Chapter 4

I've gambled the 'ole world over, from Monte Carlo to Maine; From Dawson City to Dover, from San Francisco to Spain. Cards! They 'ave been me ruin. They've taken me pride and me pelf, And when I'd no one to play with--why, I'd go and I'd play by meself.

And Sam 'e would sit and watch me, as I shuffled a greasy deck, And 'e'd say: "You're bound to Perdition," And I'd answer: "Git off me neck!" And that's 'ow we came to get friendly, though built on a different plan, Me wot's a desprite gambler, 'im sich a good young man.

But on to me tale. Just imagine . . . Darkness! The battle-front! The furious 'Uns attackin'! Us ones a-bearin' the brunt! Me crouchin' be'ind a sandbag, tryin' 'ard to keep calm, When I 'ears someone singin' a 'ymn toon; be'old! it is Soulful Sam.

Yes; right in the crash of the combat, in the fury of flash and flame, 'E was shootin' and singin' serenely as if 'e enjoyed the same. And there in the 'eat of the battle, as the 'ordes of demons attacked, He dipped down into 'is tunic, and 'e 'anded me out a tract.

Then a star-shell flared, and I read it: Oh, Flee From the Wrath to Come! Nice cheerful subject, I tell yer, when you're 'earin' the bullets 'um. And before I 'ad time to thank 'im, just one of them bits of lead Comes slingin' along in a 'urry, and it 'its my partner. . . . Dead?

No, siree! not by a long sight! For it plugged 'im 'ard on the chest, Just where 'e'd tracts for a army corps stowed away in 'is vest. On its mission of death that bullet 'ustled along, and it caved A 'ole in them tracts to 'is 'ide, boys--but the life o' me pal was saved.

And there as 'e showed me in triumph, and 'orror was chokin' me breath, On came another bullet on its 'orrible mission of death; On through the night it cavorted, seekin' its 'aven of rest, And it zipped through a crack in the sandbags, and it wolloped me bang on the breast.

Was I killed, do you ask? Oh no, boys. Why am I sittin' 'ere Gazin' with mournful vision at a mug long empty of beer? With a throat as dry as a--oh, thanky! I don't much mind if I do. Beer with a dash of 'ollands, that's my particular brew.

Yes, that was a terrible moment. It 'ammered me 'ard o'er the 'eart; It bowled me down like a nine-pin, and I looked for the gore to start; And I saw in the flash of a moment, in that thunder of hate and strife, Me wretched past like a pitchur--the sins of a gambler's life.

For I 'ad no tracts to save me, to thwart that mad missile's doom; I 'ad no pious pamphlets to 'elp me to cheat the tomb; I 'ad no 'oly leaflets to baffle a bullet's aim; I'd only--a deck of cards, boys, but . . . _IT SEEMED TO DO JUST THE SAME._

Only a Boche

We brought him in from between the lines: we'd better have let him lie; For what's the use of risking one's skin for a _TYKE_ that's going to die? What's the use of tearing him loose under a gruelling fire, When he's shot in the head, and worse than dead, and all messed up on the wire?

However, I say, we brought him in. _DIABLE!_ The mud was bad; The trench was crooked and greasy and high, and oh, what a time we had! And often we slipped, and often we tripped, but never he made a moan; And how we were wet with blood and with sweat! but we carried him in like our own.

Now there he lies in the dug-out dim, awaiting the ambulance, And the doctor shrugs his shoulders at him, and remarks, "He hasn't a chance." And we squat and smoke at our game of bridge on the glistening, straw-packed floor, And above our oaths we can hear his breath deep-drawn in a kind of snore.

For the dressing station is long and low, and the candles gutter dim, And the mean light falls on the cold clay walls and our faces bristly and grim; And we flap our cards on the lousy straw, and we laugh and jibe as we play, And you'd never know that the cursed foe was less than a mile away. As we con our cards in the rancid gloom, oppressed by that snoring breath, You'd never dream that our broad roof-beam was swept by the broom of death.

Heigh-ho! My turn for the dummy hand; I rise and I stretch a bit; The fetid air is making me yawn, and my cigarette's unlit, So I go to the nearest candle flame, and the man we brought is there, And his face is white in the shabby light, and I stand at his feet and stare. Stand for a while, and quietly stare: for strange though it seems to be, The dying Boche on the stretcher there has a queer resemblance to me.

It gives one a kind of a turn, you know, to come on a thing like that. It's just as if I were lying there, with a turban of blood for a hat, Lying there in a coat grey-green instead of a coat grey-blue, With one of my eyes all shot away, and my brain half tumbling through; Lying there with a chest that heaves like a bellows up and down, And a cheek as white as snow on a grave, and lips that are coffee brown.

And confound him, too! He wears, like me, on his finger a wedding ring, And around his neck, as around my own, by a greasy bit of string, A locket hangs with a woman's face, and I turn it about to see: Just as I thought . . . on the other side the faces of children three; Clustered together cherub-like, three little laughing girls, With the usual tiny rosebud mouths and the usual silken curls. "Zut!" I say. "He has beaten me; for me, I have only two," And I push the locket beneath his shirt, feeling a little blue.

Oh, it isn't cheerful to see a man, the marvellous work of God, Crushed in the mutilation mill, crushed to a smeary clod; Oh, it isn't cheerful to hear him moan; but it isn't that I mind, It isn't the anguish that goes with him, it's the anguish he leaves behind. For his going opens a tragic door that gives on a world of pain, And the death he dies, those who live and love, will die again and again.

So here I am at my cards once more, but it's kind of spoiling my play, Thinking of those three brats of his so many a mile away. War is war, and he's only a Boche, and we all of us take our chance; But all the same I'll be mighty glad when I'm hearing the ambulance. One foe the less, but all the same I'm heartily glad I'm not The man who gave him his broken head, the sniper who fired the shot.

No trumps you make it, I think you said? You'll pardon me if I err; For a moment I thought of other things . . . _MON DIEU! QUELLE VACHE DE GUERRE._

Pilgrims

For oh, when the war will be over We'll go and we'll look for our dead; We'll go when the bee's on the clover, And the plume of the poppy is red: We'll go when the year's at its gayest, When meadows are laughing with flow'rs; And there where the crosses are greyest, We'll seek for the cross that is ours.

For they cry to us: 'Friends, we are lonely, A-weary the night and the day; But come in the blossom-time only, Come when our graves will be gay: When daffodils all are a-blowing, And larks are a-thrilling the skies, Oh, come with the hearts of you glowing, And the joy of the Spring in your eyes.

'But never, oh, never come sighing, For ours was the Splendid Release; And oh, but 'twas joy in the dying To know we were winning you Peace! So come when the valleys are sheening, And fledged with the promise of grain; And here where our graves will be greening, Just smile and be happy again.'

And so, when the war will be over, We'll seek for the Wonderful One; And maiden will look for her lover, And mother will look for her son; And there will be end to our grieving, And gladness will gleam over loss, As--glory beyond all believing! We point . . . to a name on a cross.

My Prisoner

We was in a crump-'ole, 'im and me; Fightin' wiv our bayonets was we; Fightin' 'ard as 'ell we was, Fightin' fierce as fire because It was 'im or me as must be downed; 'E was twice as big as me; I was 'arf the weight of 'e; We was like a terryer and a 'ound.

'Struth! But 'e was sich a 'andsome bloke. Me, I'm 'andsome as a chunk o' coke. Did I give it 'im? Not 'arf! Why, it fairly made me laugh, 'Cos 'is bloomin' bellows wasn't sound. Couldn't fight for monkey nuts. Soon I gets 'im in the guts, There 'e lies a-floppin' on the ground.

In I goes to finish up the job. Quick 'e throws 'is 'ands above 'is nob; Speakin' English good as me: "'Tain't no use to kill," says 'e; "Can't yer tyke me prisoner instead?" "Why, I'd like to, sir," says I; "But--yer knows the reason why: If we pokes our noses out we're dead.

"Sorry, sir. Then on the other 'and (As a gent like you must understand), If I 'olds you longer 'ere, Wiv yer pals so werry near, It's me 'oo'll 'ave a free trip to Berlin; If I lets yer go away, Why, you'll fight another day: See the sitooation I am in.

"Anyway I'll tell you wot I'll do, Bein' kind and seein' as it's you, Knowin' 'ow it's cold, the feel Of a 'alf a yard o' steel, I'll let yer 'ave a rifle ball instead; Now, jist think yerself in luck. . . . 'Ere, ol' man! You keep 'em stuck, Them saucy dooks o' yours, above yer 'ead."

'Ow 'is mits shot up it made me smile! 'Ow 'e seemed to ponder for a while! Then 'e says: "It seems a shyme, Me, a man wot's known ter Fyme: Give me blocks of stone, I'll give yer gods. Whereas, pardon me, I'm sure You, my friend, are still obscure. . . ." "In war," says I, "that makes no blurry odds."

Then says 'e: "I've painted picters too. . . . Oh, dear God! The work I planned to do, And to think this is the end!" "'Ere," says I, "my hartist friend, Don't you give yerself no friskin' airs. Picters, statoos, is that why You should be let off to die? That the best ye done? Just say yer prayers."

Once again 'e seems ter think awhile. Then 'e smiles a werry 'aughty smile: "Why, no, sir, it's not the best; There's a locket next me breast, Picter of a gel 'oo's eyes are blue. That's the best I've done," says 'e. "That's me darter, aged three. . . ." "Blimy!" says I, "I've a nipper, too."

Straight I chucks my rifle to one side; Shows 'im wiv a lovin' farther's pride Me own little Mary Jane. Proud 'e shows me 'is Elaine, And we talks as friendly as can be; Then I 'elps 'im on 'is way, 'Opes 'e's sife at 'ome to-day, Wonders--_'OW WOULD 'E 'AVE TREATED ME?_

Tri-colour

_POPPIES,_ you try to tell me, glowing there in the wheat; Poppies! Ah no! You mock me: It's blood, I tell you, it's blood. It's gleaming wet in the grasses; it's glist'ning warm in the wheat; It dabbles the ferns and the clover; it brims in an angry flood; It leaps to the startled heavens; it smothers the sun; it cries With scarlet voices of triumph from blossom and bough and blade. See the bright horror of it! It's roaring out of the skies, And the whole red world is a-welter. . . . Oh God! I'm afraid! I'm afraid!

_CORNFLOWERS,_ you say, just cornflowers, gemming the golden grain; Ah no! You can't deceive me. Can't I believe my eyes? Look! It's the dead, my comrades, stark on the dreadful plain, All in their dark-blue blouses, staring up at the skies. Comrades of canteen laughter, dumb in the yellow wheat. See how they sprawl and huddle! See how their brows are white! Goaded on to the shambles, there in death and defeat. . . . Father of Pity, hide them! Hasten, O God, Thy night!

_LILIES_ (the light is waning), only lilies you say, Nestling and softly shining there where the spear-grass waves. No, my friend, I know better; brighter I see than day: It's the poor little wooden crosses over their quiet graves. Oh, how they're gleaming, gleaming! See! Each cross has a crown. Yes, it's true I am dying; little will be the loss. . . . Darkness . . . but look! In Heaven a light, and it's shining down. . . . God's accolade! Lift me up, friends. I'm going to win--_MY CROSS._

A Pot of Tea

You make it in your mess-tin by the brazier's rosy gleam; You watch it cloud, then settle amber clear; You lift it with your bay'nit, and you sniff the fragrant steam; The very breath of it is ripe with cheer. You're awful cold and dirty, and a-cursin' of your lot; You scoff the blushin' 'alf of it, so rich and rippin' 'ot; It bucks you up like anythink, just seems to touch the spot: God bless the man that first discovered Tea!

Since I came out to fight in France, which ain't the other day, I think I've drunk enough to float a barge; All kinds of fancy foreign dope, from caffy and doo lay, To rum they serves you out before a charge. In back rooms of estaminays I've gurgled pints of cham; I've swilled down mugs of cider till I've felt a bloomin' dam; But 'struth! they all ain't in it with the vintage of Assam: God bless the man that first invented Tea!

I think them lazy lumps o' gods wot kips on asphodel Swigs nectar that's a flavour of Oolong; I only wish them sons o' guns a-grillin' down in 'ell Could 'ave their daily ration of Suchong. Hurrah! I'm off to battle, which is 'ell and 'eaven too; And if I don't give some poor bloke a sexton's job to do, To-night, by Fritz's campfire, won't I 'ave a gorgeous brew (For fightin' mustn't interfere with Tea). To-night we'll all be tellin' of the Boches that we slew, As we drink the giddy victory in Tea.

The Revelation

_The same old sprint in the morning, boys, to the same old din and smut; Chained all day to the same old desk, down in the same old rut; Posting the same old greasy books, catching the same old train: Oh, how will I manage to stick it all, if I ever get back again?_

We've bidden good-bye to life in a cage, we're finished with pushing a pen; They're pumping us full of bellicose rage, they're showing us how to be men. We're only beginning to find ourselves; we're wonders of brawn and thew; But when we go back to our Sissy jobs,--oh, what are we going to do?

For shoulders curved with the counter stoop will be carried erect and square; And faces white from the office light will be bronzed by the open air; And we'll walk with the stride of a new-born pride, with a new-found joy in our eyes, Scornful men who have diced with death under the naked skies.

And when we get back to the dreary grind, and the bald-headed boss's call, Don't you think that the dingy window-blind, and the dingier office wall, Will suddenly melt to a vision of space, of violent, flame-scarred night? Then . . . oh, the joy of the danger-thrill, and oh, the roar of the fight!

Don't you think as we peddle a card of pins the counter will fade away, And again we'll be seeing the sand-bag rims, and the barb-wire's misty grey? As a flat voice asks for a pound of tea, don't you fancy we'll hear instead The night-wind moan and the soothing drone of the packet that's overhead?

Don't you guess that the things we're seeing now will haunt us through all the years; Heaven and hell rolled into one, glory and blood and tears; Life's pattern picked with a scarlet thread, where once we wove with a grey To remind us all how we played our part in the shock of an epic day?

Oh, we're booked for the Great Adventure now, we're pledged to the Real Romance; We'll find ourselves or we'll lose ourselves somewhere in giddy old France; We'll know the zest of the fighter's life; the best that we have we'll give; We'll hunger and thirst; we'll die . . . but first-- we'll live; by the gods, we'll live!

We'll breathe free air and we'll bivouac under the starry sky; We'll march with men and we'll fight with men, and we'll see men laugh and die; We'll know such joy as we never dreamed; we'll fathom the deeps of pain: But the hardest bit of it all will be--when we come back home again.

_For some of us smirk in a chiffon shop, and some of us teach in a school; Some of us help with the seat of our pants to polish an office stool; The merits of somebody's soap or jam some of us seek to explain, But all of us wonder what we'll do when we have to go back again._

Grand-père

And so when he reached my bed The General made a stand: "My brave young fellow," he said, "I would shake your hand."

So I lifted my arm, the right, With never a hand at all; Only a stump, a sight Fit to appal.

"Well, well. Now that's too bad! That's sorrowful luck," he said; "But there! You give me, my lad, The left instead."

So from under the blanket's rim I raised and showed him the other, A snag as ugly and grim As its ugly brother.

He looked at each jagged wrist; He looked, but he did not speak; And then he bent down and kissed Me on either cheek.

You wonder now I don't mind I hadn't a hand to offer. . . . They tell me (you know I'm blind) _'TWAS GRAND-PEÈRE JOFFRE._

Son

He hurried away, young heart of joy, under our Devon sky! And I watched him go, my beautiful boy, and a weary woman was I. For my hair is grey, and his was gold; he'd the best of his life to live; And I'd loved him so, and I'm old, I'm old; and he's all I had to give.

Ah yes, he was proud and swift and gay, but oh how my eyes were dim! With the sun in his heart he went away, but he took the sun with him. For look! How the leaves are falling now, and the winter won't be long. . . . Oh boy, my boy with the sunny brow, and the lips of love and of song!

How we used to sit at the day's sweet end, we two by the firelight's gleam, And we'd drift to the Valley of Let's Pretend, on the beautiful river of Dream. Oh dear little heart! All wealth untold would I gladly, gladly pay Could I just for a moment closely hold that golden head to my grey.

For I gaze in the fire, and I'm seeing there a child, and he waves to me; And I run and I hold him up in the air, and he laughs and shouts with glee; A little bundle of love and mirth, crying: "Come, Mumsie dear!" Ah me! If he called from the ends of the earth I know that my heart would hear.

. . . . .

Yet the thought comes thrilling through all my pain: how worthier could he die? Yea, a loss like that is a glorious gain, and pitiful proud am I. For Peace must be bought with blood and tears, and the boys of our hearts must pay; And so in our joy of the after-years, let us bless them every day.

And though I know there's a hasty grave with a poor little cross at its head, And the gold of his youth he so gladly gave, yet to me he'll never be dead. And the sun in my Devon lane will be gay, and my boy will be with me still, So I'm finding the heart to smile and say: "Oh God, if it be Thy Will!"

The Black Dudeen

_Humping it here in the dug-out, Sucking me black dudeen, I'd like to say in a general way, There's nothing like Nickyteen; There's nothing like Nickyteen, me boys, Be it pipes or snipes or cigars; So be sure that a bloke Has plenty to smoke, If you wants him to fight your wars._

When I've eat my fill and my belt is snug, I begin to think of my baccy plug. I whittle a fill in my horny palm, And the bowl of me old clay pipe I cram. I trim the edges, I tamp it down, I nurse a light with an anxious frown; I begin to draw, and my cheeks tuck in, And all my face is a blissful grin; And up in a cloud the good smoke goes, And the good pipe glimmers and fades and glows; In its throat it chuckles a cheery song, For I likes it hot and I likes it strong. Oh, it's good is grub when you're feeling hollow, But the best of a meal's the smoke to follow.

There was Micky and me on a night patrol, Having to hide in a fizz-bang hole; And sure I thought I was worse than dead Wi' them crump-crumps hustlin' over me head. Sure I thought 'twas the dirty spot, Hammer and tongs till the air was hot. And mind you, water up to your knees. And cold! A monkey of brass would freeze. And if we ventured our noses out A "typewriter" clattered its pills about. The field of glory! Well, I don't think! I'd sooner be safe and snug in clink.

Then Micky, he goes and he cops one bad, He always was having ill-luck, poor lad. Says he: "Old chummy, I'm booked right through; Death and me 'as a wrongday voo. But . . . 'aven't you got a pinch of shag?-- I'd sell me perishin' soul for a fag." And there he shivered and cussed his luck, So I gave him me old black pipe to suck. And he heaves a sigh, and he takes to it Like a babby takes to his mammy's tit; Like an infant takes to his mother's breast, Poor little Micky! he went to rest.

But the dawn was near, though the night was black, So I left him there and I started back. And I laughed as the silly old bullets came, For the bullet ain't made wot's got me name. Yet some of 'em buzzed onhealthily near, And one little blighter just chipped me ear. But there! I got to the trench all right, When sudden I jumped wi' a start o' fright, And a word that doesn't look well in type: _I'D CLEAN FORGOTTEN ME OLD CLAY PIPE._

So I had to do it all over again, Crawling out on that filthy plain. Through shells and bombs and bullets and all-- Only this time--I do not crawl. I run like a man wot's missing a train, Or a tom-cat caught in a plump of rain. I hear the spit of a quick-fire gun Tickle my heels, but I run, I run.

Through crash and crackle, and flicker and flame, (Oh, the packet ain't issued wot's got me name!) I run like a man that's no ideer Of hunting around for a sooveneer. I run bang into a German chap, And he stares like an owl, so I bash his map. And just to show him that I'm his boss, I gives him a kick on the parados. And I marches him back with me all serene, With, _TUCKED IN ME GUB, ME OLD DUDEEN._

_Sitting here in the trenches Me heart's a-splittin' with spleen, For a parcel o' lead comes missing me head, But it smashes me old dudeen. God blast that red-headed sniper! I'll give him somethin' to snipe; Before the war's through Just see how I do That blighter that smashed me pipe._

The Little Piou-piou

* The French "Tommy".

Oh, some of us lolled in the chateau, And some of us slinked in the slum; But now we are here with a song and a cheer To serve at the sign of the drum. They put us in trousers of scarlet, In big sloppy ulsters of blue; In boots that are flat, a box of a hat, And they call us the little piou-piou, Piou-piou, The laughing and quaffing piou-piou, The swinging and singing piou-piou; And so with a rattle we march to the battle, The weary but cheery piou-piou.

_Encore un petit verre de vin, Pour nous mettre en route; Encore un petit verre de vin Pour nous mettre en train._

They drive us head-on for the slaughter; We haven't got much of a chance; The issue looks bad, but we're awfully glad To battle and die for La France. For some must be killed, that is certain; There's only one's duty to do; So we leap to the fray in the glorious way They expect of the little piou-piou. En avant! The way of the gallant piou-piou, The dashing and smashing piou-piou; The way grim and gory that leads us to glory Is the way of the little piou-piou.

_Allons, enfants de la Patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrivé._

To-day you would scarce recognise us, Such veterans war-wise are we; So grimy and hard, so calloused and scarred, So "crummy", yet gay as can be. We've finished with trousers of scarlet, They're giving us breeches of blue, With a helmet instead of a cap on our head, Yet still we're the little piou-piou. Nous les aurons! The jesting, unresting piou-piou; The cheering, unfearing piou-piou; The keep-your-head-level and fight-like-the-devil; The dying, defying piou-piou.

_À la bayonette! Jusqu'à la mort! Sonnez la charge, clairons!_

Bill the Bomber