Part 1
THE JUDGEMENT OF VALHALLA
BY GILBERT FRANKAU
NEW YORK FEDERAL PRINTING COMPANY 1918
Copyright, 1918 GILBERT FRANKAU
_All rights reserved_
The Judgement of Valhalla
BY GILBERT FRANKAU
_THE DESERTER_
“I’m sorry I done it, Major.” We bandaged the livid face; And led him out, ere the wan sun rose, To die his death of disgrace.
The bolt-heads locked to the cartridge; The rifles steadied to rest, As cold stock nestled at colder cheek And foresight lined on the breast.
“_Fire!_” called the Sergeant-Major. The muzzles flamed as he spoke: And the shameless soul of a nameless man Went up in the cordite-smoke.
_THE EYE AND THE TRUTH_
Up from the fret of the earth-world, through the Seven Circles of Flame, With the seven holes in Its tunic for sign of the death-in-shame, To the little gate of Valhalla the coward-spirit came.
Cold, It crouched in the man-strong wind that sweeps Valhalla’s floor; Weak, It pawed and scratched on the wood; and howled, like a dog, at the Door Which is shut to the souls who are sped in shame, for ever and evermore:
For It snuffed the Meat of the Banquet-boards where the Threefold Killers sit, Where the Free Beer foams to the tankard-rim, and the Endless Smokes are lit.... And It saw the Nakéd Eye come out above the lintel-slit.
And now It quailed at Nakéd Eye which judges the naked dead; And now It snarled at Nakéd Truth that broodeth overhead; And now It looked to the earth below where the gun-flames flickered red.
It muttered words It had learned on earth, the words of a black-coat priest Who had bade It pray to a pulpit god--but ever Eye’s Wrath increased; And It knew that Its words were empty words, and It whined like a homeless beast:
Till, black above the lintel-slit, the Nakéd Eye went out; Till, loud across the Killer-Feasts, It heard the Killer-Shout-- The three-fold song of them that slew, and died ... and had no doubt.
_THE SONG OF THE RED-EDGED STEEL_
_Below your black priest’s heaven, Above his tinselled hell, Beyond the Circles Seven, The Red-Steel Killers dwell-- The men who drave, to blade-ring home, behind the marching shell._
We knew not good nor evil, Save only right of blade; Yet neither god nor devil Could hold us from our trade, When once we watched the barrage lift, and splendidly afraid
Came scrambling out of cover, And staggered up the hill.... The bullets whistled over; Our sudden dead lay still; And the mad machine-gun chatter drove us fighting-wild to kill.
Then the death-light lit our faces, And the death-mist floated red O’er the crimson cratered places Where his outposts crouched in dread.... And we stabbed or clubbed them as they crouched; and shot them as they fled;
And floundered, torn and bleeding, Over trenches, through the wire, With the shrapnel-barrage leading To the prey of our desire-- To the men who rose to meet us from the blood-soaked battle-mire;
Met them; gave and asked no quarter; But, where we saw the Gray, Plunged the edged steel of slaughter, Stabbed home, and wrenched away.... Till red wrists tired of killing-work, and none were left to slay.
Now--while his fresh battalions Moved up to the attack-- Screaming like angry stallions, His shells came charging back, And stamped the ground with thunder-hooves and pawed it spouting-black
And breathed down poison-stenches Upon us, leaping past.... Panting, we turned his trenches; And heard--each time we cast From parapet to parados--the scything bullet-blast.
Till the whistle told his coming; Till we flung away the pick, Heard our Lewis guns’ crazed drumming, Grabbed our rifles, sighted quick, Fired ... and watched his wounded writhing back from where his dead lay thick.
So we laboured--while we lasted: Soaked in rain or parched in sun; Bullet-riddled; fire-blasted; Poisoned: fodder for the gun: So we perished, and our bodies rotted in the ground they won.
It heard the song of the First of the Dead, as It couched by the lintel-post; And the coward-soul would have given Its soul to be back with the Red-Steel host.... But Eye peered down; and It quailed at the Eye; and Nakéd Truth said: “Lost.”
And Eye went out. But It might not move; for, droned in the dark, It heard The Second Song of the Killer-men--word upon awful word Cleaving the void with a shrill, keen sound like the wings of a pouncing bird.
_THE SONG OF THE CRASHING WING_
_Higher than tinselled heaven, Lower than angels dare, Loop to the fray, swoop on their prey, The Killers of the Air._
We scorned the Galilean, We mocked at Kingdom-Come: The old gods knew our pæan-- Our dawn-loud engine-hum:
The old red gods of slaughter, The gods before the Jew! We heard their cruel laughter, Shrill round us, as we flew:
When, deaf to earth and pity, Blind to the guns beneath, We loosed upon the city Our downward-plunging death.
The Sun-God watched our flighting; No Christian priest could tame Our deathly stuttered fighting:-- The whirled drum, spitting flame;
The roar, of blades behind her; The banking plane up-tossed; The swerve that sought to blind her; Masked faces, glimpsed and lost;
The joy-stick wrenched to guide her; The swift and saving zoom, What time the shape beside her Went spinning to its doom.
No angel-wings might follow Where, poised behind the fray, We spied our Lord Apollo Stoop down to mark his prey--
The hidden counter-forces; The guns upon the road; The tethered transport-horses, Stampeding, as we showed--
Dun hawks of death, loud-roaring-- A moment to their eyes: And slew; and passed far-soaring; And dwindled up the skies.
But e’en Apollo’s pinions Had faltered where we ran, Low through his veiled dominions, To lead the charging van!
The tree-tops slathered under; The Red-Steel Killers knew, Hard overhead, the thunder And backwash of her screw;
The blurred clouds raced above her; The blurred fields streaked below, Where waited, crouched to cover, The foremost of our foe;
Banking, we saw his furrows Leap at us, open wide: Hell-raked the man-packed burrows; And crashed--and crashing, died.
It heard the song of the Dead in Air, as It huddled against the gate; And once again the Eye peered down--red-rimmed with scorn and hate For the shameless soul of the nameless one who had neither foe nor mate.
And Eye was shut. But Nakéd Truth bent down to mock the Thing:-- “Thou hast heard the Song of the Red-edged Steel, and the Song of the Crashing Wing: Shall the word of a black-coat priest avail at Valhalla’s harvesting?
Shalt _thou_ pass free to the Seven Halls--whose life in shame was sped?” And Truth was dumb. But the brooding word still echoed overhead, As roaring down the void outburst the last loud song of the dead.
_THE SONG OF THE GUNNER-DEAD_
_In Thor’s own red Valhalla, Which priest may not unbar; But only Nakéd Truth and Eye, Last arbiters of War; Feast, by stark right of courage, The Killers from Afar._
We put no trust in heaven, We had no fear of hell; But lined, and ranged, and timed to clock, Our barrage-curtains fell, When guns gave tongue and breech-blocks swung And palms rammed home the shell.
The Red-Steel ranks edged forward, And vanished in our smoke; Back from his churning craters, The Gray Man reeled and broke; While, fast as sweat could lay and set, Our rocking muzzles spoke.
We blew him from the village; We chased him through the wood: Till, tiny on the crest-line Where once his trenches stood, We watched the wag of sending flag That told our work was good:
Till, red behind the branches, The death-sun sank to blood; And the Red-Steel Killers rested.... But we, by swamp and flood, Through mirk and night--his shells for light-- Blaspheming, choked with mud,
Roped to the tilting axles, Man-handled up the crest; And wrenched our plunging gun-teams Foam-flecked from jowl to breast, Downwards, and on, where trench-lights shone-- For _we_, we might not rest!
Shell-deafened; soaked and sleepless; Short-handed; under fire; Days upon nights unending, We wrought, and dared not tire-- With whip and bit from dump to pit, From pit to trench with wire.
The Killers in the Open, The Killers down the Wind, They saw the Gray Man eye to eye-- But _we_, we fought him blind, Nor knew whence came the screaming flame That killed us, miles behind.
Yet, when the triple rockets Flew skyward, blazed and paled, For sign the lines were broken; When the Red Steel naught availed; When, through the smoke, on shield and spoke His rifle bullets hailed;
When we waited, dazed and hopeless, Till the layer’s eye could trace Helmets, bobbing just above us Like mad jockeys in a race.... Then--loaded, laid, and unafraid, We met him face to face;
Jerked the trigger; felt the trunnions Rock and quiver; saw the flail Of our zero-fuses blast him; Saw his gapping ranks turn tail; Heard the charging-cheer behind us ... And dropped dead across the trail.
_VALHALLA’S VERDICT_
It heard the Song of the Gunner-Dead die out to a sullen roar: But Nakéd Truth said never a word; and Eye peered down no more. For Eye had seen; and Truth had judged ... and It might not pass the Door!
And now, like a dog in the dark, It shrank from the voice of a man It knew:-- “There are empty seats at the Banquet-board, but there’s never a seat for you; For they will not drink with a coward soul, the stark red men who slew.
There’s meat and to spare, at the Killer-Feasts where Thor’s swung hammer twirls; There’s beer and enough, in the Free Canteen where the Endless Smoke upcurls; There are lips and lips, for the Killer-Men, in the Hall of the Dancing-Girls.
There’s a place for any that passes clean--but for you there’s never a place: The Endless Smoke would blacken your lips, and the Girls would spit in your face; And the Beer and the Meat go sour on your guts--for you died the death of disgrace.
We were pals on earth: but by God’s brave Son and the bomb that I reached too late, I damn the day and I blast the hour when first I called you mate; And I’d sell my soul for one of my feet, to hack you from the gate--
To hack you hence to the lukewarm hells that the priest-made ovens heat, Or the faked-pearl heaven of pulpit gods, where the sheep-faced angels bleat And the halo’s rim is as hard to the head as the gilded floor to the feet.”
* * * * *
It heard the stumps of Its one-time mate go waddling back to the Feast. And, once and again, It whined for the Meat; ere It slunk, like a tongue-lashed beast, To the tinselled heaven of pulpit gods and the tinselled hell of their priest.
Aimée
_WIFE AND COUNTRY_
Dear, let me thank you for this: That you made me remember, in fight, England--all mine at your kiss, At the touch of your hands in the night: England--your giving’s delight.
_MOTHER AND MATE_
Lightly she slept, that splendid mother mine Who faced death, undismayed, two hopeless years.... (“Think of me sometimes, son, but not with tears Lest my soul grieve,” she writes. Oh, this divine Unselfishness!) ... Her favourite print smiled down-- The stippled Cupid, Bartolozzi-brown-- Upon my sorrow. Fire-gleams, fitful, played Among her playthings--Toby mugs and jade....
And then I dreamed that--suddenly, strangely clear-- A voice I knew not, faltered at my ear: “Courage!” ... Your own dear voice, loved since, and known!
And now that she sleeps well, come times _her_ voice Whispers in day-dreams: “Courage, son! Rejoice That, leaving you, I left you not alone.”
_MEETING_
I came from the City of Fear, From the scarred brown land of pain, Back into life again ... And I thought, as the leave-boat rolled Under the veering stars-- Wind a-shriek in her spars-- Shivering there, and cold, Of music, of warmth, and of wine-- To be mine For a whole short week ... And I thought, adrowse in the train, Of London, suddenly near; And of how--small doubt--I should find There, as of old, Some woman--foolishly kind: Fingers to hold, A cheek, A mouth to kiss--and forget, Forget in a little while, Forget When I came again To the scarred brown land of pain, To the sodden things and the vile, And the tedious battle-fret.
My dear, I cannot forget! Not even here In this City of Fear.
I remember the poise of your head, And your look, and the words you said When we met, And the waxen bloom at your breast, And the sable fur that caressed Your smooth white wrists, and your hands ... Remember them yet, Here In the desolate lands; Remember your shy Strange air, And growing aware-- I, Who had reckoned love Man’s toy for an hour-- Of love’s hidden power: A thrill That moved me to touch and adore Some intimate thing that you wore-- A glove, Or the flower A-glow at your breast, The frill Of fur that circled your wrist ... These, had my hands caressed; These, not you, had I kissed-- I, Who had thought love’s fires Only desires.
Dear, That hidden power thrills in me yet. There is never one hour-- Not even here In this City of Fear-- When I quite forget.
_MUSIC AND WINE_
When the ink has dried on the pen, When the sword returns to its sheath; When the world of women and men, And the waters around and beneath, Char and shrivel and burn-- What will God give in return?... Has He better to offer in heaven above Than wine and music, laughter and love?
Laughter, music and wine, The promise of love in your eyes ... Sleeping, I dream them mine; Waking, my spirit cries-- Here in the mud and the rain-- “God, give me London again! I would lose all earth and the heavens above For just one banquet of laughter and love.”
When my flesh returns to its earth, When my pen is dust as my sword; If one thing I wrought find worth In the eyes of our kindly Lord, I will only ask of His grace That He grant us a lowly place Where his warriors toast Him, in heaven above, With wine and music, laughter and love.
_THE GAMBLE_
If man backs horses, plays cards or dice, Or bets on an ivory ball, He knows the rules, and he reckons the price-- Be it one half-crown, or his all. (And it isn’t sense, and it isn’t pluck, To double the stakes when you’re out of luck!)
If he plays--with his life for a limit--here, It’s an even-money game: He can lay on the Red--which is Conquered Fear, Or the Black--which is Utter Shame. (And there isn’t much choice between Reds and Blacks, For Death throws “zero” whichever he backs.)
So that whether man plays for the red gold’s wealth Where the little ball clicks and spins, Or hazards his life in the black night’s stealth When machine-gun fire begins-- It’s a limited gamble; and each of us knows What he stands to lose ere the tables close.
But woman’s gamble--(there’s only one: And it takes some pluck to play, When the rules are broke ere the game’s begun; When, lose _or_ win, you must pay!)-- Is a double wager on human kind, A limitless risk--and she goes it blind.
For she stakes, at love, on a single throw, Pride, Honour, Scruples and Fears, And dreams no lover can hope to know, And the gold of the after-years. (And all for a man; and there’s no man lives Who is worth the odds that a woman gives.)
So that since you hazarded this for me On the day love’s die was cast, I’ll love you--gambler!--while “fours” beat three; And I’ll lay on our love to last, So long as a man will wager a price On a horse or a card or the ball or the dice.
_NINON AND ROSES_
Here, in a land where hardly a rose is, Silkiest blossoms of broidered flowers Brush my cheek as each tired eye closes, Haunt my sleep through the desolate hours.
Roses never of nature’s making, Roses loved for a rose-red night, Roses visioned at dawn-light’s breaking Veiling a bosom as roses white!
Why does the ghost of you linger and stay with me-- Ghost of the rose-buds that perfumed our bed, Ghost of a rose-girl who blossomed to play with me-- Here in a land where the roses are dead?
Day-time and night-time the death-flower blazes, Saffron at gun-lip and orange and red, Here where June’s rose-tree lies shattered as May’s is, Here where I dream of the nights that are dead--
Nights that were sweet with the scent and the touch of you, Rose-girl in ninon with buds at your breast, Rose-girl who promised and granted so much of you, All that was tender and all that was best.
Growl of the guns cannot shatter the dream of you, Banish the thought of one exquisite hour, Or the scent of your hair in the dawn, or the gleam of you White as white roses through roses a-flower.
_PARTING_
Times more than once, all ways about the world, Have I clasped hands; waved sorrowful good-bye; Watched far cliffs fading, till my sea-wake swirled To mingle bluely with a landless sky: Then--even as the sea-drowned cliffs behind-- Felt sorrow drowning into memory; And heard, in every thrill of every wind, New voices welcoming across the sea.
Until it seemed nor land nor love had power To hold my heart in any firm duress: Grieving, I sorrowed but a little hour; Loving, I knew desire’s sure faithfulness: Until, by many a love dissatisfied, Of each mistrustful and to each untrue, I found--as one who, having long denied, Finds faith at last--this greater Love, in you.
Parting? We are not parted, woman mine! Though hands have clasped, though lips have kissed good-bye; Though towns glide past, and fields, and fields of brine-- My body takes the warrior-way, not I. I am still with you; you, with me; one heart; One equal union, soul to certain soul: Time cannot sever us, nor sorrow part, Nor any sea, who keep our vision whole.
How can I grieve, who know your spirit near; Who watch with newly understanding eyes This England of your giving, newly dear, Sink where my sea-wake swirls to darkling skies? Lilac, her cliffs have faded into mist.... Yet still I hold them white in memory, Feeling, against these lips your lips have kissed, The home-wind thrilling down an English sea.
The Other Side
_THE OTHER SIDE_
Just got your letter and the poems. Thanks. You always were a brainy sort of chap: Though pretty useless as a subaltern-- Too much imagination, not enough Of that rare quality, sound commonsense And so you’ve managed to get on the Staff: Influence, I suppose: a Captain, too! How do tabs suit you? Are they blue or green?
About your book. I’ve read it carefully, So has Macfaddyen (you remember him, The light-haired chap who joined us after Loos?); And candidly, we don’t think much of it. The piece about the horses isn’t bad; But all the rest, excuse the word, are tripe-- The same old tripe we’ve read a thousand times.
My grief, but we’re fed up to the back-teeth With war-books, war-verse, all the eye-wash stuff That seems to please the idiots at home. You know the kind of thing, or used to know: “Heroes who laugh while Fritz is strafing them”-- (I don’t remember that _you_ found it fun, The day they shelled us out of Blouwpoort Farm!) “After the fight. Our cheery wounded. Note The smile of victory: it won’t come off”-- (Of course they smile; so’d you, if you’d escaped, And saw three months of hospital ahead.... They don’t smile, much, when they’re shipped back to France!) “Out for the Great Adventure”--(twenty-five Fat, smirking wasters in some O.T.C., Who just avoided the Conscription Act!) “A strenuous woman-worker for the Cause”-- (Miss Trixie Toogood of the Gaiety, Who helped to pauperize a few Belgiques In the great cause of self-advertisement!) ...
Lord knows, the newspapers are bad enough; But they’ve got some excuse--the censorship-- Helping to keep their readers’ spirits up-- Giving the public what it wants: (besides, One mustn’t blame the press, the press has done More than its share to help us win this war-- More than some other people I could name): But what’s the good of war-books, if they fail To give civilian-readers an idea Of what life _is_ like in the firing-line?...
You might have done that much; from you, at least, I thought we’d get an inkling of the truth. But no; you rant and rattle, beat your drum, And blow your two-penny trumpet like the rest: “Red battle’s glory,” “honour’s utmost task,” “Gay jesting faces of undaunted boys,” ... The same old Boys’-Own-Paper balderdash!
Mind you, I don’t deny that they exist, These abstract virtues which you gas about-- (_We shouldn’t stop out here long, otherwise!_)-- Honour and humour, and that sort of thing; (Though heaven knows where you found the glory-touch, Unless you picked it up at G.H.Q.); But if you’d commonsense, you’d understand That humour’s just the Saxon cloak for fear, Our English substitute for “_Vive la France_,” Or else a trick to keep the folk at home From being scared to death--as we are scared; That honour ... damn it, honour’s the one thing No soldier yaps about, except of course A soldier-_poet_--three-and-sixpence net.
Honest to God, it makes me sick and tired To think that you, who lived a year with us, Should be content to write such tommy-rot. I feel as though I’d sent a runner back With news that we were being strafed like Hell ... And he’d reported: “Everything O. K.” Something’s the matter: either you can’t _see_, Or else you see, and cannot write--that’s worse.
Hang it, you can’t have clean forgotten things You went to bed with, woke with, smelt and felt, All those long months of boredom streaked with fear: Mud, cold, fatigue, sweat, nerve-strain, sleeplessness, And men’s excreta viscid in the rain, And stiff-legged horses lying by the road, Their bloated bellies shimmering, green with flies....