done, Where's Trigger Ribb? The noble youth Has got his bay'net in a Hun, While down his cheeks the salt tears run. Sez he to me "Gorbli'--this tooth!"

A shell hoist Trigger in a tree. We found him motherin' his jor. "If this ache's goin' on," sez he, "So 'elp me, it'll spoil the war!" Five collared Trigger on his perch, They wired his molar to a bough, Then give the anguished one a lurch, 'N' down he pitches. From that birch His riddled tooth is hangin' now.

This afternoon it's merry 'ell; Grenades is comin' by the peck; A big gun times us true 'n well, And, oh! we gets it in the neck. They lick out flames hat reach a mile, The drip of lead will never cease. But Trigger's pottin' all the while; He sports a fond 'n' foolish smile- "Thank Gord," he sez, "a bit of peace!"

THE HAPPY GARDENERS.

WE were storemen, clerks and packers on an ammunition dump Twice the size of Cootamundra, and the goods we had to hump They were bombs as big as water-butts, and cartridges in tons, Shells that looked like blessed gasmains, and a line in traction-guns.

We had struck a warehouse dignity in dealing with the stocks. It was, "Sign here, Mr. Eddie!" "Clarkson, forward to the socks!" Our floor-walker was a major, with a nozzle like a peach, And a stutter in his Trilbies; and a limping kind of speech.

We were off at eight to business, we were free for lunch at one, And we talked of new Spring fashions, and the brisk trade being done. After five we sought our dugouts lying snug beneath the hill, Each with hollyhocks before it and geraniums on the sill.

Singing "Home, Sweet home," we swept, and scrubbed, and dusted up the place, Then smoked out on the doorstep in the twi- light's tender grace. After which with spade and rake we sought our special garden plot, And we 'tended to the cabbage and the shrink- ing young shallot.

So long lived we unmolested that this seemed indeed "the life." Set apart from mirk and worry and the inci- dence of strife; And we trimmed our Kitchen Eden, swapping vegetable lore, Whi1e the whole demented world beside was muddled up with war.

There was little talk of Boches and of bloody battle scenes, But a deal about Bill's spuds and Billy Carkeek's butter-beans; Porky specialised on onion and he had a sort of gift For a cabbage plump and tender that it took two men to lift.

In the pleasant Sabbath morning, when the sun lit on our "street," And illumed the happy dugout with effulgence kind and sweet, It was fine to see us forking, raking, picking off the bugs, Treading flat the snails and woodlice and demolishing the slugs.

Then one day old Fritz got going. He had a hint of us, And the shell the blighter posted was as roomy as a 'bus; He was groping round the dump, and kind of pecking after it; When he plugged the hill the world heeled up, the dome of heaven split.

Then, 0 Gott and consternation! Swooped a shell a and stuck her nose In Carkeek's beans. Those beans came up! A cry of grief arose! As we watched them--plunk! another shell cut loose, and everywhere Flew the spuds of Billy Murphy. There were turnips in the air.

Bill! she tore a quarter-acre from the land- scape. With it burst Tommy's carrots, and we watched them, and in whispers prayed and cursed. Then a wail of anguish 'scaped us. Boomed in Porky's cabbage plot A detestable concussion. Porky's cabbages were not!

There the Breaking strain was reached, for Porky fetched an awful cry, And he rushed away and armed himself. With loathing in his eye, Up and over went the hero. He was savage Through and through, And he tore across the distance like a mad- dened kangaroo.

They had left a woeful sight indeed--frail cab- bages all rent, Turnips mangled, little carrots all in one red burial blent, Parsnips ruined, lettuce shattered, torn and wilted beet and bean, And a black and grinning gap where once our garden flourished green.

. . . . . . Five and fifty hours had passed when came a German in his shirt. On his back he carried Porky black with blood, and smoke and dirt. "I sniped six of 'em," said Porky, "an' me pris'ner here," he sez- "I done in the crooel swine what strafed me helpless cabba-ges."

THE GERM

I TOOK to khaki at a word, And fashioned dreams of wonder. I rode the great sea like a bird, Chock full of blood and thunder. I saw myself upon the field Of battle, framed in glory, Compelling stubborn foes to yield As captives to my sword and shield-- This is another story.

We sat about in sun and sand, We broke old Cairo's images, Met here and there a swarthy band In little, friendly scrimmages, And here it is I start to kid No Moslem born can hit me. The Germ then that had long laid hid Came out of Pharaoh's pyramid, And covertly he bit me.

For some few days I wore an air Of pensive introspection, And then I curled down anywhere. They whispered of infection, And hoist me on two sticks as though I bore the leper's label, And took me where, all in a row Of tiny beds, two score or so Were raising second Babel;

But no man talked to any one. And no bloke knew another. This soldier raved about his gun, And that one of his mother. They were the victims of the Germ, The imp that Satan pricks in, First cousin to the Coffin Worm, Whose uncomputed legions squirm Some foul, atomic Styx in.

The Germ rides with the plunging shell, Or on the belts that fret you, Or in a speck of dust may well One thousand years to get you; Well ambushed in a tunic fold He waits his special mission, And never lad so big and bold But turns to water in his hold And dribbles to perdition.

Where is war's pomp and circumstance, The gauds in which we prank it? Germ ends for us our fine romance, Wrapped in a dingy blanket. We set out braggartly in mirth, World's bravest men and tallest, To do the mightiest thing on earth, And here we're lying, nothing worth, Succumbent to the smallest!

JOEY'S JOB.

IN days before the trouble Jo was rated as a slob. He chose to sit in hourly expectation of a job. He'd loop hisself upon a post, for seldom friends had he, A gift of patient waitin' his distinctif quality. He'd linger in a doorway, or he'd loiter on the grass, Edgin' modestly aside to let the fleetin' moments pass.

Jo' begged a bob from mother, but more often got a clout, And settled down with cigarettes to smoke the devil out. The one consistent member of the Never Trouble Club, He put a satin finish on the frontage of the pub. His shoulder-blades were pokin' out from polishin' the pine; But if a job ran at him Joey's footwork was divine.

Jo strayed in at the cobbler's door, but, scoffed at as a fool, He found the conversation too exhaustin' as a rule; Or, canted on the smithy coke, he'd hoist his feet and yawn, His boots slid up his shinbones, and his pants displayin' brawn: And if the copper chanced along 'twas beauty- ful to see Joe wear away and made hisself a fadest memory.

Then came the universal nark. The Kaiser let her rip. They cleared the ring. The scrap was for the whole world's championship. Jo Brown was takin' notice, lurkin' shy be- neath his hat, And every day he crept to see the drillin' on the flat. He waited, watchin' from the furze the blokes in butcher's blue, For the burst of inspiration that would tell him what to do.

He couldn't lean, he couldn't lie. He yelled out in the night. Jo understood--he'd all these years been spoilin' for a fight! Right into things he flung himself. He took his kit and gun, Mooched gladly in the dust, or roasted gaily in the sun. "Gorstruth," he said, with shining eyes, "it means a frightful war, 'N' now I know this is the thing that Heaven meant me for."

Jo went away a corporal and fought again the Turk, And like a duck to water Joey cottoned to the work. If anythin' was doin' it would presently come out That Joseph Brown from Booragool was there or thereabout. He got a batch of medals, and a glorious renown Attached all of a sudden to the name of Sergeant Brown.