Part 3

I LOVE corned beef—I never knew How good the stuff COULD taste in stew! I love it WET, I love it DRY, I love it baked and called MEAT PIE. I love it camouflaged in HASH— A hundred bucks I’d give—in CASH To have a BARREL of such chow A-standing here before me now. I say “YUM YUM” when “soupie” blows, I SNIFF and raise aloft my nose: CORNED WILLIE! Ha! Oh, BOY, that’s FINE! Can hardly keep my place in LINE. I kick my heels and wildly yell: “Old Sherman said that ‘WAR IS HELL,’ But GLADLY would I bear the heat If corned beef I could get to eat!” I love it HOT—I love it COLD, Corned Willie never WILL grow old. I love it—now PAUSE—listen, friend: When to this war there comes an end And PEACE upon the earth shall reign, I’ll hop a boat for HOME again. Then to a RESTAURANT I’ll speed— No dainty MANNERS will I heed— But to the waiter I will cry: “Bring me—well, make it corned beef PIE! And—better bring some corned beef STEW, And corned beef COLD—I’ll take that, too. And—now, don’t think I’m CRAZY, man, But could you bring a corned beef CAN? And—WAIT!—I’m not through ORDERING yet— I want a SIRLOIN STEAK—you BET, With hash browned SPUDS—now, LISTEN, friend, I’ve got the CASH, you may depend— Right HERE it is—let’s see, I’ll try— Oh, bring a piece of hot MINCE PIE And ALL this stuff that’s printed here; My appetite is HUGE, I fear.”

Then, when he’s filled my festive board With all these eats, I’ll thank the Lord (For that’s the PROPER thing to do), And then I’ll take the corned beef STEW, The corned beef PIE and corned beef COLD, The corned beef CAN I’ll then take hold And RAM the whole WORKS into it And say: “NOW, damn you, THERE you’ll sit. You’ve haunted every DREAM I’ve had— You don’t know what shame IS, egad! Now SIT there, Bo—See how you FEEL— And watch me eat a REG’LAR meal!” A. P. B.

A CHAPLAIN’S PRAYER

O Lord, I am not worthy to Be found amid these reddened hands Who offer an atoning due, Themselves, to Thee, great martyr bands.

Let me but kiss the ground they tread, And breathe a prayer above their sod, And gather up the drops they shed, These heroes in the cause of God. THOMAS F. COAKLEY, Lt., Chaplain.

BILLETS

(Dedicated to the gallant peasants of sunny France, who own them, and the officers of the A.E.F. who made the selection for the proletariat.)

I’ve slept with horse and sad-eyed cow, I’ve dreamed in peace with bearded goat, I’ve laid my head on the rusty plow, And with the pig shared table d’hôte. I’ve chased the supple, leaping flea As o’er my outstretched form he sped, And heard the sneering rooster’s crow When I chased the rabbit from my bed. I’ve marked the dog’s contented growl, His wagging tail, his playful bite; With guinea pig and wakeful owl I’ve shared my resting place at night, While overhead, where cobweb lace Like curtains drapes the oaken beams, The spiders skipped from place to place And sometimes dropped in on my dreams. And when the morning, damp and raw, Arrived at last as if by chance, I’ve crawled from out the rancid straw And cussed the stable barns of France.

And sometimes when the day is done And lengthening shadows pointing long, I dream of days when there was sun And street cars in my daily song. But over here—ah! what a change, The clouds are German-silver lined— Who worries when we get the mange? What boots it if our shoes are shined? The day speeds by and night again Looms up a specter grim and bare; We trek off to the hen house then And climb the cross barred ladder there— Another biologic night Spent in a state sans peace, sans sleep; And as I soothe some stinging bite, I mark the gentle smell of sheep, The smell that wots of grassy dell, Of hillsides green where fairies dance.... The vision’s past—I’m back in hell, An ancient stable barn of France.

We’ve slept with all the gander’s flock, By waddling duck we’ve slumbered on— In fact, we’ve slept with all the stock, And they will miss us when we’re gone. We’ve seen at times the nocturne eyes Of playful mouse on evening spree, And the coastwise trade at night he plies With Brother Louse on a jamboree. We’ve scratched and fought with foe unseen, And with the candle hunted wide For the bug that thrives on Paris green, But cashes in on bichloride.

Perchance may come a night of stars, Perchance the snow drift through the tile, Perchance the evil face of Mars Peeks in and shows his wicked smile; ’Tis then we dream of other days When we were free and in the dance, And followed in the old time ways, Far from the stable barns of France.

THE MULE SKINNERS

A wet and slippery road, And dusky figures passing in the night, The smell of steaming hide and soaking leather, The muttered oath, The sharp command as troops give way to right, Then clatter on through mud and streaming weather.

The creak and groan of wheels, And batteries that rumble down the road With pound and splash of hoof and chains a-rattle, The driver’s spurring chirp, The tugging as the mules take up the load, And ’bove it all the roar of distant battle.

All night we do our job, Hauling the supplies up from the rear, Past streams of troops and shell-shot habitation, Through rut-worn road, By blackened walls without a light to cheer, On through the night and storm and desolation.

This the life we know, The seeming endless driving and the strain, The ever pushing toil, without cessation, Necessity to do, Through biting wind and cold and chilling rain, And sleepless nights and lack of rest, privation.

This the life we lead, Reckless of screaming shell, and trusting chance, A soldier’s humble task, a soldier’s ration. But who of us would trade His soldier’s lot nor want to be in France? Who would not live his life in soldier fashion? WILLIAM BRADFORD, 2nd Lt., A.G.D.

THE OLD OVERSEAS CAP

The war of the Trojans and all the Greek crew Was fought for the sake of a fair lady who Went absent without leave, for weal or for woe, And took her permission to Paris to go.

All Greeks grasped steel helmets and trench knives and tanks And wheel teams and chariots and fell into ranks. Shipping boards gave no trouble with quarrels or slips: The beauty of Helen had launched all the ships.

All cautioned their sweethearts that since they must go, To keep home hearths heated, on flirting go slow; For each warrior was off to the battle and strife To make the world safe for a good-looking wife.

But they’d never have fought if they’d read Helen’s note, Which just before leaving she hastily wrote: “Menelaus just entered our once happy home With an overseas cap on the top of his dome!” FAIRFAX D. DOWNEY, 1st Lt., F.A.

HOGGIN’ IT

Well, I’ve eaten food sublime, and I’ve eaten food that’s rotten, From Alaska’s coldest corner to where the landscape’s cotton; At times there has been plenty, then there’s times when there’s been none, And I’ve kept me upper stiffest, for complainin’ I’m not one. But it’s now that I’m protestin’—oh, I’ve suffered silence long— It’s fancy food I’m cravin’, for me system’s goin’ wrong.

Oh, it’s bacon, bacon, bacon, Till your belly’s fairly achin’ For some biscuits or some hot cakes that in your mouth would melt; There’s no German dog could dare me, No fear of death would scare me, If I only had some chicken à la King beneath me belt.

Now I read where Mr. Hoover tells the folks to lay off hoggin’, We’ll be needin’ lots of grub to put the Fritz on the toboggan; And the way that they’ve responded makes you feel so awful proud That you’d like to meet old Bill to take his measure for a shroud. Lord, it’s plenty that we’re gettin’, but I’d be dancin’ jigs If they’d pass an order home to stop a-killin’ off the pigs.

For it’s bacon, bacon, bacon, Till your very soul is shakin’— If I could pick me eatin’, it’s a different song I’d sing; I’d not miss a raidin’ party, For patrol I’d be quite hearty, Oh, I’d swap me chance of Heaven for some chicken à la King. MED. MIQUE.

THE MAN

Here today in the sunshine I saw a soldier go Out of Life’s heated battle into the evening glow. He was just a common soldier, one of a mighty clan, But every watcher bared his head in honor to the Man. We stood there at attention, and the flag-draped coffin came, And we snapped up to salute him, though we never knew his name. He was just a common soldier, but we couldn’t salute as well The best old major general on this bright side o’ hell! H. T. S.

SONG OF THE GUNS

This is the song that our guns keep singing, Here where the dark steel shines; This is the song with their big shells winging Over the German lines—

“We are taking you home by the shortest way, We are taking you out of this blood and slime To the land you left in an ancient day, Where lost lanes wander at twilight time; We are bringing you peace In the swift release From the grind where the gas drifts blur; On a steel shod track We are taking you back, We are taking you back to Her!”

This is the song that our guns keep roaring, Out through the night and rain; This is the song with their big shell soaring Over the battered plain—

“We are taking you home by the only way, By the only road that will get you back To the dreams you left where the dusk was gray And the night wind sang of a long-lost track; We are bringing you rest From the bitter test, From the pits where the great shells whirr; Through the bloody loam We are taking you home, We are taking you home to Her!” GRANTLAND RICE, 1st Lt., F.A.

THROUGH THE WHEAT

(The Sergeant’s Story)

“There’s a job out there before us,” Said the Captain, kinder solemn; “There’s a crop out there to gather Through the wheat fields just ahead.” Through the wheat of Château-Thierry That was soon to hold our column, “There’s a crop out there to gather,” That was all the Captain said. (Oh, at dawn the wheat was yellow, But at night the wheat was red.)

“There’s a crop out there to gather,” And we felt contentment stealin’ Like a ghost from out the shadows Of a lost, old-fashioned street; For the crop out there before us Brought a kinder home-like feelin’, Though the zippin’ German bullets Started hissin’ through the wheat. But it didn’t seem to bother As we slogged along the beat.

“There’s snakes here,” whooped a private As the bullets started hissin’; And we saw that Hun machine guns In the thicket formed our crop; So we started for the harvest Where a bunch of them was missin’, But a bunch of them was hittin’ Where we hadn’t time to stop. But we damned ’em to a finish As we saw a bunkie drop.

So we gathered in the harvest, And we didn’t leave one missin’; (We had gathered crops before this With as tough a job ahead.) Through the wheat of Château-Thierry, With the German bullets hissin’, “There’s a crop out there to gather,” That was all the Captain said. (Oh, at dawn the wheat was yellow, But at night the wheat was red.)

ALLIES

The French, the British, and the Portugee, Captain, or colonel, or king though he be, Gives a salute in response to me, Buck private in Uncle Sam’s Infantry. There’s much that a soldier’s salute implies, But it means the most when it means, “We’re Allies!”

In Belgium and France and Italy They talk in ways that are Greek to me, But the speech of soldiers’ courtesy Is a Lingua Franca wherever you be. With a single gesture, I recognize That I am one of the Twenty Allies.

I never could tell just why it should be That the first salute should be up to me In this queer, new army democracy, But every commander must answer me, British, or French, or Indo-Chinee, Captain, or colonel, or king though he be. There’s much that a soldier’s salute implies, But it means the most when it means, “We’re Allies!” MERRITT Y. HUGHES, Pvt., Inf.

TO BUDDY

It’s a tough fight for you, Buddy, And it takes a heap of grit To stick and win And keep your grin When you’re in the thick of it.

It’s no cinch for you, Buddy, When the dreams with which you came Melt into naught As you are taught The horrid, bitter game.

It’s a hard pull for you, Buddy, And oft times it looks damned blue, But square your chin And vow to win, And play the game clean through.

For there’s a great time coming, Buddy, A time worth waiting for, When Kultur’s done And all is won, And the boys come home from war.

Oh, she’ll be waiting, Buddy, And the lovelight in her eye Will shine with joy As Her Big Boy Goes proudly marching by.

It’s a hard road for you, Buddy, But it’s more than worth the game To buck all fears So Mother’s tears Will be for joy, not shame. HOWARD J. GREEN, Corp., Inf.

THE WOOD CALLED ROUGE-BOUQUET[1]

(Dedicated to the memory of 19 members of Co. E., 165th Infantry, who made the supreme sacrifice at Rouge-Bouquet, Forest of Parroy, France, March 7; read by the chaplain at the funeral, the refrain echoing the music of Taps from a distant grove.)

I

In the woods they call Rouge-Bouquet There is a new-made grave today, Built by never a spade or pick, Yet covered by earth ten metres thick.

There lie many fighting men, Dead in their youthful prime, Never to laugh or live again Or taste of the summer time;

For death came flying through the air And stopped his flight at the dugout stair, Touched his prey— And left them there— Clay to clay. He hid their bodies stealthily In the soil of the land they sought to free, And fled away.

Now over the grave, abrupt and clear, Three volleys ring; And perhaps their brave young spirits hear: Go to sleep— Go to sleep— (_Taps sounding in distance._)

II

There is on earth no worthier grave To hold the bodies of the brave Than this spot of pain and pride Where they nobly fought and nobly died. Never fear but in the skies Saints and angels stand, Smiling with their holy eyes On this new come band.

St. Michael’s sword darts through the air And touches the aureole on his hair, As he sees them stand saluting there His stalwart sons; And Patrick, Bridget, and Columbkill Rejoice that in veins of warriors still The Gael’s blood runs

And up to Heaven’s doorway floats, From the woods called Rouge-Bouquet, A delicate sound of bugle notes That softly say: Farewell— Farewell— (_Taps sounding in distance._)

L’ENVOI

Comrades true, Born anew, Peace to you; Your souls shall be where the heroes are, And your memory shine like the morning star, Brave and dear, Shield us here— Farewell! JOYCE KILMER, Sgt., Inf. Killed in action, July 30, 1918.

Footnote 1:

Copyright, 1918, Charles Scribner’s Sons. Copyright, 1919, George H. Doran Co.

GOOD-BYE

Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, We’re on the seas for France, We’re on our way to make them pay The piper for the dance. To starboard and to port Our paint-splotched convoys toss, Grim thunderbolts in rainbow garb, We jam a path across. Our guns are slugged and set To smack the U-boat’s eye— God help the Hun that tries his luck— Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye.

Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, The decks are deep with men, We’re going out to God knows what, We’ll be back God knows when. Old friends are at our sides, Old songs drift out to sea, Oh, it is good to go to war In such a company. The sun is on the waves That race to meet the sky, Where strange new shores reach out to us— Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye.

Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, A long and weary while, Through all the drab and empty days, Remember us and smile. Our good ship shoulders on Along a lane of foam, And every turn the screw goes round Is farther still from home. We’ll miss the things we left, The more the white miles fly, So keep them till we come again— Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye.

THE FIELDS OF THE MARNE

The fields of the Marne are growing green, The river murmurs on and on; No more the hail of mitrailleuse, The cannon from the hills are gone.

The herder leads the sheep afield, Where grasses grow o’er broken blade; And toil-worn women till the soil O’er human mold, in sunny glade.

The splintered shell and bayonet Are lost in crumbling village wall; No sniper scans the rim of hills, No sentry hears the night bird call.

From blood-wet soil and sunken trench, The flowers bloom in summer light; And farther down the vale beyond, The peasant smiles are sad, yet bright.

The wounded Marne is growing green, The gash of Hun no longer smarts; Democracy is born again, But what about the troubled hearts? FRANK CARBAUGH, Sgt., Inf. (Written while lying wounded in hospital; died August, 1918.)

A NURSE’S PRAYER

O Lord, I must not cry, And yet mine eyes contain Such floods of scalding tears That they will never dry, Descending soft as rain, Through all the coming years.

Cor Jesu, I must weep, When I behold the sight! These men who fought and bled, Who moan and cannot sleep, Their souls so snowy white, The wounded and the dead. THOMAS F. COAKLEY, Lt., Chaplain.

LINES ON LEAVING A LITTLE TOWN WHERE WE RESTED

We with the war ahead, You who have held the line, Laughing, have broken bread And taken wine.

We cannot speak your tongue, We cannot fully know Things hid beneath your smile Four years ago.

Things which have given us, Grimly, a common debt, Now that we take the field, We won’t forget! RUSSELL LORD, Corp., F. A.

POPPIES

Poppies in the wheat fields on the pleasant hills of France, Reddening in the summer breeze that bids them nod and dance; Over them the skylark sings his lilting, liquid tune— Poppies in the wheat fields, and all the world in June.

Poppies in the wheat fields on the road to Monthiers— Hark, the spiteful rattle where the masked machine guns play! Over them the shrapnel’s song greets the summer morn— Poppies in the wheat fields—but, ah, the fields are torn.

See the stalwart Yankee lads, never ones to blench, Poppies in their helmets as they clear the shallow trench, Leaping down the furrows with eager, boyish tread Through the poppied wheat fields to the flaming woods ahead.

Poppies in the wheat fields as sinks the summer sun, Broken, bruised and trampled—but the bitter day is won; Yonder in the woodland where the flashing rifles shine, With their poppies in their helmets, the front files hold the line.