Chapter 2

The Odyssey of 'Erbert 'Iggins

Me and Ed and a stretcher Out on the nootral ground. (If there's one dead corpse, I'll betcher There's a 'undred smellin' around.) Me and Eddie O'Brian, Both of the R. A. M. C. "It's a 'ell of a night For a soul to take flight," As Eddie remarks to me. Me and Ed crawlin' 'omeward, Thinkin' our job is done, When sudden and clear, Wot do we 'ear: 'Owl of a wounded 'Un.

"Got to take 'im," snaps Eddy; "Got to take all we can. 'E may be a Germ Wiv the 'eart of a worm, But, blarst 'im! ain't 'e a man?" So 'e sloshes out fixin' a dressin' ('E'd always a medical knack), When that wounded 'Un 'E rolls to 'is gun, And 'e plugs me pal in the back.

Now what would you do? I arst you. There was me slaughtered mate. There was that 'Un (I'd collered 'is gun), A-snarlin' 'is 'ymn of 'ate. Wot did I do? 'Ere, whisper . . . 'E'd a shiny bald top to 'is 'ead, But when I got through, Between me and you, It was 'orrid and jaggy and red.

"'Ang on like a limpet, Eddy. Thank Gord! you ain't dead after all." It's slow and it's sure and it's steady (Which is 'ard, for 'e's big and I'm small). The rockets are shootin' and shinin', It's rainin' a perishin' flood, The bullets are buzzin' and whinin', And I'm up to me stern in the mud. There's all kinds of 'owlin' and 'ootin'; It's black as a bucket of tar; Oh, I'm doin' my bit, But I'm 'avin' a fit, And I wish I was 'ome wiv Mar.

"Stick on like a plaster, Eddy. Old sport, you're a-slackin' your grip." Gord! But I'm crocky already; My feet, 'ow they slither and slip! There goes the biff of a bullet. The Boches have got us for fair. Another one--_WHUT!_ The son of a slut! 'E managed to miss by a 'air. 'Ow! Wot was it jabbed at me shoulder? Gave it a dooce of a wrench. Is it Eddy or me Wot's a-bleedin' so free? Crust! but it's long to the trench. I ain't just as strong as a Sandow, And Ed ain't a flapper by far; I'm blamed if I understand 'ow We've managed to get where we are. But 'ere's for a bit of a breather. "Steady there, Ed, 'arf a mo'. Old pal, it's all right; It's a 'ell of a fight, But are we down-'earted? No-o-o."

Now war is a funny thing, ain't it? It's the rummiest sort of a go. For when it's most real, It's then that you feel You're a-watchin' a cinema show. 'Ere's me wot's a barber's assistant. Hey, presto! It's somewheres in France, And I'm 'ere in a pit Where a coal-box 'as 'it, And it's all like a giddy romance. The ruddy quick-firers are spittin', The 'eavies are bellowin' 'ate, And 'ere I am cashooly sittin', And 'oldin' the 'ead of me mate. Them gharstly green star-shells is beamin', 'Ot shrapnel is poppin' like rain, And I'm sayin': "Bert 'Iggins, you're dreamin', And you'll wake up in 'Ampstead again. You'll wake up and 'ear yourself sayin': 'Would you like, sir, to 'ave a shampoo?' 'Stead of sheddin' yer blood In the rain and the mud, Which is some'ow the right thing to do; Which is some'ow yer 'oary-eyed dooty, Wot you're doin' the best wot you can, For 'Ampstead and 'ome and beauty, And you've been and you've slaughtered a man. A feller wot punctured your partner; Oh, you 'ammered 'im 'ard on the 'ead, And you still see 'is eyes Starin' bang at the skies, And you ain't even sorry 'e's dead. But you wish you was back in your diggin's Asleep on your mouldy old stror. Oh, you're doin' yer bit, 'Erbert 'Iggins, But you ain't just enjoyin' the war."

"'Ang on like a hoctopus, Eddy. It's us for the bomb-belt again. Except for the shrap Which 'as 'it me a tap, I'm feelin' as right as the rain. It's my silly old feet wot are slippin', It's as dark as a 'ogs'ead o' sin, But don't be oneasy, my pippin, I'm goin' to pilot you in. It's my silly old 'ead wot is reelin'. The bullets is buzzin' like bees. Me shoulder's red-'ot, And I'm bleedin' a lot, And me legs is on'inged at the knees. But we're staggerin' nearer and nearer. Just stick it, old sport, play the game. I make 'em out clearer and clearer, Our trenches a-snappin' with flame. Oh, we're stumblin' closer and closer. 'Ang on there, lad! Just one more try. Did you say: Put you down? Damn it, no, sir! I'll carry you in if I die. By cracky! old feller, they've seen us. They're sendin' out stretchers for two. Let's give 'em the hoorah between us ('Anged lucky we aren't booked through). My flipper is mashed to a jelly. A bullet 'as tickled your spleen. We've shed lots of gore And we're leakin' some more, But--wot a hoccasion it's been! Ho! 'Ere comes the rescuin' party. They're crawlin' out cautious and slow. Come! Buck up and greet 'em, my 'earty, Shoulder to shoulder--so. They mustn't think we was down-'earted. Old pal, we was never down-'earted. If they arsts us if we was down-'earted We'll 'owl in their fyces: 'No-o-o!'"

A Song of Winter Weather

It isn't the foe that we fear; It isn't the bullets that whine; It isn't the business career Of a shell, or the bust of a mine; It isn't the snipers who seek To nip our young hopes in the bud: No, it isn't the guns, And it isn't the Huns-- It's the MUD, MUD, MUD.

It isn't the melee we mind. That often is rather good fun. It isn't the shrapnel we find Obtrusive when rained by the ton; It isn't the bounce of the bombs That gives us a positive pain: It's the strafing we get When the weather is wet-- It's the RAIN, RAIN, RAIN.

It isn't because we lack grit We shrink from the horrors of war. We don't mind the battle a bit; In fact that is what we are for; It isn't the rum-jars and things Make us wish we were back in the fold: It's the fingers that freeze In the boreal breeze-- It's the COLD, COLD, COLD.

Oh, the rain, the mud, and the cold, The cold, the mud, and the rain; With weather at zero it's hard for a hero From language that's rude to refrain. With porridgy muck to the knees, With sky that's a-pouring a flood, Sure the worst of our foes Are the pains and the woes Of the RAIN, the COLD, and the MUD.

Tipperary Days

Oh, weren't they the fine boys! You never saw the beat of them, Singing all together with their throats bronze-bare; Fighting-fit and mirth-mad, music in the feet of them, Swinging on to glory and the wrath out there. Laughing by and chaffing by, frolic in the smiles of them, On the road, the white road, all the afternoon; Strangers in a strange land, miles and miles and miles of them, Battle-bound and heart-high, and singing this tune:

_It's a long way to Tipperary, It's a long way to go; It's a long way to Tipperary, And the sweetest girl I know. Good-bye, Piccadilly, Farewell, Lester Square: It's a long, long way to Tipperary, But my heart's right there._

"Come, Yvonne and Juliette! Come, Mimi, and cheer for them! Throw them flowers and kisses as they pass you by. Aren't they the lovely lads! Haven't you a tear for them Going out so gallantly to dare and die? What is it they're singing so? Some high hymn of Motherland? Some immortal chanson of their Faith and King? 'Marseillaise' or 'Brabanc,on', anthem of that other land, Dears, let us remember it, that song they sing:

_"C'est un chemin long 'to Tepararee', C'est un chemin long, c'est vrai; C'est un chemin long 'to Tepararee', Et la belle fille qu'je connais. Bonjour, Peekadeely! Au revoir, Lestaire Squaire! C'est un chemin long 'to Tepararee', Mais mon coeur 'ees zaire'."_

The gallant old "Contemptibles"! There isn't much remains of them, So full of fun and fitness, and a-singing in their pride; For some are cold as clabber and the corby picks the brains of them, And some are back in Blighty, and a-wishing they had died. And yet it seems but yesterday, that great, glad sight of them, Swinging on to battle as the sky grew black and black; But oh their glee and glory, and the great, grim fight of them!-- Just whistle Tipperary and it all comes back:

_It's a long way to Tipperary (Which means "'ome" anywhere); It's a long way to Tipperary (And the things wot make you care). Good-bye, Piccadilly ('Ow I 'opes my folks is well); It's a long, long way to Tipperary-- ('R! Ain't War just 'ell?)_

Fleurette

(The Wounded Canadian Speaks)

My leg? It's off at the knee. Do I miss it? Well, some. You see I've had it since I was born; And lately a devilish corn. (I rather chuckle with glee To think how I've fooled that corn.)

But I'll hobble around all right. It isn't that, it's my face. Oh I know I'm a hideous sight, Hardly a thing in place; Sort of gargoyle, you'd say. Nurse won't give me a glass, But I see the folks as they pass Shudder and turn away; Turn away in distress . . . Mirror enough, I guess.

I'm gay! You bet I _am_ gay; But I wasn't a while ago. If you'd seen me even to-day, The darndest picture of woe, With this Caliban mug of mine, So ravaged and raw and red, Turned to the wall--in fine, Wishing that I was dead. . . . What has happened since then, Since I lay with my face to the wall, The most despairing of men? Listen! I'll tell you all.

That 'poilu' across the way, With the shrapnel wound in his head, Has a sister: she came to-day To sit awhile by his bed. All morning I heard him fret: "Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?"

Then sudden, a joyous cry; The tripping of little feet; The softest, tenderest sigh; A voice so fresh and sweet; Clear as a silver bell, Fresh as the morning dews: "C'est toi, c'est toi, Marcel! Mon frêre, comme je suis heureuse!"

So over the blanket's rim I raised my terrible face, And I saw--how I envied him! A girl of such delicate grace; Sixteen, all laughter and love; As gay as a linnet, and yet As tenderly sweet as a dove; Half woman, half child--Fleurette.

Then I turned to the wall again. (I was awfully blue, you see), And I thought with a bitter pain: "Such visions are not for me." So there like a log I lay, All hidden, I thought, from view, When sudden I heard her say: "Ah! Who is that 'malheureux'?" Then briefly I heard him tell (However he came to know) How I'd smothered a bomb that fell Into the trench, and so None of my men were hit, Though it busted me up a bit.

Well, I didn't quiver an eye, And he chattered and there she sat; And I fancied I heard her sigh-- But I wouldn't just swear to that. And maybe she wasn't so bright, Though she talked in a merry strain, And I closed my eyes ever so tight, Yet I saw her ever so plain: Her dear little tilted nose, Her delicate, dimpled chin, Her mouth like a budding rose, And the glistening pearls within; Her eyes like the violet: Such a rare little queen--Fleurette.

And at last when she rose to go, The light was a little dim, And I ventured to peep, and so I saw her, graceful and slim, And she kissed him and kissed him, and oh How I envied and envied him!

So when she was gone I said In rather a dreary voice To him of the opposite bed: "Ah, friend, how you must rejoice! But me, I'm a thing of dread. For me nevermore the bliss, The thrill of a woman's kiss."

Then I stopped, for lo! she was there, And a great light shone in her eyes. And me! I could only stare, I was taken so by surprise, When gently she bent her head: "May I kiss you, Sergeant?" she said.

Then she kissed my burning lips With her mouth like a scented flower, And I thrilled to the finger-tips, And I hadn't even the power To say: "God bless you, dear!" And I felt such a precious tear Fall on my withered cheek, And darn it! I couldn't speak.

And so she went sadly away, And I knew that my eyes were wet. Ah, not to my dying day Will I forget, forget! Can you wonder now I am gay? God bless her, that little Fleurette!

Funk

When your marrer bone seems 'oller, And you're glad you ain't no taller, And you're all a-shakin' like you 'ad the chills; When your skin creeps like a pullet's, And you're duckin' all the bullets, And you're green as gorgonzola round the gills; When your legs seem made of jelly, And you're squeamish in the belly, And you want to turn about and do a bunk: For Gawd's sake, kid, don't show it! Don't let your mateys know it-- You're just sufferin' from funk, funk, funk.

Of course there's no denyin' That it ain't so easy tryin' To grin and grip your rifle by the butt, When the 'ole world rips asunder, And you sees yer pal go under, As a bunch of shrapnel sprays 'im on the nut; I admit it's 'ard contrivin' When you 'ears the shells arrivin', To discover you're a bloomin' bit o' spunk; But, my lad, you've got to do it, And your God will see you through it, For wot 'E 'ates is funk, funk, funk.

So stand up, son; look gritty, And just 'um a lively ditty, And only be afraid to be afraid; Just 'old yer rifle steady, And 'ave yer bay'nit ready, For that's the way good soldier-men is made. And if you 'as to die, As it sometimes 'appens, why, Far better die a 'ero than a skunk; A-doin' of yer bit, And so--to 'ell with it, There ain't no bloomin' funk, funk, funk.

Our Hero

"Flowers, only flowers--bring me dainty posies, Blossoms for forgetfulness," that was all he said; So we sacked our gardens, violets and roses, Lilies white and bluebells laid we on his bed. Soft his pale hands touched them, tenderly caressing; Soft into his tired eyes came a little light; Such a wistful love-look, gentle as a blessing; There amid the flowers waited he the night.

"I would have you raise me; I can see the West then: I would see the sun set once before I go." So he lay a-gazing, seemed to be at rest then, Quiet as a spirit in the golden glow. So he lay a-watching rosy castles crumbling, Moats of blinding amber, bastions of flame, Rugged rifts of opal, crimson turrets tumbling; So he lay a-dreaming till the shadows came.

"Open wide the window; there's a lark a-singing; There's a glad lark singing in the evening sky. How it's wild with rapture, radiantly winging: Oh it's good to hear that when one has to die. I am horror-haunted from the hell they found me; I am battle-broken, all I want is rest. Ah! It's good to die so, blossoms all around me, And a kind lark singing in the golden West.

"Flowers, song and sunshine, just one thing is wanting, Just the happy laughter of a little child." So we brought our dearest, Doris all-enchanting; Tenderly he kissed her; radiant he smiled. "In the golden peace-time you will tell the story How for you and yours, sweet, bitter deaths were ours. . . . God bless little children!" So he passed to glory, So we left him sleeping, still amid the flow'rs.

My Mate

I've been sittin' starin', starin' at 'is muddy pair of boots, And tryin' to convince meself it's 'im. (Look out there, lad! That sniper--'e's a dysey when 'e shoots; 'E'll be layin' of you out the same as Jim.) Jim as lies there in the dug-out wiv 'is blanket round 'is 'ead, To keep 'is brains from mixin' wiv the mud; And 'is face as white as putty, and 'is overcoat all red, Like 'e's spilt a bloomin' paint-pot--but it's blood.

And I'm tryin' to remember of a time we wasn't pals. 'Ow often we've played 'ookey, 'im and me; And sometimes it was music-'alls, and sometimes it was gals, And even there we 'ad no disagree. For when 'e copped Mariar Jones, the one I liked the best, I shook 'is 'and and loaned 'im 'arf a quid; I saw 'im through the parson's job, I 'elped 'im make 'is nest, I even stood god-farther to the kid.

So when the war broke out, sez 'e: "Well, wot abaht it, Joe?" "Well, wot abaht it, lad?" sez I to 'im. 'Is missis made a awful fuss, but 'e was mad to go, ('E always was 'igh-sperrited was Jim). Well, none of it's been 'eaven, and the most of it's been 'ell, But we've shared our baccy, and we've 'alved our bread. We'd all the luck at Wipers, and we shaved through Noove Chapelle, And . . . that snipin' barstard gits 'im on the 'ead.

Now wot I wants to know is, why it wasn't me was took? I've only got meself, 'e stands for three. I'm plainer than a louse, while 'e was 'andsome as a dook; 'E always _was_ a better man than me. 'E was goin' 'ome next Toosday; 'e was 'appy as a lark, And 'e'd just received a letter from 'is kid; And 'e struck a match to show me, as we stood there in the dark, When . . . that bleedin' bullet got 'im on the lid.

'E was killed so awful sudden that 'e 'adn't time to die. 'E sorto jumped, and came down wiv a thud. Them corpsy-lookin' star-shells kept a-streamin' in the sky, And there 'e lay like nothin' in the mud. And there 'e lay so quiet wiv no mansard to 'is 'ead, And I'm sick, and blamed if I can understand: The pots of 'alf and 'alf we've 'ad, and _ZIP!_ like that--'e's dead, Wiv the letter of 'is nipper in 'is 'and.

There's some as fights for freedom and there's some as fights for fun, But me, my lad, I fights for bleedin' 'ate. You can blame the war and blast it, but I 'opes it won't be done Till I gets the bloomin' blood-price for me mate. It'll take a bit o' bayonet to level up for Jim; Then if I'm spared I think I'll 'ave a bid, Wiv 'er that was Mariar Jones to take the place of 'im, To sorter be a farther to 'is kid.

Milking Time

There's a drip of honeysuckle in the deep green lane; There's old Martin jogging homeward on his worn old wain; There are cherry petals falling, and a cuckoo calling, calling, And a score of larks (God bless 'em) . . . but it's all pain, pain. For you see I am not really there at all, not at all; For you see I'm in the trenches where the crump-crumps fall; And the bits o' shells are screaming and it's only blessed dreaming That in fancy I am seeming back in old Saint Pol.

Oh I've thought of it so often since I've come down here; And I never dreamt that any place could be so dear; The silvered whinstone houses, and the rosy men in blouses, And the kindly, white-capped women with their eyes spring-clear. And mother's sitting knitting where her roses climb, And the angelus is calling with a soft, soft chime, And the sea-wind comes caressing, and the light's a golden blessing, And Yvonne, Yvonne is guessing that it's milking time.

Oh it's Sunday, for she's wearing of her broidered gown; And she draws the pasture pickets and the cows come down; And their feet are powdered yellow, and their voices honey-mellow, And they bring a scent of clover, and their eyes are brown. And Yvonne is dreaming after, but her eyes are blue; And her lips are made for laughter, and her white teeth too; And her mouth is like a cherry, and a dimple mocking merry Is lurking in the very cheek she turns to you.

So I walk beside her kindly, and she laughs at me; And I heap her arms with lilac from the lilac tree; And a golden light is welling, and a golden peace is dwelling, And a thousand birds are telling how it's good to be. And what are pouting lips for if they can't be kissed? And I've filled her arms with blossom so she can't resist; And the cows are sadly straying, and her mother must be saying That Yvonne is long delaying . . . _GOD! HOW CLOSE THAT MISSED!_

A nice polite reminder that the Boche are nigh; That we're here to fight like devils, and if need-be die; That from kissing pretty wenches to the frantic firing-benches Of the battered, tattered trenches is a far, far cry. Yet still I'm sitting dreaming in the glare and grime; And once again I'm hearing of them church-bells chime; And how I wonder whether in the golden summer weather We will fetch the cows together when it's milking time. . . . (English voice, months later):-- "_OW BILL! A ROTTIN' FRENCHY. WHEW! 'E AIN'T 'ARF PRIME._"

Young Fellow My Lad

"Where are you going, Young Fellow My Lad, On this glittering morn of May?" "I'm going to join the Colours, Dad; They're looking for men, they say." "But you're only a boy, Young Fellow My Lad; You aren't obliged to go." "I'm seventeen and a quarter, Dad, And ever so strong, you know."

. . . . .

"So you're off to France, Young Fellow My Lad, And you're looking so fit and bright." "I'm terribly sorry to leave you, Dad, But I feel that I'm doing right." "God bless you and keep you, Young Fellow My Lad, You're all of my life, you know." "Don't worry. I'll soon be back, dear Dad, And I'm awfully proud to go."

. . . . .

"Why don't you write, Young Fellow My Lad? I watch for the post each day; And I miss you so, and I'm awfully sad, And it's months since you went away. And I've had the fire in the parlour lit, And I'm keeping it burning bright Till my boy comes home; and here I sit Into the quiet night."

. . . . .

"What is the matter, Young Fellow My Lad? No letter again to-day. Why did the postman look so sad, And sigh as he turned away? I hear them tell that we've gained new ground, But a terrible price we've paid: God grant, my boy, that you're safe and sound; But oh I'm afraid, afraid."

. . . . .

"They've told me the truth, Young Fellow My Lad: You'll never come back again: _(OH GOD! THE DREAMS AND THE DREAMS I'VE HAD, AND THE HOPES I'VE NURSED IN VAIN!)_ For you passed in the night, Young Fellow My Lad, And you proved in the cruel test Of the screaming shell and the battle hell That my boy was one of the best.

"So you'll live, you'll live, Young Fellow My Lad, In the gleam of the evening star, In the wood-note wild and the laugh of the child, In all sweet things that are. And you'll never die, my wonderful boy, While life is noble and true; For all our beauty and hope and joy We will owe to our lads like you."

A Song of the Sandbags

No, Bill, I'm not a-spooning out no patriotic tosh (The cove be'ind the sandbags ain't a death-or-glory cuss). And though I strafes 'em good and 'ard I doesn't 'ate the Boche, I guess they're mostly decent, just the same as most of us. I guess they loves their 'omes and kids as much as you or me; And just the same as you or me they'd rather shake than fight; And if we'd 'appened to be born at Berlin-on-the-Spree, We'd be out there with 'Ans and Fritz, dead sure that we was right.

A-standin' up to the sandbags It's funny the thoughts wot come; Starin' into the darkness, 'Earin' the bullets 'um; _(ZING! ZIP! PING! RIP! 'ARK 'OW THE BULLETS 'UM!)_ A-leanin' against the sandbags Wiv me rifle under me ear, Oh, I've 'ad more thoughts on a sentry-go Than I used to 'ave in a year.

I wonder, Bill, if 'Ans and Fritz is wonderin' like me Wot's at the bottom of it all? Wot all the slaughter's for? 'E thinks 'e's right (of course 'e ain't) but this we both agree, If them as made it 'ad to fight, there wouldn't be no war. If them as lies in feather beds while we kips in the mud; If them as makes their fortoons while we fights for 'em like 'ell; If them as slings their pot of ink just 'ad to sling their blood: By Crust! I'm thinkin' there 'ud be another tale to tell.

Shiverin' up to the sandbags, With a hicicle 'stead of a spine, Don't it seem funny the things you think 'Ere in the firin' line: _(WHEE! WHUT! ZIZ! ZUT! LORD! 'OW THE BULLETS WHINE!)_ Hunkerin' down when a star-shell Cracks in a sputter of light, You can jaw to yer soul by the sandbags Most any old time o' night.