Chapter 5

The poppies gleamed like bloody pools through cotton-woolly mist; The Captain kept a-lookin' at the watch upon his wrist; And there we smoked and squatted, as we watched the shrapnel flame; 'Twas wonnerful, I'm tellin' you, how fast them bullets came. 'Twas weary work the waiting, though; I tried to sleep a wink, For waitin' means a-thinkin', and it doesn't do to think. So I closed my eyes a little, and I had a niceish dream Of a-standin' by a dresser with a dish of Devon cream; But I hadn't time to sample it, for suddenlike I woke: "Come on, me lads!" the Captain says, 'n I climbed out through the smoke.

We spread out in the open: it was like a bath of lead; But the boys they cheered and hollered fit to raise the bloody dead, Till a beastly bullet copped 'em, then they lay without a sound, And it's odd--we didn't seem to heed them corpses on the ground. And I kept on thinkin', thinkin', as the bullets faster flew, How they picks the werry best men, and they lets the rotters through; So indiscriminatin' like, they spares a man of sin, And a rare lad wot's a husband and a father gets done in. And while havin' these reflections and advancin' on the run, A bullet biffs me shoulder, and says I: "That's number one."

Well, it downed me for a jiffy, but I didn't lose me calm, For I knew that I was needed: I'm a bomber, so I am. I 'ad lost me cap and rifle, but I "carried on" because I 'ad me bombs and knew that they was needed, so they was. We didn't 'ave no singin' now, nor many men to cheer; Maybe the shrapnel drowned 'em, crashin' out so werry near; And the Maxims got us sideways, and the bullets faster flew, And I copped one on me flipper, and says I: "That's number two."

I was pleased it was the left one, for I 'ad me bombs, ye see, And 'twas 'ard if they'd be wasted like, and all along o' me. And I'd lost me 'at and rifle--but I told you that before, So I packed me mit inside me coat and "carried on" once more. But the rumpus it was wicked, and the men were scarcer yet, And I felt me ginger goin', but me jaws I kindo set, And we passed the Boche first trenches, which was 'eapin' 'igh with dead, And we started for their second, which was fifty feet ahead; When something like a 'ammer smashed me savage on the knee, And down I came all muck and blood: Says I: "That's number three."

So there I lay all 'elpless like, and bloody sick at that, And worryin' like anythink, because I'd lost me 'at; And thinkin' of me missis, and the partin' words she said: "If you gets killed, write quick, ol' man, and tell me as you're dead." And lookin' at me bunch o' bombs--that was the 'ardest blow, To think I'd never 'ave the chance to 'url them at the foe. And there was all our boys in front, a-fightin' there like mad, And me as could 'ave 'elped 'em wiv the lovely bombs I 'ad. And so I cussed and cussed, and then I struggled back again, Into that bit of battered trench, packed solid with its slain.

Now as I lay a-lyin' there and blastin' of me lot, And wishin' I could just dispose of all them bombs I'd got, I sees within the doorway of a shy, retirin' dug-out Six Boches all a-grinnin', and their Captain stuck 'is mug out; And they 'ad a nice machine gun, and I twigged what they was at; And they fixed it on a tripod, and I watched 'em like a cat; And they got it in position, and they seemed so werry glad, Like they'd got us in a death-trap, which, condemn their souls! they 'ad. For there our boys was fightin' fifty yards in front, and 'ere This lousy bunch of Boches they 'ad got us in the rear.

Oh it set me blood a-boilin' and I quite forgot me pain, So I started crawlin', crawlin' over all them mounds of slain; And them barstards was so busy-like they 'ad no eyes for me, And me bleedin' leg was draggin', but me right arm it was free. . . . And now they 'ave it all in shape, and swingin' sweet and clear; And now they're all excited like, but--I am drawin' near; And now they 'ave it loaded up, and now they're takin' aim. . . . Rat-tat-tat-tat! Oh here, says I, is where I join the game. And my right arm it goes swingin', and a bomb it goes a-slingin', And that "typewriter" goes wingin' in a thunderbolt of flame.

Then these Boches, wot was left of 'em, they tumbled down their 'ole, And up I climbed a mound of dead, and down on them I stole. And oh that blessed moment when I heard their frightened yell, And I laughed down in that dug-out, ere I bombed their souls to hell. And now I'm in the hospital, surprised that I'm alive; We started out a thousand men, we came back thirty-five. And I'm minus of a trotter, but I'm most amazin' gay, For me bombs they wasn't wasted, though, you might say, "thrown away".

The Whistle of Sandy McGraw

You may talk o' your lutes and your dulcimers fine, Your harps and your tabors and cymbals and a', But here in the trenches jist gie me for mine The wee penny whistle o' Sandy McGraw. Oh, it's: "Sandy, ma lad, will you lilt us a tune?" And Sandy is willin' and trillin' like mad; Sae silvery sweet that we a' throng aroun', And some o' it's gay, but the maist o' it's sad. Jist the wee simple airs that sink intae your hert, And grup ye wi' love and wi' longin' for hame; And ye glour like an owl till you're feelin' the stert O' a tear, and you blink wi' a feelin' o' shame. For his song's o' the heather, and here in the dirt You listen and dream o' a land that's sae braw, And he mak's you forget a' the harm and the hurt, For he pipes like a laverock, does Sandy McGraw.

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At Eepers I mind me when rank upon rank We rose from the trenches and swept like the gale, Till the rapid-fire guns got us fell on the flank And the murderin' bullets came swishin' like hail: Till a' that were left o' us faltered and broke; Till it seemed for a moment a panicky rout, When shrill through the fume and the flash and the smoke The wee valiant voice o' a whistle piped out. 'The Campbells are Comin'': Then into the fray We bounded wi' bayonets reekin' and raw, And oh we fair revelled in glory that day, Jist thanks to the whistle o' Sandy McGraw.

. . . . .

At Loose, it wis after a sconnersome fecht, On the field o' the slain I wis crawlin' aboot; And the rockets were burnin' red holes in the nicht; And the guns they were veciously thunderin' oot; When sudden I heard a bit sound like a sigh, And there in a crump-hole a kiltie I saw: "Whit ails ye, ma lad? Are ye woundit?" says I. "I've lost ma wee whustle," says Sandy McGraw. "'Twas oot by yon bing where we pressed the attack, It drapped frae ma pooch, and between noo and dawn There isna much time so I'm jist crawlin' back. . . ." "Ye're daft, man!" I telt him, but Sandy wis gone.

Weel, I waited a wee, then I crawled oot masel, And the big stuff wis gorin' and roarin' around, And I seemed tae be under the oxter o' hell, And Creation wis crackin' tae bits by the sound. And I says in ma mind: "Gang ye back, ye auld fule!" When I thrilled tae a note that wis saucy and sma'; And there in a crater, collected and cool, Wi' his wee penny whistle wis Sandy McGraw. Ay, there he wis playin' as gleg as could be, And listenin' hard wis a spectacled Boche; Then Sandy turned roon' and he noddit tae me, And he says: "Dinna blab on me, Sergeant McTosh. The auld chap is deein'. He likes me tae play. It's makin' him happy. Jist see his een shine!" And thrillin' and sweet in the hert o' the fray Wee Sandy wis playin' 'The Watch on the Rhine'.

. . . . .

The last scene o' a'--'twas the day that we took That bit o' black ruin they ca' Labbiesell. It seemed the hale hillside jist shivered and shook, And the red skies were roarin' and spewin' oot shell. And the Sergeants were cursin' tae keep us in hand, And hard on the leash we were strainin' like dugs, When upward we shot at the word o' command, And the bullets were dingin' their songs in oor lugs. And onward we swept wi' a yell and a cheer, And a' wis destruction, confusion and din, And we knew that the trench o' the Boches wis near, And it seemed jist the safest bit hole tae be in. So we a' tumbled doon, and the Boches were there, And they held up their hands, and they yelled: "Kamarad!" And I merched aff wi' ten, wi' their palms in the air, And my! I wis prood-like, and my! I wis glad. And I thocht: if ma lassie could see me jist then. . . . When sudden I sobered at somethin' I saw, And I stopped and I stared, and I halted ma men, For there on a stretcher wis Sandy McGraw.

Weel, he looks in ma face, jist as game as ye please: "Ye ken hoo I hate tae be workin'," says he; "But noo I can play in the street for bawbees, Wi' baith o' ma legs taken aff at the knee." And though I could see he wis rackit wi' pain, He reached for his whistle and stertit tae play; And quaverin' sweet wis the pensive refrain: 'The floors o' the forest are a' wede away'. Then sudden he stoppit: "Man, wis it no grand Hoo we took a' them trenches?" . . . He shakit his heid: "I'll--no--play--nae--mair----" feebly doon frae his hand Slipped the wee penny whistle and--_SANDY WIS DEID._

. . . . .

And so you may talk o' your Steinways and Strads, Your wonderful organs and brasses sae braw; But oot in the trenches jist gie me, ma lads, Yon wee penny whistle o' Sandy McGraw.

The Stretcher-Bearer

My stretcher is one scarlet stain, And as I tries to scrape it clean, I tell you wot--I'm sick with pain For all I've 'eard, for all I've seen; Around me is the 'ellish night, And as the war's red rim I trace, I wonder if in 'Eaven's height, Our God don't turn away 'Is Face.

I don't care 'oose the Crime may be; I 'olds no brief for kin or clan; I 'ymns no 'ate: I only see As man destroys his brother man; I waves no flag: I only know, As 'ere beside the dead I wait, A million 'earts is weighed with woe, A million 'omes is desolate.

In drippin' darkness, far and near, All night I've sought them woeful ones. Dawn shudders up and still I 'ear The crimson chorus of the guns. Look! like a ball of blood the sun 'Angs o'er the scene of wrath and wrong. . . . "Quick! Stretcher-bearers on the run!" _O PRINCE OF PEACE! 'OW LONG, 'OW LONG?_

Wounded

Is it not strange? A year ago to-day, With scarce a thought beyond the hum-drum round, I did my decent job and earned my pay; Was averagely happy, I'll be bound. Ay, in my little groove I was content, Seeing my life run smoothly to the end, With prosy days in stolid labour spent, And jolly nights, a pipe, a glass, a friend. In God's good time a hearth fire's cosy gleam, A wife and kids, and all a fellow needs; When presto! like a bubble goes my dream: I leap upon the Stage of Splendid Deeds. I yell with rage; I wallow deep in gore: I, that was clerk in a drysalter's store.

Stranger than any book I've ever read. Here on the reeking battlefield I lie, Under the stars, propped up with smeary dead, Like too, if no one takes me in, to die. Hit on the arms, legs, liver, lungs and gall; Damn glad there's nothing more of me to hit; But calm, and feeling never pain at all, And full of wonder at the turn of it. For of the dead around me three are mine, Three foemen vanquished in the whirl of fight; So if I die I have no right to whine, I feel I've done my little bit all right. I don't know how--but there the beggars are, As dead as herrings pickled in a jar.

And here am I, worse wounded than I thought; For in the fight a bullet bee-like stings; You never heed; the air is metal-hot, And all alive with little flicking wings. _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ You see the fellows fall; Your pal was by your side, fair fighting-mad; You turn to him, and lo! no pal at all; You wonder vaguely if he's copped it bad. _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ The heavens vomit death; And vicious death is besoming the ground. You're blind with sweat; you're dazed, and out of breath, And though you yell, you cannot hear a sound. _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ Oh, War's a rousing game! Around you smoky clouds like ogres tower; The earth is rowelled deep with spurs of flame, And on your helmet stones and ashes shower. _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ It's odd! You have no fear. Machine-gun bullets whip and lash your path; Red, yellow, black the smoky giants rear; The shrapnel rips, the heavens roar in wrath. _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ Barbed wire all trampled down. The ground all gored and rent as by a blast; Grim heaps of grey where once were heaps of brown; A ragged ditch--the Hun first line at last. All smashed to hell. Their second right ahead, _SO ON YOU CHARGE._ There's nothing else to do. More reeking holes, blood, barbed wire, gruesome dead; (Your puttee strap's undone--that worries you). You glare around. You think you're all alone. But no; your chums come surging left and right. The nearest chap flops down without a groan, His face still snarling with the rage of fight. Ha! here's the second trench--just like the first, Only a little more so, more "laid out"; More pounded, flame-corroded, death-accurst; A pretty piece of work, beyond a doubt. Now for the third, and there your job is done, _SO ON YOU CHARGE._ You never stop to think. Your cursed puttee's trailing as you run; You feel you'd sell your soul to have a drink. The acrid air is full of cracking whips. You wonder how it is you're going still. You foam with rage. Oh, God! to be at grips With someone you can rush and crush and kill. Your sleeve is dripping blood; you're seeing red; You're battle-mad; your turn is coming now. See! there's the jagged barbed wire straight ahead, And there's the trench--you'll get there anyhow. Your puttee catches on a strand of wire, And down you go; perhaps it saves your life, For over sandbag rims you see 'em fire, Crop-headed chaps, their eyes ablaze with strife. You crawl, you cower; then once again you plunge With all your comrades roaring at your heels. _HAVE AT 'EM, LADS!_ You stab, you jab, you lunge; A blaze of glory, then the red world reels. A crash of triumph, then . . . you're faint a bit . . . That cursed puttee! Now to fasten it. . . .

Well, that's the charge. And now I'm here alone. I've built a little wall of Hun on Hun, To shield me from the leaden bees that drone (It saves me worry, and it hurts 'em none). The only thing I'm wondering is when Some stretcher-men will stroll along my way? It isn't much that's left of me, but then Where life is, hope is, so at least they say. Well, if I'm spared I'll be the happy lad. I tell you I won't envy any king. I've stood the racket, and I'm proud and glad; I've had my crowning hour. Oh, War's the thing! It gives us common, working chaps our chance, A taste of glory, chivalry, romance.

Ay, War, they say, is hell; it's heaven, too. It lets a man discover what he's worth. It takes his measure, shows what he can do, Gives him a joy like nothing else on earth. It fans in him a flame that otherwise Would flicker out, these drab, discordant days; It teaches him in pain and sacrifice Faith, fortitude, grim courage past all praise. Yes, War is good. So here beside my slain, A happy wreck I wait amid the din; For even if I perish mine's the gain. . . . Hi, there, you fellows! WON'T you take me in? Give me a fag to smoke upon the way. . . . We've taken La Boiselle! The hell, you say! Well, that would make a corpse sit up and grin. . . . Lead on! I'll live to fight another day.

Faith

Since all that is was ever bound to be; Since grim, eternal laws our Being bind; And both the riddle and the answer find, And both the carnage and the calm decree; Since plain within the Book of Destiny Is written all the journey of mankind Inexorably to the end; since blind And mortal puppets playing parts are we:

Then let's have faith; good cometh out of ill; The power that shaped the strife shall end the strife; Then let's bow down before the Unknown Will; Fight on, believing all is well with life; Seeing within the worst of War's red rage The gleam, the glory of the Golden Age.

The Coward

'Ave you seen Bill's mug in the Noos to-day? 'E's gyned the Victoriar Cross, they say; Little Bill wot would grizzle and run away, If you 'it 'im a swipe on the jawr. 'E's slaughtered the Kaiser's men in tons; 'E's captured one of their quick-fire guns, And 'e 'adn't no practice in killin' 'Uns Afore 'e went off to the war.

Little Bill wot I nussed in 'is by-by clothes; Little Bill wot told me 'is childish woes; 'Ow often I've tidied 'is pore little nose Wiv the 'em of me pinnyfore. And now all the papers 'is praises ring, And 'e's been and 'e's shaken the 'and of the King And I sawr 'im to-day in the ward, pore thing, Where they're patchin' 'im up once more.

And 'e says: "Wot d'ye think of it, Lizer Ann?" And I says: "Well, I can't make it out, old man; You'd 'ook it as soon as a scrap began, When you was a bit of a kid." And 'e whispers: "'Ere, on the quiet, Liz, They're makin' too much of the 'ole damn biz, And the papers is printin' me ugly phiz, But . . . I'm 'anged if I know wot I did.

"Oh, the Captain comes and 'e says: 'Look 'ere! They're far too quiet out there: it's queer. They're up to somethin'--'oo'll volunteer To crawl in the dark and see?' Then I felt me 'eart like a 'ammer go, And up jumps a chap and 'e says: 'Right O!' But I chips in straight, and I says 'Oh no! 'E's a missis and kids--take me.'

"And the next I knew I was sneakin' out, And the oozy corpses was all about, And I felt so scared I wanted to shout, And me skin fair prickled wiv fear; And I sez: 'You coward! You 'ad no right To take on the job of a man this night,' Yet still I kept creepin' till ('orrid sight!) The trench of the 'Uns was near.

"It was all so dark, it was all so still; Yet somethin' pushed me against me will; 'Ow I wanted to turn! Yet I crawled until I was seein' a dim light shine. Then thinks I: 'I'll just go a little bit, And see wot the doose I can make of it,' And it seemed to come from the mouth of a pit: 'Christmas!' sez I, 'a _MINE.'_

"Then 'ere's the part wot I can't explain: I wanted to make for 'ome again, But somethin' was blazin' inside me brain, So I crawled to the trench instead; Then I saw the bullet 'ead of a 'Un, And 'e stood by a rapid-firer gun, And I lifted a rock and I 'it 'im one, And 'e dropped like a chunk o' lead.

"Then all the 'Uns that was underground, Comes up with a rush and on with a bound, And I swings that giddy old Maxim round And belts 'em solid and square. You see I was off me chump wiv fear: 'If I'm sellin' me life,' sez I, 'it's dear.' And the trench was narrow and they was near, So I peppered the brutes for fair.

"So I 'eld 'em back and I yelled wiv fright, And the boys attacked and we 'ad a fight, And we 'captured a section o' trench' that night Which we didn't expect to get; And they found me there with me Maxim gun, And I'd laid out a score if I'd laid out one, And I fainted away when the thing was done, And I 'aven't got over it yet."

So that's the 'istory Bill told me. Of course it's all on the strict Q. T.; It wouldn't do to get out, you see, As 'e hacted against 'is will. But 'e's convalescin' wiv all 'is might, And 'e 'opes to be fit for another fight-- Say! Ain't 'e a bit of the real all right? Wot's the matter with Bill!

Missis Moriarty's Boy

Missis Moriarty called last week, and says she to me, says she: "Sure the heart of me's broken entirely now-- it's the fortunate woman you are; You've still got your Dinnis to cheer up your home, but me Patsy boy where is he? Lyin' alone, cold as a stone, kilt in the weariful wahr. Oh, I'm seein' him now as I looked on him last, wid his hair all curly and bright, And the wonderful, tenderful heart he had, and his eyes as he wint away, Shinin' and lookin' down on me from the pride of his proper height: Sure I'll remember me boy like that if I live to me dyin' day."

And just as she spoke them very same words me Dinnis came in at the door, Came in from McGonigle's ould shebeen, came in from drinkin' his pay; And Missis Moriarty looked at him, and she didn't say anny more, But she wrapped her head in her ould black shawl, and she quietly wint away. And what was I thinkin', I ask ye now, as I put me Dinnis to bed, Wid him ravin' and cursin' one half of the night, as cold by his side I sat; Was I thinkin' the poor ould woman she was wid her Patsy slaughtered and dead? Was I weepin' for Missis Moriarty? I'm not so sure about that.

Missis Moriarty goes about wid a shinin' look on her face; Wid her grey hair under her ould black shawl, and the eyes of her mother-mild; Some say she's a little bit off her head; but annyway it's the case, Her timper's so swate that you nivver would tell she'd be losin' her only child. And I think, as I wait up ivery night for me Dinnis to come home blind, And I'm hearin' his stumblin' foot on the stair along about half-past three: Sure there's many a way of breakin' a heart, and I haven't made up me mind-- Would I be Missis Moriarty, or Missis Moriarty me?

My Foe

A Belgian Priest-Soldier Speaks:--

_GURR!_ You 'cochon'! Stand and fight! Show your mettle! Snarl and bite! Spawn of an accursed race, Turn and meet me face to face! Here amid the wreck and rout Let us grip and have it out! Here where ruins rock and reel Let us settle, steel to steel! Look! Our houses, how they spit Sparks from brands your friends have lit. See! Our gutters running red, Bright with blood your friends have shed. Hark! Amid your drunken brawl How our maidens shriek and call. Why have _YOU_ come here alone, To this hearth's blood-spattered stone? Come to ravish, come to loot, Come to play the ghoulish brute. Ah, indeed! We well are met, Bayonet to bayonet. God! I never killed a man: Now I'll do the best I can. Rip you to the evil heart, Laugh to see the life-blood start. Bah! You swine! I hate you so. Show you mercy? No! . . . and no! . . .

There! I've done it. See! He lies Death a-staring from his eyes; Glazing eyeballs, panting breath, How it's horrible, is Death! Plucking at his bloody lips With his trembling finger-tips; Choking in a dreadful way As if he would something say In that uncouth tongue of his. . . . Oh, how horrible Death is!

How I wish that he would die! So unnerved, unmanned am I. See! His twitching face is white! See! His bubbling blood is bright. Why do I not shout with glee? What strange spell is over me? There he lies; the fight was fair; Let me toss my cap in air. Why am I so silent? Why Do I pray for him to die? Where is all my vengeful joy? Ugh! _MY FOE IS BUT A BOY._

I'd a brother of his age Perished in the war's red rage; Perished in the Ypres hell: Oh, I loved my brother well. And though I be hard and grim, How it makes me think of him! He had just such flaxen hair As the lad that's lying there. Just such frank blue eyes were his. . . . God! How horrible war is!

I have reason to be gay: There is one less foe to slay. I have reason to be glad: Yet--my foe is such a lad. So I watch in dull amaze, See his dying eyes a-glaze, See his face grow glorified, See his hands outstretched and wide To that bit of ruined wall Where the flames have ceased to crawl, Where amid the crumbling bricks Hangs _A BLACKENED CRUCIFIX._

Now, oh now I understand. Quick I press it in his hand, Close his feeble finger-tips, Hold it to his faltering lips. As I watch his welling blood I would stem it if I could. God of Pity, let him live! God of Love, forgive, forgive.

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