Part 2

Get up and powder, rouge and curl And dress—no matter how— But don’t be late for reveille, You’re in the Army now.

Get up, you foozle, ninny, boob, There’s eggs and cheese and ham (For officers) and slum for you, You slave of Uncle Sam.

But don’t you fret or don’t you fume, For honest Injun! How Would you have felt if you were not In Uncle’s Army now? RAY L. HUFF, Pvt., M.D.

FULL DIRECTIONS

We saw them, but we did not need to ask where lay the Front; Their clothes were neat and rolls aback, well made; They marched with faces wrinkled, not by smiles or many frowns, Betokening men determined, unafraid.

Once more we saw them, needing not to ask where lay the Front; Their clothes were soiled, and packs in careless roll; They, greeting, made their way along with faces tired yet bright, Betokening men who fought with heart and soul.

We need not hear the cannon’s boom to know where action lies, Nor yet to seek until we find the place, For map and compass, signboard, news we’re ever getting from The look upon the passing poilu’s face. DANIEL TURNER BALMER, A.S.

ON LEARNING FRENCH

Like silver bells heard in a mist, Or moonstone echoes from some brook Where silver birches wall a nook, Or like sea ripples moon-lit kissed,

Or like a lake of silver ledges Where iris water-lilies lave, Or like some lark’s translucent wave Of song above white hawthorn hedges,

The maiden ripples French to me; But I am like an argonaut In some mute agony of thought, Lost in sound’s sweet tranquillity. ALFRED J. FRITCHEY, Camp Hospital 30.

“WHO SAID SUNNY FRANCE?”

It lies on your blankets and over your bed, There’s mud in the cover that covers your head, There’s mud in the coffee, the slum, and the bread— Sunny France! There’s mud in your eyebrows, there’s mud up your nose, There’s mud on your leggins to add to your woes, The mud in your boots finds its place ’twixt your toes— Sunny France!

_Oh, the grimy mud, the slimy mud, the mud that makes you swear, The cheesy mud, the greasy mud, that filters through your hair._

You sleep in the mud, and drink it, that’s true; There’s mud in the bacon, the rice, and the stew, When you open an egg, you’ll find mud in it, too— Sunny France! There’s mud in the water, there’s mud in the tea,

There’s mud in your mess-kit as thick as can be, It sticks to your fingers like leaves to a tree— Sunny France!

_Oh, the ruddy mud, the muddy mud, the mud that gets your goat, The sliding mud, the gliding mud, that sprays your pants and coat!_

It cakes in your mouth till you feel like an ox, It slips down your back and it rests in your sox; You think that you’re walking on cut glass and rocks— Sunny France! There’s mud in your gas mask, there’s mud in your hat, There’s mud in your helmet, there’s mud on your gat, Yet though mud’s all around us, we’re happy at that— Sunny France!

_Oh, the dank, dank mud, the rank, rank mud, there’s just one guy to blame; We’ll wish him well (we will like hell!) and Kaiser Bill’s his name!_ JACK WARREN CARROL, Corp., F.A.

THE TRUANT

The wise years saw him go from them, Untaught by them, yet wise; He had but romped with the hoyden years, Unwitting how time flies; Whose laughter glooms to wistfulness At swift, undreamt good-byes.

The wise, grave, patient mistresses Of his young manhood’s school, The wise, grave, patient years-to-be— He never knew their rule; And yet he marches by a man, A hero, and no fool!

The wise years see him go from them, Untaught by them, yet wise; The lad who played where, yesterday, Girls’ kisses were the prize! They wonder whence his manhood came, So well he lives—and dies! R. R. KIRK, Pvt., G2, S.O.S.

TRIBUTE

There’s tumultuous confusion a-comin’ down the road, An’ the camouflage don’t nearways hide the dust, An’ it ain’t no flock of camions, though some’s carryin’ a load (I guess the provos winked—or got it fust). But now it’s comin’ closer, you can tell ’em by the roar— It’s the Hundred Second Infantry a-goin’ in once more.

Oh, they’ve met the Hun at the length of a gun, And they know what he is and they mind what he’s done, So that’s why they sing as they slog to more fun! You doughboys, you slow boys, Here’s luck, an’ let her go, boys— We like you, Infantry.

Now us in the Artillery don’t live no life of ease Nor yet particular security, For the present that Fritz sends us one can’t dodge behind the trees, Unless trees was much thicker than they be. But we know our lot is doughnuts, Orders Home, and Gay Paree To what you march to singin’, Hundred Second Infantry.

Oh, there’s numerous blanks in your company ranks, But there’s two in the Boches’ for one in the Yanks’, An’ all that he guv, you returned him with thanks, You doughboys, you slow boys, Here’s luck, an’ let her go, boys— We like you, Infantry. F. M. H. D., F.A.

SEA STUFF

Now I’m a soldier, so I ain’t No hand at art, but say, There’s things at sea I’d like to paint Before I’m tucked away.

A cruiser on the sunrise track, Alert to find the morn, With every funnel belching black Into the red, gold dawn;

A flock o’ transports, crazy lined, On blue-green waves advance, That sink their bows, all spray an’ dewed, Hellbootin’ it for France;

A manned gun peerin’ out to port As evenin’ shadows close; Beyond, a ship slipped up an’ caught Against a cloud o’ rose;

A crow’s nest loomin’ from below Across the Milk Way’s bars, Just like a cradle rockin’ slow, An’ sung to by the stars.

No, I can’t paint the things I’ve seen While we were passin’ by, But, all the same, they sure have been Worth lookin’ at, say I. STEUART M. EMERY, Pvt., M.P.

LETTERS

My buddy reads his letters to me, and, say, he sure can write! I have to sit and chew my pen and even then The way it reads when I get through I know it’s pretty sad As far as composition goes; the grammar, too, is bad. But talk about—gee, he can sling the ink to beat the band, And picture everything he’s seen a way that sure is grand.

I got him to write a note to my gal and, golly, it was fine! I copied it and signed my name, but, all the same, It didn’t seem to please her, for she wrote in her reply She’d read it several times and it didn’t sound like I Was sayin’ exactly what I meant, and was I feelin’ good; I’m kind of glad she took it so—in fact, I hoped she would. MEL RYDER, Sgt. Major, Inf.

SOLDIER SMILES

You may talk of kings and princes, And the glory of their show; You may sing of knights and ladies In the days of long ago; You may paint a vivid picture Of the wonder worlds to see, But the smiles on soldier faces Look the best of all to me.

They are gassed and shelled and tortured, They are muddy, thin, and weak; They are shocked and shot and shattered, And you marvel when they speak; They will give their all in battle That the world may be made free, And their smiles amidst their sorrows Are real miracles to see.

They have smiled since they were babies— Laughter, love have been their charms— And their smiles were patriotic When their country called to arms; They go laughing to the trenches, Filling fighting lines with glee, And with smiles they come back wounded— Those are smiles that puzzle me.

Kings and kaisers may be mighty As the bloody brutes of war; They may use the worst of weapons Never dreamed of e’er before; But they’re sure to meet disaster Over land and on the sea, For the soldier boys of Freedom Fight—and smile—the whole world free! ALLEN A. STOCKDALE, Capt., U.S.A.

BEEFING

It seems I’m never satisfied No matter where I go. My job’s a cinch, my duties soft, I still find grief and woe. If I’m stationed in a training camp Where drills are very light, I holler to be sent up front To get into the fight.

When we were in the U. S. A., I thought we had no chance, And I wasn’t really satisfied Till on my way to France. We’ve been here now about six months, And if I had kept track, I’ll bet I’ve said, a thousand times, “I wish that I was back.”

And when I was a corporal I belly-ached around And thought a better sergeant Than I’d make could not be found. I’ve had three stripes for eight long months, And still I curse my luck, And threaten that I’ll tear ’em off And go back to a buck.

For when they try to please me And dish out first class chow, And there’s sugar in the coffee, I’ll holler anyhow. And if I was sent to Heaven And up there was doing well, I wouldn’t, yet, be satisfied Till I’d got a look at hell! H. H. HUSS, Sgt., Inf.

THE TANK

Oh, she’s nothin’ sweet to look at an’ no symphony to hear; She ain’t no pome of beauty, that’s a cinch— She howls like Holy Jumpin’ when a feller shifts a gear, But she’s sure a lovey-dovey in a pinch. Just head her straight for Berlin and no matter what the road, Or whether it’s just trenches, trees, and mud, And I’ll guarantee she’ll get there with her precious human load And her treads a-drippin’ red with German blood. Oh, you tank! tank! tank! She’s a pippin’, she’s a daisy, she’s a dream! Where the star-shells are a-lightin’ up the thickest of the fightin’, She’ll be sailin’ like a demon through the gleam.

If the way is rough and stony and the vantage point is far, Just slip her into high and hang on tight, Shove your foot down on the throttle and to hell with all the jar!— She’ll take you clean from here to out of sight. ’Course you’ve got to clean and scrub her same as any piece of tin That’s worth the smoke to blow her up the flue; But just whisper to her gently, pat her back and yell “Giddap!” And there ain’t a thing she wouldn’t do for you. Oh, you tank! tank! tank! She’s a Lulu, she’s a cuckoo! She’s the goods! When the Boches see you comin’, they will set the air to hummin’ A-wavin’ of their legs to reach the woods.

When the last great rush is over and the last grim trench is past, She will roll in high right through old Berlin town,

Her grim old sides a-shakin’ and her innerds raisin’ hob, Intent on runnin’ Kaiser William down. Then she’ll find him and we’ll bind him to her grindin’, tearin’ treads, And we’ll start her rollin’ on the road to hell, Shove her into high and leave her, tie her bloomin’ throttle down— We’ll say she’s lived her life and lived it well. Oh, you tank! tank! tank! She’s a devil! She’s a dandy! She’s sublime! When her grimy hide goes hurlin’ through the dirty streets of Berlin, Watch the goose step change to Yankee double time! RICHARD C. COLBURN, Sgt., Tank Corps.

THE NEW ARMY

Who are those soldiers Who go marching down? They’re the young fellows Of your old home town.

The butcher’s son, the baker’s, His Honor’s lad, too; The old casual mixture Of Gentile and Jew.

Don’t they march manly! Ay, they step light; And soon by the papers Ye’ll see they can fight! R. R. KIRK, S.S.U.

TOUJOURS LE MÊME

No matter how wise or how foolish The company’s cook may be, When down at the table we’re seated, Two things we all plainly can see; When we look at the chow There’s the bosom of sow, And beans—beans—beans.

If quartered in city or country, The cook never misses his aim; If messing in swamp or on mountain, Two things will remain quite the same; Though it may cause a row, We get bosom of sow, And beans—beans—beans.

When tasks for the day are all ended, And weary are body and brain, Small matter it makes if we’re eating Indoors, or outside in the rain, The cook makes his bow With the bosom of sow, And beans—beans—beans.

Of all that I’ve learned in the Army, This fact I am sure I know well— And others are certain to tell you— The soldier’s worst picture of hell Is thrice daily chow With the bosom of sow, And beans—beans—beans. VANCE C. CRISS, Corp., Engrs.

TO THE WEST WIND

West Wind, you’ve come from There, Surely my Girlie Breathed in your truant air— Did you kiss my Girlie? Seemed then a-sleeping she, As you passed merrily? Whispered she aught of me, Dreaming full tenderly?

West Wind, turn back your speed; Blow to my Girlie! Turn back, you wind, and heed— Hie to my Girlie! Elfin-like seeming, Close to her hover; Into her dreaming Say that I love her. WILLIAM S. LONG, Corp., A. S.

THE DRIVER

I’m a slouch and a slop and a sluffer, And my ears they are covered with hair, And I frequent inhabit the guardhouse, I’ll be “priv” until “fini la guerre.” But my off horse, she shines like a countess, And my nigh made the general blink, And they pull like twin bats fresh from Hades, And they’re quick as a demimonde’s wink.

Oh, it’s often I’m late at formations, And it’s taps I completely disdain. And my bunk, it brings tears from the captain, And the cooties are at me again. But when there’s a piece in the mire, With her muzzle just rimming the muck, Then it’s hustle for me and my beauties— If they don’t they are S.O. of luck.

And when there’s some route that’s receiving Its tender regards from the Huns, Then we gallop hell bent for election To our duty o’ feeding the guns. The gas, the H.E., and the shrapnel, They brighten our path as they burst, But they’ve never got me or my chevals— They’ll have to catch up to us first.

I’m a slouch and a slop and a sluffer, And my ears they are covered with hair, And I frequent inhabit the guardhouse, I’ll be “priv” until “fini la guerre.” But my hosses, they neigh when I’m comin’, An’ my sarge knows how hefty they drag, An’ the cap lent me ten francs this mornin’— Here’s to him an’ to me an’ the flag! F. M. H. D., F.A.

SONG OF THE CENSOR MAN

Oh, I am the man with a mightier pen Than the chisel the lawgiver knew; The snip of my shears is more dreaded of men Than the sword that Napoleon drew. I foil the young man with a nose for the news, And I stifle the first feeble note Of the soldier who ventures to air any views That he never was paid to promote.

Oh, it’s snip, snip, snip is the rhythmic swing Of my shears in the morning light, And clip, clip, clip is the raucous ring Of their voice in the starry night. I may strike from the calendar all of its dates, And I rob every town of its name, And rarely a letter but sadly relates The tale of my terrible fame.

Oh, I know all the secrets that ever were told, Till every unfortunate prays That the book of omnipotent knowledge I hold May be sealed to the end of my days. On each written syllable, proudly I state, I pronounce benediction or ban; For I’m the personification of Fate— The redoubtable Censor man! JOHN FLETCHER HALL, Sgt., Inf., Acting Chaplain.

DO YOU KNOW THIS GUY?

One hears at sound of reveille, Straight through till taps is blown, “Gimme, lemme take yer razor,” “Have you got a sou to loan?” Or maybe, “Gosh, I lost my towel, Lemme take yours, will you, Bill?” “Have you got some extra ‘Sunkums’?” “I wanna wet me gill.”

All through the day it’s e’er the same, Week in, week out, “Say, Bo, I’m just a few francs shy today, Wot’s chances for a throw? You know me, Al, me woid’s me bond, I’ve never stuck a pal, But I simply gotta keep that date Or hunt another gal.”

“Have you an extra undershirt? The Major’s gonna see What makes the men so nervous like And scratch so frequently.” “I’m gonna promenade ce soir, Lemme take yer new puttees. Aw, mine’s been muddy for a week, Loose up, yuh tight ol’ cheese.”

“I don’t know where me money goes, It takes the prize for speed, The next day after we’ve been paid, Can’t buy a punk French weed. Next month I’ll have to slacken up, Or jump into the lake”— But till that old ghost walks again, It’s gimme, lemme take! FRANK EISENBERG, Pvt., Tel. Bn.

CAMOUFLAGE

They tell us tales of camouflage, The art of hiding things; Of painted forts and bowered guns Invisible to wings. Well, it’s nothing new to us, To us, the rank and file; We understand this camouflage —We left home with a smile.

We saw the painted battleships And earthen-colored trains, And planes the hue of leaden skies, And canvas-hidden lanes. Well, we used the magic art That day of anxious fears; We understand this camouflage —We laughed away your tears.

They say that scientific men And artists of renown Debated long on camouflage Before they got it down. Well, it came right off to us, We didn’t have to learn; We understand this camouflage —We said we’d soon return.

We understand this camouflage, This art of hiding things; It’s what’s behind a soldier’s jokes And all the songs he sings. Yes, it’s nothing new to us, To us, the rank and file; We understand this camouflage —We left home with a smile. M. G.

TRENCH MUD

We have heard of Texas gumbo And the mud in the Philippines, Where, if we had legs like Jumbo, The mud would cover our jeans. But never did we get a chance To feel real mud till we hit France.

Our shoes are deep in it, We often sleep in it, We almost weep in it— It’s everywhere; We have to fight in it, And vent our spite in it, We look a sight in it, But we don’t care!

The mud that lies in No Man’s Land Is as thick on the other side, And where the Germans make their stand Is where we’ll make them slide, For our hob-nailed shoes will force a way, And we’ll knock them cold—for the U.S.A.

Though we must eat in it, Wash our feet in it, Try to look neat in it, This mud and slime; Though we get sore in it, Grumble and roar in it, _We’ll win the war in it_ In our good time! JOHN J. CURTIN, Sgt., Inf.

I LOVE CORNED BEEF