2^ ^Mto A. . BUDDY'S BLIGHTY AND OTHER VERSES FROM THE TRENCHES CAPTAIN JACK TURNER, M.C. Canadian Expeditionary Force BUDDY'S BLIGHTY AND OTHER VERSES FROM THE TRENCHES BY JACK TURNER, M.C. Canadian Expeditionary Force BOSTON SMALL, MAYNAKD & COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1918, ' By small, MAYNARD & COMPANY (incoepoeated) 8. J. Passhili. & Co., SOSTOH, n.S.A. DEDICATION AND APOLOGY TO YOURSELF " I often wonder what the vintners buy- One half so precious as the stuff they sell"— So marvelled he, who sang of love and wine, Of life and death, of Heaven and of Hell. And now he lies at peace, nor sings at all, In that fair garden where the rose-leaves fall. So, as I sit and scatter ink and try These weak and wandering verses to indite, I often wonder what the rhymesters know One half so foolish as the stuff they write; But still I scrawl — the Lord above knows why One who knows nought of poetry should try. But, 'cross in Flanders, when the rain was cold, The trenches muddy and the Germans rough. To keep from feeling sorry for myself I took to spoiling paper with this stuff; It helped me pass a dismal hour or two — I only hope 'twill do the same for you. J. T. St. John's, Newfoundland, October, 1917. m2685;^4 CONTENTS PAGE Dedication and Apology v Buddy's Blighty i The Rag-Time Army ii The Aeroplane 15 The Lucky Dug-Out 17 " Yellow " 19 " It Sounds to Me " 27 Ode to Macconachie 32 Bill 35 Ypres 40 Responsibility 43 '' No Man's Land " 49 Over the Wall 52 Mud 56 Mathematics 59 Reflections of a Tommy 63 Music 66 The Wandering Men 7^ Pay Day 17 Dawn — April 9TH, 1917 83 Shell-Shock 87 CONTENTS PAGE The One Way Trail 90 A Hundred Years 94 Luck 96 The Hindenburg Line 98 Ballad of Booze 100 A Minor Operation 102 Evolution 107 The Infantryman's Opinion of the In- fantry 113 Ils Ne Passeront Pas ! 117 Fed Up 119 Law — AND Other Things 122 Before Zero 128 The Sniper 131 "Up the Line" 134 The Price 139 Still-Hunting . 145 Anticipation 149 "Stunts — Ancient and Modern " . . .151 The Dud 155 Crosses 157 Two Men 159 Fags 162 Zero Minus One .......... 167 BUDDY'S BLIGHTY AND OTHER VERSES FROM THE TRENCHES BUDDY'S BLIGHTY Buddy Baldwin, Broncho-Buster, used to ride the range a heap, He looked at things in terms of cows, and always held that sheep — And sheep-men, too — were vermin, that they counted mighty low And, compared with cows and cow-men, why, they didn't even show. (This has no bearing on my tale — I only tell it 'cos It gives you some idea of the kind of guy Bud was.) Cow-man first, last and all the time — Bud's Bible was the book Where breeds and brands were registered, and Buddy always took The view that walking is no way of covering the ground. And riding is the only way to navigate around. If you vv^ant to picture Buddy, bear in m.ind these little things — I BUDDY'S BLIGHTY Imagine him as built of wire and highly tempered springs — With the little, deep-carved wrinkles 'round the corners of his eyes That are brands of open country and unbounded space and skies — Six feet high, brown as an Injun — leaner than the law allows, And his deepest interests poker, brands, range, cayuses and cows. Now, Buddy, he was range-boss for the Diamond Curly O, (Down beside the Rio waters, where the spiky cactus grow) It chanced the Diamond Curly O sold quite a good-sized bunch Of horses to an English mob, then Buddy took a hunch, And signed to act as valet to those horses on the boat, (Though the thought of so much water pretty nearly got his goat). When he got his high heels planted good and firm on English ground. BUDDY'S BLIGHTY He thought he'd step across to France and have a look around. So he blew his roll in London, in a gorgeous jam- boree. And then settled down to soldier with the Canuck Infantree. Now, I first ran into Buddy in an Hospital in Kent, Where a bunch of Army Doctor-guys had sent me to repent Of the foolishness of stopping German shrapnel with my head — There I found old Buddy Baldwin holding down the nearest bed. Well, I told him all my sorrows and he told me all his woes (And what was lies and what was truth, I guess, God only knows), And Bud told me all about his trip to Blighty from the line, (He was sure a fluent liar and he made it listen fine). Though I'm much inclined to doubt it, maybe one per cent, is true. BUDDY^S BLIGHTY But it sounded quite convincing, so I'll hand it out to you. " We was jammed up in the Salient, and she was some swell hole, ** With the trenches all as shallow as a tin-horn gambler's soul — '* An' the mud as deep as blazes, an' the Huns a-raisin' hell — " I'd seen some rotten holes before, but that one rung the bell. " Oh, she sure was good and lively — in a quiet kind of way. ** With the guns a-poundin', poundin', poundin', poundin', night and day; *' Then some chesty Hun commander thought he'd start a little fuss " Just to boost his reputation — and he started in on us. *' Yep, he thought he'd rise the Canucks, just to boost his name a bit — " Did he help his reputation ? — there was nothing left of it '* When that little game was finished and we reck- oned up the score, 4 BUDDY'S BLIGHTY " I don't think hell go a-gunnin' for the Canucks any more." *' Me ? I cashed in kind o' early-Hke, and this is how it come — " 'Twas the second merry evenin', and they sure was sheUin' some — " The air was full of concentrated hell and fly in' steel, *' An' the way things kept a-movin' kind o' made a fellow feel " Pretty sure he'd go to Heaven by the high ex- plosive route, " For old Fritz was workin' everything that could be made to shoot. " Well, I just had got to feelin' that I didn't give a damn " How blamed soon they quit their foolin', when there came an awful slam, *' An' a dozen locoed earthquakes, an' a lunatic typhoon *' Was a-messin' up the quiet of that pleasant aft- ernoon. " The old earth bucked like a broncho and jumped up to touch the sun, 5 BUDDY'S BLIGHTY " Then she split into a milHon stars, an' I was ridin' one; " An' a nine-point-two came rampin' up, a-pawin' up the ground " With a Broncho-Buster, chapped and spurred, a-ridin' him around, " An' he says to me, — * Say, Buddy, 'spose we go out on the prowl, " Let's go an' see the elephant and listen to the owl,' " So I dumb up there behind him, on his lopin' nine-point-two, " An' we rambled thro' a mesa where the cactus was all blue, " Till his broncho started buckin' an' he piled me good an' high, **An' I met a gallowampus bird a-roostin' in the sky. " He had fourteen wings an seven eyes an' whis- kers on his ears, " An' he chased me all around the range for seven thousand years, " Till I ran into a gopher hole and met a grizzly bear " A-chattin' with a rattlesnake, beneath a prickly pear. e BUDDY'S BLIGHTY " That there unconverted insect was a-smokin' a cigar, " An' I says — ' Say, Mr. Rattler, can you tell me where we are ? ' '* ' Sure,' says he, ' as sure as shootin'/ but before he got half done " I see a bunch of timber wolves a-comin' on the run. " An' says one to me, * We know you, 'taint no use for you to speak, ** * You're the guy that rode for Sage Brush Sam, on Little Chulu Creek,' " Then he winked at me most knowin', an' he wagged his bushy tail, " An' he turned himself clean inside out an' trot- ted up the trail. '* While I stood there, dumb and helpless — I was too darned 'mazed to think — " A pale pink moon came swimmin' thro' a sea of blue-black ink, " A-huntin' for a baby-wolf, branded X circle Y, " An' I felt so sorry for that moon I started in to cry, "The salt tears they kept fallin' till the flood reached to my chest, 7 BUDDY'S BLIGHTY " Then I see a big black nigger in an armour- plated vest, " With two guns hangin' at his belt, come wadin' through the flood, " An' he says, — ' I'm kind o' lost 'round here, now could you tell me, Bud, " ' If steers is fifty on the hoof, an' whiskey two bits per, " * How far would you allow it is to Coquahallus Spur?' " So I figured, an' I figured, but I couldn't make it right, " An' that coon, he started shrinkin' till he shrunk plumb out of sight. " But his guns they swelled an' bloated, like a cow-hide in the wet, " 'Til they grew to twelve-inch howitzers, all loaded up an' set " A-pointin' right square at me, an' I couldn't bat an eye, *' Then a lizard, wearin' leather chaps, perambu- lated by, " He nods to me most friendly, an' then, ' Buddy, Boy,' says he. 8 BUDDY'S BLIGHTY " ' I met a pal of yours last week, they call him Pat McGhee, " * An' he asked me, if I saw you, just to tell you he was well ' — *' Then he yanked the fxrin' lever, an' I gave an awful yell. " I didn't hear the gun go off — I didn't feel no jar, " But I felt myself a-fallin', faster than a shootin' star, " Through a million, million, million, million miles of fleecy clouds, " An' it seemed that there was people all around me there in crowds, *' All a- whisper in' an' a-talkin'. Then I felt almighty sure " I'd be stoppin' pretty sudden if I fell a little more, " An' I felt a hundred different aches an' forty kinds of pain, '* An' those people were a-talkin', I could hear 'em good an' plain. *' An' says one, ' Why, just look, Doctor, I believe he's comin' to,' BUDDY'S BLIGHTY " Another says, * Yes, so he is, I guess we'll pull him through." " Then I takes a look around me, an' what do you think I see ? " Just three nurses an' a doctor, standin' lookin' down at me, " I had splints an' pads, and bandages wherever they would fit, " I was perforated proper, but I didn't care a bit, " For I knew I'd said a long good-bye to bombs an' shells an' mud " An' was safe in bed in Blighty — an' that's good enough for Bud." Note :—" Diamond Curly-O " brand, is the letter Q (called curly O) inscribed in a diamond. "Seeing the elephant and hearing the owl" is the South- Western term for going on a big time. lO THE RAG-TIME ARMY They call us the Rag-time Army, and maybe they've named us right, Our drill may be kind of ragged — but say, have you seen us fight? For drilling is only drilling, but fighting's a good man's game, And a scrap with the Rag-time Army has never been voted tame. We're kind of a hybrid outfit — we're soldiers and civies, too — Just civies dressed up in khaki, determined to see things through Till the Kaiser is trimmed to a finish and Fritzy has jumped the ring; Though we may not scrap by the book of rules And at fancy drilling we're plain damned fools, We can put up a fine performance when it comes to the real thing. IT THE RAG-TIME ARMY Considering us as soldiers, we're only an empty bluff, We look like a bunch of dummies when we get on the ''Slope Arms" stuff; Our dressing is something awful — our '' fours " run from two to six. We can't even change direction without an in- fernal mix. But our shooting is not so rotten and we know what a bomb is for, They say we're not bad with the bayonet, though our drill is so awful poor, And Fritz doesn't love the Canucks, and I think that's the safest test ; We drag on the march like a flock of sheep Our discipline makes all the Brass Hats weep, But the sloppy old Rag-time Army goes " over the top " with the best. We're Doctors, and Farmers, and Lawyers, and Cowboys and City Clerks, The Office-Boy is a Sergeant, and the fellow that owned the works Is a beautiful big buck private, who jumps at the Sergeant's word, 12 THE RAG-TIME ARMY And the boss of a ranch takes orders from the fellow that tended herd. We're Bankers, and Brokers, and Butchers, we're Confidence-men, and Cooks, We're the fellows that dig the ditches, we're the fellows that keep the books. We're the men of the Pick and Shovel, we're the men of the brush and pen ; From the shovel-stiff to the ^Millionaire, If you're looking for them, you'll find them here — In the ranks of the Rag-time Army they count, one and all, as men. We heard in the far, faint distance the sound of a world at war And we jumped our jobs and came crowding to the call of the cannon's roar; From city, and town, and homestead, from cabin, and camp, and mine. From the wash of the warm Pacific and the ice of the Arctic line. And battle to us meant nothing, and war was a thing unknown. But, somewhere, deep in our being, far deeper than blood or bone, 13 THE RAG-TIME ARMY Spoke the voice of the old gray Mother, Who rules from Her Island Throne, " In a world of war will my sons abide, " In peace, or fight at the Mother's side? "Answer, Blood of the Mother's Blood, and Bone of the Mother's Bone." Then the little old Rag-time Army rose up at the Mother's call. And the little old Rag-time Army has learned how to fight, and fall, And the little old Rag-time Army is doing its little bit. And the Huns know the Rag-time Army, and they're not very fond of it. There are little white crosses marking the beds where the Canucks lie — (For drilling is only drilling — can drill teach a man to die?) But, when we come to the finish, to the close of the Hun's great " Day " When we've smashed the Hun on the Western Line, When our shells are screaming across the Rhine, You'll find the old Rag-time Army at work in its own old way. 14 THE AEROPLANE There's a speck afloat in the distant sky, It wheels and whirls like a hawk a-wing, In the blue, arched vault, where the bright birds fly, And 'round it, forming a fairy ring, The white puffs blossom, the white puffs bloom Like magic flowers ; then fade away. As the snow that falls in the winter's gloom Fades in the sun of a summer day. There's death and doom in that soaring speck Yes, doom and death are a-floating there, For the great guns swing to the call and beck Of the men who traverse the upper air, And that soaring speck is the great gun's eyes, (For the great guns, left to themselves, are blind,) So the plane that scours the empty skies Is brain and eyes of the guns behind. The white puffs blossom and bloom and grow, And death lies hid in their fleecy hearts, 15 THE AEROPLANE Wheeling, whirling, now high, now low, With the wild birds' wiles and the air-man's arts, The plane 'scapes death by a scanty yard. For the lesser guns, they are out to blind, (And they're shooting steady and strong and hard) The eyes of the mightier guns behind. There's a man aloft in the soaring plane, And his word is law to the guns below That boom and batter to clear the lane — The lane where the gleaming bayonets go. The great guns swing to his lightest word. The shells scream out at his slightest sign, And death's controlled by a man-made bird. And a bird-like man, o'er the German line. Strong steel muscles and silken wings, Screws and wires and wooden rods, High-strung engine that purrs and sings, And men a-wing on the wind, like gods — And the heart of all is the heart of him Who dares the deserts of air alone, And — god-like — poised on the ether's rim, Guides death's grim hand from his lofty throne. l6 THE LUCKY DUG-OUT She ain't no Carlton or Ritz Hotel, She ain't no Villa de Luxe, She's damp as blazes, an' leaks as well, An' you don't have to look at her twice to tell That her roof don't amount to shucks. She ain't equipped with no spacious hall. She don't much attract the eye at all. She's seven short feet by five, that's all, (She'll hold three men, if they're fairly small), An' her roof's just three feet high. She's built of sandbags, an' sticks, an' clay, An' galvanized iron, too. She's semi-detached, in a kind of way — Fritz dropped a Sausage the other day An' the dug-out next door — na poo. She's low, an' leaky, an' far from clean, An' muddy, an' wet — what's more. It's mighty wise to keep down your bean, 17 THE LUCKY DUG-OUT 'Cause it's dimes to doughnuts that you'll be seen If you loiter around the door. Her bathroom's a tin in the trench outside, Her kitchen's a can of coke, But the kitchen's closed, as, last time we tried. To cook a lunch in the bright noontide. Old Fritz threw things at the smoke. The people living across the way, Are an awful unfriendly lot — They like, at the end of a perfect day, To shove some shrapnel across the bay, An' make it unholy hot. But, rats to the leaks an' mud an' the rain. An' bother the dirt an' the wet — Though Fritz may shell us with might an' main, An' — goldarn his eyes, here he comes again — He hasn't quite hit us yet. An' let her leak in the good old way — It don't worry us a bit — Let Fritz keep pounding us night and day. We're cached away in a corner bay. Where we're damnably hard to hit. i8 " YELLOW '' 'Twas in Folkestone that they named him, in a crowded bar one night, When a fellow called him something that would make a rabbit fight, An' he took that red-raw fightin' word, that no man ought to stand. Just a-grinnin' kind of foolish — and he never raised a hand. Then they re-baptized him " Yellow," 'cause he'd showed a yellow streak. Wider than the Western Ocean, longer than a long, wet week ; It's a rotten brand to carry, but he didn't seem to care, So the name stuck hard in England, while we did our trainin' there. An' he brought it out here with him, where he lived up to it right — ^9, " YELLOW " Say, Fd never thought to meet a guy so devil-rode with fright — He'd duck each ramblin' bullet that come near enough to hear, An' he'd pass the low spots runnin', like a crazy white-tailed-deer. When he heard a shell a-comin', why he'd almost throw a fit. An' he'd turn 'bout two shades paler every time a ' Sausage ' lit ; Yep, he sure was some rip-snorter at the ' Death or Glory ' game, ' Yellow ' — that was what we called him, an' he lived up to his name. Well, the word came down the ditches that 'twas time for Fritz to hike, An' that we were goin' over first to see what things were like: Then the guns they got a-goin' an' most every kind of shell That a fellow ever dreamed about was givin' Fritzy hell. 20 " YELLOW " We were waitin' in the trenches for the guns to clear the way An' old Yellow, he was standin' right beside me in the bay; You could tell, just lookin' at him, that his nerves were shot to scraps — He was foolin' with his rifle — he kept pickin' at his straps. With his fingers kind o' twitchy, an' his face all soaked with sweat — Judgin' by the way he acted, 'twas a pretty healthy bet, That his heart was sayin' " stick it," while his heels yelled " run away " — It's a mighty mean sensation, an' / knoiu — I've felt that way. Then the whistle screamed " get over," an' the guns all seemed to stop. An' next minute we was swarmin', hell for leather, 'cross the top ; It was sure no bloomin' joy-ride, tho' the guns had done their best, (But, then, guns are only engines, it takes men to do the rest.) 21 " YELLOW " They'd made hay of Fritz's wire an' messed up his trench a lot, But they missed a few machine guns, an' they slipped it to us hot. Half way 'cross, old Yellow tumbled, an' he lay there like a log, An' a fellow, runnin' next him, yelled, " Get up, you yellow dog. " Call yourself a blasted Canuck, an' let Heinie get your goat — " Then he went down, chokin' awful with a bullet in his throat. But old Yellow got up runnin' — p'raps 'twas what that fellow said. Or the way he stopped that bullet, started Yellow seein' red. Well, we left a lot of fellows lyin' quiet in the dirt — For, with Fritz's Maxims workin', someone's certain to get hurt — But the Lord still loves the Irish, an' I hadn't got a scratch When we mixed it up with Fritzy in a bomb an' bayonet match. 22 " YELLOW " We cleaned up the trenches proper, an' we set- tled down to stick, But old Fritz's guns got goin' an' they nearly turned the trick, With a big barrage behind us, so our second wave got stuck An' it seemed, for some long minutes, we were sadly out of luck. 'Cos there wasn't many of us — just small bunches here an' there — An' the heavy Hun trench-mortars were a-pound- in' us for fair, Then they started in to rush us, an' things sure were lookin' bad. But we stopped 'em, good an' solid, though it took 'bout all we had. 'Twas a cinch we'd reached the finish of our merry morning's sport. With our ammunition scanty an' our bombs almighty short; With a "thin, red line" formation that was mostly gaps an' holes — The time seemed right for startin' in to doctor up our souls. 23 " YELLOW '' Me an' Yellow were together in a badly-battered bay, With the nearest fellows to us, maybe, twenty yards away; When we saw the gray-green uniforms come toilin' up once more, I can just remember thinkin' that we'd reached our limit, sure, When a chunk of shrapnel got me on the head, an' laid me out, 'Fore I had a chance to figure what the fuss was all about ; 'T wasn't very many minutes till I came to life again, An' I saw old Yellow scrappin', like a dozen crazy men. He'd no time to think of loadin', an' his bayonet was a stub, But the butt of his Lee-Enfield made a mighty handy club, I saw one big Hun go over with a caved-in skull, an' then — The world went 'round in circles an' I went to sleep again. 24 " YELLOW " That's the story, as I saw it — here's the rest, it's second hand — Our second wave got over just as Fritz broke down our stand. Cleaned up three Hues with the bayonet in a very decent style, Then our other waves got busy and drove Fritz back 'most a mile. Well, they found me in a mud-hole with a badly damaged dome, (One inch lower would have sent me to my happy Heavenly home). An' they found old Yellow lyin' sprawled out on the trenches' rim, Grippin' hard a broken rifle, with a dozen holes in him. Then they chucked me on a stretcher an' they sent me to the rear For the Red Cross men to play with — but, they buried Yellow there. This is just a simple story of a man who w^as my friend, Who was nearly mad with terror, but who stuck it to the end, 25 " YELLOW " Any man may sport a medal, if he has a Httle luck, But, my hat is off to Yellow, who was sick, an' scared, — an' stuck. 26 " IT SOUNDS TO ME '' 'Way West, where the prairies stretch far and free Till they fade in the sun's hot blaze, Where the cowboys follow the drifting herds, Through the land of the unmarked ways ; Where life's lived close to the edge of things, And living is less complex Than in lands controlled by the reckless hands Of what's known as the weaker sex; Where chaps and Stetsons are evening dress And collars and ties are banned, Where auction bridge is a game unknown, And there's just five cards in a hand; Where wealth is reckoned in heads of stock, And thousands of herds range free — They've got an expression that's mighty good, We'd use it, too, if we understood What they mean by " it sounds to me." Suppose you're down in the cattle lands And you meet with a guy some night, 27 " IT SOUNDS TO ME " Who's full of the juice of the joyous grape — Plumb loaded with booze and fight. You greet him first in a friendly way — At least, if you're wise, you do — Then, suppose he, lifting his voice in song. Unburdens his soul to you — " I'm an old gray wolf from the poison plains, Where the coyotes lurk and prowl, " I'm a hootin', shootin' son of a gun, And this is my night to howl." Don't say, " Forget it, you drunken boob. You're too full of booze to see " — That might mean shootin' and sudden death. Don't get to talkin', just save your breath, And murmur : *' It sounds to me." Or, our leading citizen. Deacon Jones, We'll say, owes you fifty bucks, That you lent him once on his empty word — And his word don't amount to shucks — Well, you've tried your best to collect that bill, But the Deacon he won't kick through, Then, s'pose you run into a pal some night. Who discourses like this to you — '' As a model of virtue and honest worth. Old Jones is the real thing, 28 '' IT SOUNDS TO ME '* " His word's his bond, he's as true as steel And as straight as a yard of string." Your pal may think he's as right as rain, No matter how wrong he be, Don't tell the tale of your fifty bucks. But just look weary, and murmur: "Shucks" " P'raps so — but — it sounds to me." Out here where we copy the boring worm, And live like the festive mole, Where our streets are trenches knee-deep in mud And home is a sandbagged hole; Sometimes — not often — you'll meet a guy. Whose vision is tinged with blue, And he'll say — " The Huns made a drive at X And they've pretty near broken through ; " We've lost ten guns and a lot of men — God knows where the thing will end. " For the Huns are getting the upper hand." Just tell him : " My cheerful friend, " I love the sight of your beaming face, And your bright sunny smile, but, — gee ! — " Go somewhere else with your sad, sweet song, *' You may be right, but I think you're wrong, " And, straight now — ' it sounds to me.' " 29 " IT SOUNDS TO ME " When the German press gets a-going good And, dreaming an inky dream, Brags big of the cowardly British fleet That, according to them, 'twould seem, Daren't show a nose in the open seas, But sulks in its guarded holes, While the German ships sweep the seven seas, And cruise to the farthest poles, In search of a foe that they fail to find, — Just figure it out this way : Fritz says his navy is after ours. And hunting it night and day, But a German ship is a d d rare bird In the wash of the old North Sea; Though German journalists rant and rave Of a German fleet on the rolling wave. It sounds — well, " it sounds to me." When Fritz starts trying to get our goats, By bragging of " Kultur's Might," Of "hammer blows" and of "breaking through " And the " Triumphs of German Right," Why, let him rave and amuse himself, And it doesn't hurt us a bit. 30 " IT SOUNDS TO ME " For we've got a kind of " Kultur," too, Though we don't make a brag of it — And it doesn't stand for a conquered world 'Neath the heel of a German's rule, And it doesn't stand for a world imbued, With the doctrines of Kultur's school. But a world unshadowed by dread of war, For a world that is safe and free. So, Fritz, old boy, you may rave and rant, And brag and bluster — but win, you can't, So, really — " it sounds to me." 31 ODE TO MACCONACHIE My weary spirit, like a storm-swept pine, Is bowed beneath the weight of trouble's load, Nor sun, nor moon, nor pitying star doth shine. To ease the darkness of my cheerless road. To all the woes that harass and appall, That crush my heart and fill my soul with pain, Is added one, more deep and dark than all — We've got MacConachies for lunch again. Here, where we've made our home, the rain falls cold, The mud is unbelievably deep. The " Whiz-Bang " whizzes, as in days of old. The crumping " Crump " disturbs our easeful sleep, All these be minor ills — we've learned to laugh At screaming shells, and cold, and driving rain. But none among us can forbear to strafe, When we must eat MacConachies again. 32 ODE TO MACCONACHIE Friend Fritz's " Heavies " fill the air with noise, And breach the parapet that was our pride, " Rum Jars " and " Sausages," and kindred toys, Fall thick around the dug-outs where we hide, The snipers snipe ferociously and free. The Maxims spray us with their iron rain — We could stick these things with a grin, maybe. But — we must eat MacConachies again. Accursed can of thrice accursed food : Oh, '' ]\I. & V." when shall we have release. From thy meat, murphys, beans and carrots, stewed And buried deep in hecatombs of grease? Some men there are, 'tis said, who, wath their teeth. Dig deep their graves — I fear 'twill be my doom To have inscribed upon my funeral wreath, '* With his can-opener he built his tomb." Oh, ye ; whose caps are splashed with red and gold, To whom the art of war is A.B.C., Let not our cry of anguish leave you cold. But lend attentive ear unto our plea. We'll gladly bear war's horrors — Number Nines, ODE TO MACCONACHIE Physical jerks, fatigues, and first F. P., " Whiz-Bangs " and " Sausages," grenades and mines, If only you will strafe MacConachie. 34 BILL Bill, the Bomber, is down in the mud. Shot to pieces and bleeding fast, He played his cards in the game of games, But he's come to the end of his stack at last; He bet on his cards for all they were worth, Now his last check's up on a losing hand. And he's cashing in at the game's grim end, In the shell-swept reaches of No-Man's-Land. Bill came down from the frozen North, From the lonely land where the corpse-lights glow, Spurred and stung by the tales of war That filtered in from the land below; Tales of torture and filthy lust, Tales of horror and deeds of shame, Till he left his claim and his trapping line To take a hand in the greatest game. His mukluks and parka are cached away, And they've dressed him up in a khaki suit, 35 BILL They've taught him to see with a soldier's eye, They've taught him to drill, and to march, and shoot ; He, who had shot that he might not starve. He, who had run with the dogs all day. Learned to shoot as a soldier shoots, Learned to march in a soldier's way. They took him over across the sea, And set him down in a ravished land, Where the trenches twine through the war-tilled fields. And the Hun is held in an iron band; Doing his bit with his heart held high. Taking his chances as they came round, And now he's lying between the lines. And his blood drops red on the reeking ground ; He prays for the greatest gift of the gods, The touch of death that will end his pain, Then sleep steals down on his weary eyes, And his soul is back in the North again. He feels the fang of the frost in his flesh As it stabs through the parka's fold, And the scorch of the storm- whirl sears his cheek. BILL With the touch of its biting cold; He hears the crunch of the wind-packed snow As it grinds 'neath the snow-shoes' tail, And he knows he is back in the North again, At the start of another trail. Back to the land where he'd fought, and failed. And risen to fight again, Fought and fallen, but battled on, In the strength of his sweat and pain; Broken and beaten, but undismayed. Fighting the fight to the last, One lone man 'gainst the lone wolf-land, Braving the biting blast. Daring the devils that ride the storm, The fiends that reive in the snow. Going gay to the jaws of death, As only the brave may go, Hurling a taunt in the wolf -land's eyes, Laughing in death's dark face, A lonely atom that takes its stand In the midst of infinite space. Back in the grey old North again. With the flat snow stretching wide, 37 BILL Back in the land of the stunted pines, Where the wolf and the Husky bide, Back where the Frost King's grip is strong, And the winds, his courtiers, race. Back where men rattle the dice with fate And gamble for gold or a grave. Then the flame of the past leaped through his blood, Like the flame of a sacred fire. And the wail of the wind was a welcome hpme. To the land of his heart's desire, The Huskies howled in the driving storm And the howl of the wolves replied, From the shadowed thickets of stunted pine That blackened the mountain side. Then mush, you sore-footed brutes, mush on, — The tugging malamutes strain the trace. And the whip's sharp snap is the crack of doom As it rings and echoes through silent space; The coarse snow shrieks 'neath the speeding sled, And heading into the rising gale. Strong in the strength of his heart and hands. He's mushing off on his last long trail. 38 BILL Bill, the Bomber came back to the trench, A mud-stained tunic over his face, By the light of the first faint flush of dawn They dug him a shallow resting-place; They looked at the wounds where his life leaked out, And their oaths held more than a hint of prayer, For they knew that he'd suffered the pains of hell, Waiting for death in the darkness there. Then they bared his face for a last good-bye, Ere they laid him down on his couch of clay, And he seemed to sleep, as a man may sleep At the end of a long and weary day; Never a mark on his face to tell Of the age-long hours of a night of pain, But the smile of a man, who, the long trail past, Is come to the home of his heart again. 39 YPRES Grim and grey 'neath the brooding stars Thy shell-torn ruins lie, And the fire-scarred stubs of thy once proud towers Strain to the pitying sky, Like twisted and tortured hands that reach To the foot of the throne on high, And plead for a vengeance swift and sure On the foe who has done thee wrong, Who gave a peaceful town to the sword. Claiming the right of the strong — A little patience, oh, tortured town. For vengeance is thine ere long. Already the armies that stand for the right Are hard on the heels of the Hun, And the dark of defeat draws near to them Who sought a place in the sun, And the nation that drank to '' The Day," with cheers. Will mourn ere the day be done. 40 YPRES Battered and burnt are the pleasant homes That stood by thy eastern gate, Ruined and ravished the lordly Hall Where thy merchants have sat in state, Great is thy sorrow, and great thy loss. But thy honour is still more great. Though thy glory be dim with the dust of death And thy beauty in ruin falls. Honoured art thou above all the towns In the dead that died by thy walls, And thy honour's stars are the graves that lie, In the shade of thy shattered halls. Gay and gallant they fought their fight And lightly they laid them down, On the blood-stained banks of thy old canal And the steel-swept streets of the town, Flooding the earth with their hero's blood And thy name with their fair renown. So, hail to thee ! city of shroudless ghosts, And hail to the noble dead, Who laid them down in their last long sleep, With thy stony streets for a bed, And gave their lives that the world might live, When thy old canal ran red. 41 YPRES Strong in sorrow and proud in death, Thou shalt stand through the long, long years, A monument to a whole world's woe, To a nation's blood and her tears, To the men that looked death fair in the face, Untroubled by craven fears. And thy ravished ruins shall be a sign Till the set of the last red sun, A warning grim, as thy fate was grim, That men may read as they run, " Heed ye the fate of the little lands That trust in the word of the Hun." 43 RESPONSIBILITY There was a man in Birmingham who couldn't go and fight, His heart was pretty shaky and his lungs were far from right, Too weak to make a soldier — this is how the story runs — He got a job a-making ammunition for the guns. And shut up in a factory, ten hours a day or more, He made the little cartridges that fit the rifle-bore, Although he worked to beat the Dutch his con- science wasn't right, And he worried like blue blazes 'cause he couldn't go and fight. There was an army-service man, who dished out clothes and shoes, MacConachies and bully-beef, and bread and cheese and booze ; He got a special army form demanding bread and beans And half a million other things, for some bunch near Messines. 43 RESPONSIBILITY It was an extra special case so, with no time to waste, He turned a bunch of wagons out and loaded up in haste; And, somehow, working at high speed and rushed to beat the band. Put on an extra jar of rum that wasn't " on demand." There was a Sergeant-Major, and a cheerful soul was he, He saw that extra jar of rum and chortled in his glee; Says he, '' I guess the boys are cold, a-standin' in the rain, A double dose will warm 'em up and set 'em right again." Then he rambled down the trenches, through mud and dark and wet. And handed out a man-sized jolt to every man he met, — Although we sometimes bawl at him and often cuss him some. We love the Sergeant-Ma j or when he dishes out the rum. 44 RESPONSIBILITY There was a private down the trench, a-doing of his guard, All wet and cold and mis'rable and up against it hard, The world seemed full of grief and gloom, with ne'er a guiding star, When the Sergeant-Major hove in sight a-carry- ing his jar. His soul was full of perfect peace, the whole world was his friend, As half a pint of Army rum went scorching round the bend ; So, joying in the welcome heat of the internal glow. He cared not for the rain above or for the mud below. Beneath the soothing influence was born a pious thought, From out the misty memories of things that he'd been taught, " Cast your bread upon the waters," that is what the Scripture tells, " I guess I'll let 'em have ten rounds, on general principELS." 45 RESPONSIBILITY So, working his Lee-Enfield, just as fast as she could bark, He sent his ten rounds rapid out into the silent dark, And, though he didn't know it then, and didn't give a damn, The cartridges he rattled off were made in Birmingham. There was a German General doped out a lovely scheme. Considered as pure strategy it was a perfect dream ; He had an awful bunch of men all ready for the scrap And figured that he'd wipe the British Army off the map. With his Staff all gathered 'round him, in his camp behind the line. He laid his scheme before them and it sounded mighty fine. But just before he reached the point on which the whole thing hung, A-sailing handsome, high and wide, a random bullet sung. 46 RESPONSIBILITY The gold-laced Staff stood round and gaped, in horror and surprise, The General curled up on the floor, a hole between his eyes; The golden dream of conquest had been shattered with a slam, By a rambling, stray, old bullet that was made in Birmingham. And through that hole between his eyes their highest hopes had fled, The scheme was locked up in his brain — what use, when he was dead? His great plan may have been a peach, or may have been a quince. But they didn't break the line that night, and haven't done it since. This is a simple little tale, but tell me, friend o' mine, Who was it wiped that General out, and, maybe, saved the line ? Was it the Private, half-way soused, who let his ten rounds hum. Or, perhaps, the Sergeant-Major, who had given him the rum? 47 RESPONSIBILITY Was it the Army-Service man, who didn't count things right, Or that poor guy in Birmingham, who couldn't go and fight? Such questions aren't much in my Hne, so I've no answer pat, I'll let you work it out yourself and " let it go at that." 43 NO MAN'S LAND In the sunny South and the naked North The old wise East and the younger West, Poets have Hved and songs sent forth Lauding the land that they held the best. Dante has written of Heaven and Hell, Of souls in torment and angel band, What of the land where no man may dwell? Who writes the ballad of No Man's Land? Grim and gaunt in the morning's grey Barren and bare in the noon-day's light, Livid and lone when the star-shells play, A deadly desert through day and night. 'Neath the Maxim's hail and the shrapnel's sweep Who may cross it and hope to stand ? And, who is there who holds life so cheap As the men who wander in No Man's Land? Narrow kingdom of dread and fear Where Death Omnipotent holds his sway, From the Northern Sea to the South frontier 49 NO MAN'S LAND Lie heaps of clothing and mouldering clay. All that is left of the men who died In the dark alone, that the men who stand On guard, in the trenches that wander wide, May rule the Kingdom of No Man's Land. Many a man goes gay to death In the rush and riot of charging men, When high hearts leap to the deep-drawn breath, Who cares for bullet or bayonet then? But the man must be made in a hero's mould Who dares to wander with life in hand, Where the shadow of Death's dark wings enfold The fatal field that is No Man's Land. Many a gallant life has fled, To the bursting bomb and the bayonet's thrust, And the grey rats feast on the year-old dead, In the slimy mud and the poisoned dust. In death and decay they lie supine. Where never a tree or a house may stand. Who would win the day on the Western line, • Must pay the price out in No Man's Land. Sing of your heroes of golden lands. Men of Carthage and Greece and Rome, 150 NO MAN'S LAND Of Nelson and Drake and their hero bands Sailor Sons of our Island Home. Who ruled the earth and who dared the deep, With hero heart and unfaltering hand, Have they more honor than those who sleep The last long sleep out in No Man's Land? l'envoi Who is the man with the poet's soul. The soldier's eye and the craftsman's hand, Who will worthily carve on Fame's fair scroll The deathless epic of No Man's Land? OVER THE WALL The shells are screaming over our heads, And the guns are roaring to beat the band, They're having a merry hell of a time On the other border of No Man's Land ; But through the rush and the roar and the reek A message drops on the waiting ear, And the shrieking shrapnel and roaring guns Brings tidings of comfort and hearty cheer. " Look to your bayonet and see to your bombs, Be sure that your rifle is working right, We've lain in the mud for a long, long while, But we're going over the wall to-night." The parapet's smashed to a shapeless mass. And the wire is hanging in tattered strings. The guns have the range to a split frogs hair, And they sure are making a mess of things. The sandbags soar like the mounting lark. And the armoured dug-outs are pounded flat, 52 OVER THE WALL That shattered wood was a gun-base once, But the nine point twos put an end to that. Just let the artillery clear the way, You can bet your boots that they'll do it right, There'll be mighty little to hold us up, When we go over the wall to-night. Eighteen pounder and nine point two ; Fifteen inch and seventy-five, Paving the path where the bayonets go, Blazing the trail for another drive. The shrapnel drips like a driving rain, The H. E.'s batter at every bay, And Fritz is down in his dug-outs deep. Thirty feet in the stubborn clay. Dig your deepest and burrow your best. We'll dig you out with the bayonet bright. You'll find six fathoms is none too deep. When we go over the wall to-night. The Sergeant-Major's round with the rum — The bombers are loosening up their pins, The Captain's got his eye on his watch. Two minutes more and the show begins. Brace your feet on the firing step, Ready to jump when the whistles blow, 53 OVER THE WALL Think of the weary months in the mud, Of the boys *' gone West " that we used to know. We've quite a score to settle with Fritz, But we'll pay up our debts in full, and write " Paid " at the foot of the long account. When we go over the wall to-night. The Captain's whistle's between his teeth And the guns lift on to the second line; The whistle shrieks and away we go, 'Cross the narrow strip where the bullets whine. Splashing thro' cess-pools of stinking slime. Stumbling through mud that is foul and deep, Over that shell-pocked No Man's Land, As wolves swoop down on the cowering sheep. The shrapnel's tearing gaps in the ranks, Lines wither away in the Maxim's blast, But who cares a curse for his life to-night? We're over the wall and away at last. Through the wire and down the trench. Stab and batter and shoot and thrust, Bomb and bayonet and rifle clubbed. Berserk mad with the battle lust. There's a few more acres of France set free, 54 OVER THE WALL At the point of the bayonet we've pushed the line A few yards further along the way — The long red road to the rolling Rhine. We've given the Kaiser another push, To help him along to his final fall, And freedom and peace drew a step more near. When the boys were up and over the wall. 55 MUD Arms and the mud I sing, — the mud we find To right and left, before us and behind. Inside our boots, our clothes, our eyes, our ears, In everything we own of every kind. WeVe getting used to Fritz's little game. We don't find things as bad as when we came, The shelling doesn't bother us so much, But mud is everlastingly the same. The parapet we build so tall and straight. What time the engineers stood by in state And told us just exactly what to do. Must be rebuilt to-morrow, — ain't it great ? No shells have ever landed on it yet. Nor did a " sausage " cause this blamed upset, It just lay down under the pressure of The blasted mud, a-swelling in the wet. 56 MUD We load it into bags whereof we make A place to sleep, but find, when we awake, The dug-out that we toiled on has become A muddy island in a muddier lake. They tell us we must stick it when the Hun Comes swarming through the wire — easy done, If you're bogged down in Flanders to your waist You've got to stick it — you're too deep to run. Of gallant charges poets used to sing. Of dashes into death while bugles ring, Shoulder to shoulder, bayonets gleaming bright, But charging through the mud's a different thing. Of course, we sometimes go to see the Hun, But then we slide and slither — never run. How can you run with mud above your knees? The glory of the charge is overdone. It's spread upon the biscuit that we eat. The same old mud that squelches 'neath our feet, It thickens up our soup, sweetens our tea, And in our stew it mingles with the meat. 57 MUD It has a few good points when all is said, It makes a soft, though somewhat slimy, bed, And, covered with a bag or two, it makes A downy pillow for a weary head. Oh, Mud ! Mud ! Mud ! Must raiment, food and bed Be full of thee? Sleeping and clothed and fed Must you be always with us and, at last. Must we be buried in you when we're dead ? Remember Belgium ! Shall we soon forget The land that stays so beautifully wet? They told us 'twould dry up when spring came round, Tis August, and the mud is with us yet. But still 'tis not much use to raise a fuss, And when we feel inclined to rave or cuss, We find some consolation in the thought That Fritz is getting it as bad as us. 5S MATHEMATICS There was a time when I beheved that maps Were harmless products of the draughtsmen's art, And figured, Hke a lot of other chaps, That maps and wars were many miles apart. I've learnt to trail a contour to its lair And how to tell a valley from a hill, To scale the measured miles from here to there, To trace the windings of a pictured rill ; I've learnt the signs for everything, from wells to railway stations, I've even learnt to calculate magnetic variations. Now there's a pin-prick on a German map, (A mark upon a map I've never seen) Made by some goggle-eyed professor chap, All togged up in a suit of greyish-green, Who's skipper of a bag of tricks that looks Like a machine-shop, but is just a gun Manned by a lot of guys that study books And gather round and have a lot of fun, 59 MATHEMATICS With gears and shafts and steering wheels and other mechanisms, Professors of a dozen sorts and half a hundred Of course, they're quite a piece away from me, (A range of hills and lots of air between) Fve never seen, nor ever hope to see, Those scientific chaps in greyish-green. But, still, Fve got a hunch that there's a prick Upon their map that shows just where I lie, And some day they'll cut loose and turn the trick And we'll go soaring, piecemeal, to the sky. Knowing they've marked upon their map exactly your location. Doesn't encourage quiet thought or peaceful meditation. A scientific gent that soars on wings Among the fleecy clouds that float on high, With telescope and other useful things, Locates us as he rambles through the sky ; He telephones down to another Hun, Letters and figures in a formless group. Which the receiver notes, and when he's done They've got us very nicely in the soup. 60 MATHEMATICS That tangled bunch of figures is the sign of our undoing, They plot them nicely on their map and calmly leave us stewing, — Until the skipper of that bag of tricks Says to his junior, standing next in line — " Those fellows at O.K. 4-9-3-6 — " I've got their angles figured pretty fine, " Suppose we let them have a round or so." They get their little toy all loaded up With dopes, whose names I never hope to know, Packed in an envelope designed by Krupp, And having set their wheels and things with care and circumspection, They loose a ton of concentrated hell in our direction. Then, if their calculations have been true And accurately drawn their curves and lines, If no one's dropped a decimal or two. In calculating tangents, squares and sines ; Why, then, the steel-cased lump of sudden death Will follow up the line laid down for it. Nor vary by a single whisker's breadth, Until it hits where it's supposed to hit; 61 MATHEMATICS That is where Fritz's pin-prick shows our situation, And we're wiped out by trigonometry, to Fritz's keen elation. Give us again the good old days now dead, When hand to hand you faced the other dub And bounced a granite boulder off his head, Or re-arranged his features with a club. Those were the good old days. Just now, alas ! A Hun professor in a grey-green dress (Who taught before the war an infant class) Can drop Krupp's greetings right at your address. From all this mess of useless words stands forth one truth terrific, They've spoiled this war by making it so blasted scientific. 62 REFLECTIONS OF A TOMMY They say there's dignity and peace in death. There may be, sometimes, mostly though, there's not. We see so many fellows draw their breath For the last time, in this confounded spot, \Yt don't pay much attention to it now, Or moralize about Death's healing hand Laid softly on the sufferer's fevered brow To ease his pain. 'Tis hard to understand. You know Old Bill? We laid Old Bill away A little while ago. I dug his hole — (It sure was dirty digging — sticky clay) And tried to say a prayer for Old Bill's soul. And then it struck me — all the poets gush About the peaceful sleep of death, and tell Of the calm, happy smiles, and such like slush, Of men who die for freedom, but, O! Hell! Just take a look at Bill ; does his face show The hand of peace — mark of a soul set free ? Or, don't you think that anyone would know, Just looking at him, what he used to be ? 63 REFLECTIONS OF A TOMMY I took the blanket off his face to see If Death had clothed him in a robe of grace; No, there he lay, just as he used to be, The same unlovely, weakling, shiftless face.- (A little froth of blood upon his lips. And eyes, half glazed, and staring straight ahead, Dull with the dulness of his life's echpse.) What sign of peace lies in those eyes so dead, Or rest, or honour, on that mouth so weak ? His eyes give him away, his cold lips tell, Plainly as if in death they still could speak, Just what he was — a man that failed and fell. The kind that keeps our prisons always filled. That lengthens out our bread-line every year — A weakling, wastrel; hope and honour killed Not much nobility in Bill, I fear. But, then on second thought, there's something there — Hardly the stamp of noble death, but still A look that Bill, in life, could never wear. Now he's gone West it's possible that Bill Knows things that he could never hope to know. And sees more clearly now than we can see. Of course, that's just a hunch — it may be so, Or it may not, and yet, it seems to me 64 REFLECTIONS OF A TOMMY There's something in Bill's face that seems to say — *' You called me jail-bird, crook and other things, *' You thought I was a slum-rat yesterday, " And you a plaster saint with snowy wings, " Because you had the chance I never had. " But now I know, and some day you'll know, too, " That no man is all good, and none all bad ; " Now lying here, I'm just as good as you. " I gave my life — 'twas all I had to give — " (A man has just one life, whoe'er he be) " That men at home might sleep in peace, and live; " Is one of them a better man than me? " I may be wrong; perhaps it's just a whim Of light and shadow makes him look that way, But, it sure struck me, when I looked at him. That if Bill had a message, 'twas to say, Something like this : " A rogue dead in this fight '' Does more for right than any saint that stays away " And skulks at home." I think that Bill is right. 65 MUSIC I was fooling around in a muddy trench, doing a guard one night, 'Twas black as the boots of the Earl of Hell — the wind was a holy fright ; The cold was the kind that just sapped your bones, the rain was a solid sheet, And I hugged the lee of a traverse there, hunt- ing a little heat. Someone, a little way down the ditch, was playing a violin And the notes came down on the biting wind, eerie and weird and thin, Then, huddled up in the cold and rain, as limp as an empty sack. My soul got away from a world of war, and my mind went a-beating back, Over the long, long trail of Time, to a night so long ago, 66 MUSIC When, snug and warm in a log-built shack, we basked in the birch logs' glow; When Jacques Du Bois, on his violin, played the chansons of ancient France, And Bill La Belle, on the split-log floor, danced us the Beggar's Dance, That he'd learned in the days when he traded North, many a year ago. And the storm wind howled round the moss- chinked logs, and the claws of the driven snow Tore at the windows and shook the roof and rattled the close-barred door, And we cheered old Bill till the shingles shook, and shouted and yelled for more. Then we dragged Big Russian Mike from his bunk, a-cussin' to beat the band, To show how the fur-capped Cossacks danced on the steppes of his native land. Thirty below in the storm outside, but cosy and warm within. And the storm fiends howling a chorus deep to Du Bois's old violin. 67 MUSIC He stopped. I guess for a little while he was fig- uring what he'd play, And, as he groped in his brain's back room to dig up another lay, He kept on drawing out broken chords, without any settled scheme. Wild as the wail of a lone, lost soul — and then in a kind of dream I saw the camp of the Sitka Crees, on the edge of the Barren Lands, In the year when the salmon came not at all and the errant and drifting bands Of caribou (they must hunt or starve) swung east of their well-trod trail, So the hunters crawled empty-handed home, and famine, a spectre pale. Stalked, grim and gaunt, through the famished camp and struck with a heavy hand. Till women and weaklings failed like flies and the strongest, who still could stand. Scratched with their knives in the frost-gripped ground, piling up cairns of stones, O'er the dead they laid in their shallow graves to cheat the wolves of the bones. 6^ MUSIC And the broken chords, on the biting wind, were the wails of the women when They mourn for those who have hit the trail to the Hills of the Mighty Men. Then he started into a tune that told of women, and song, and wine, And I visioned Tony the Wop's old dump, up back of the Forty-Nine, When old Sawn-soo and Dan McKay and Little Pete Dawe and me, Came mushing down from Muskaga Creek on a hell of a jamboree. Money to burn in our pokes that night, and never a care at all, And we cut things loose to a queen's sweet taste in Tony the Wop's old hall. Hooch a-plenty and dances free, and all the games thrown wide, 'Til Dan ran foul of a tin-horn sport, who'd just got in from outside ; A couple of words and their guns were out — you know the way these things start — And Dan lay sprawled on the dance-house floor, a bullet plumb thro' his heart. 69 MUSIC He kept on playing 'bout all he knew — music of every kind — And every tune brought a picture clear of some- thing I'd left behind — Something I'd known in the good old days, in the lands that are wild and free, (Lonely and hungry and naked lands, but they sure look like home to me) And when my relief got around at last, I lay in my muddy bed And dreamed of forests of gloomy pine, of snows that are drear and dead. Of camp-fires dotting the night like stars, of stars that are bright like fire, Of mountains rising to meet the stars, higher and ever higher; Of the old lost trails and the old lost life, of the lands that I used to know. Mountain and forest and frozen stream, tundra and swamp and snow. I don't know whether that guy could play, 'cos violin stuff, you see. Is one of the thirteen million things that don't mean a thing to me, 70 MUSIC But it seems to me, many years ago, that I heard quite a lengthy speil, By some wise old guy, that Music's good if only it makes you feel. If Music is good when it makes you feel that fellow's was good all right, For the sounds that he sawed from his creak- ing strings made me homesick as hell that night. 71 THE WANDERING MEN There's a breed of men — a wandering breed — ; they're drifting everywhere, Nobody knows just who they are, or whence they came, or why, A breed who'll tackle any game, and always play it square. Who'll drink or fight, or maybe kill, but seldom cheat or lie. Unless it be to help a pal — they're far from be- ing saints. They live their lives to suit themselves, fearless and free and fast, Unchecked by any church's code, by any law's re- straints, They seek what joy there is in life, as long as life may last. You used to meet them everywhere, where life ran swift and strong, Where the wild land makes its final stand, ere yet it's beaten back, 72 THE WANDERING MEN Where the city crowds the desert, where the trails are lone and long, The wandering men whose feet are free and scorn the trodden track. The lone trails know their feet no more — no more their camp-fires glow, Like fire-flies in the velvet dark, or hail the com- ing day, Their feet are now on harder trails, the trails that soldiers know. And many sleep their last long sleep, 'neath France's sodden clay. They were men whose lives would not conform to standards churchmen set, They fell for cards, for rattling dice, for women fair and frail, They dearly loved to gaze upon the whiskey when 'twas wet. And their feet slipped far and frequent from the straight and narrow trail. They often got too hot to hold and sadly out of hand, They loved to cut things loose, to fight and frolic now and then : 73 THE WANDERING MEN They'd be 'way out of the picture in a white-robed angel band, But they stacked up good and proper in our com- mon world of men. There are some whose souls went soaring to the high explosive's crash, There are some whose lives leaked redly through the hole the bayonet made, Bursting bomb and whining bullet and the shrap- nel's sear and smash, Sent some to answer roll-call at the Great O. C.'s Parade. Though their lives were far from saintly, yet they died as brave men die, Without regret for days gone by or fear for days in store. They went to death as to a feast, with heart and head held high. They played the game for all 'twas worth and v/hat can man do more? All through the war-reaped fields of France, their unmarked graves abound. They sleep the deep and dreamless sleep of men whose toil is past, 74 THE WANDERING MEN Till the trumpeter of Heaven on the trump of doom shall sound The call to that court-martial that all men must face at last. Shall they fear that great court-martial, who knew not the name of fear? Shall they merit deep damnation for their lives lived fast and free? Shall not life, laid down for freedom, pay for every wasted year, And their long account be cancelled, by the lives they gave in fee? So when the Provost-Marshal lays their crime- sheet on the board, (The long, long list of lusty years, when life was swift and strong, With many a duty left undone and many a law ignored) And the wandering men of little worth stand forth a goodly throng. With their clothes all torn in battle and their scars of honour red. Shall they be judged by churchmen's laws or by the laws that stand above 75 THE WANDERING MEN The little laws that churchmen make — the laws of Him who said, " Who gives his life that man may live, no man has greater love." 76 PAY DAY There was Rod O'Shea, and Micky Walsh, and Tillicum McGhee, And Big Bill Black, and Shorty Jones, and Jimmy Noyes, and me — We drew our pay and started out upon a little spree. We didn't buy no motor cars, or yachts, or dia- mond rings, (When you're a-soldiering out here you don't re- quire such things) But with our fifteen francs apiece we felt as rich as kings. Our real needs were only two — I don't know which was worst — Our longing for some real grub or our unholy thirst ; Estaminets weren't open, so we killed our hunger first. 77 PAY DAY We had a reg'lar soldier's spread — a bunch of hen-fruit fried, Some chipped-up Murphies cooked in grease, with coffee on the side. Some stuff that they call custard here, and we were satisfied. And then we hunted up a place where they sell liquid stuff. You can't get any " hooch " out here, which sure is mighty tough — And so we had to make beer do, and beer was quite enough. It was an old estaminet, two miles behind the hne, Where they sell stout and " Beer Anglais " and vinegar called wine; We mopped up quite a lot of each and got to feelin' fine. There was soldiers there of every kind the world has ever seen. Artillery, and horse, and foot — yes, even a marine. And then we got to tellin' tales — you know the kind I mean. 78 PAY DAY O'Shea he told of crocodiles, and ninety-nine foot snakes, While Jimmy Noyes was lyin' 'bout the dams the beaver makes, And how he uses his flat tail to hammer down his stakes. There was a flame-topped Irishman (his pals all called him Pat) Says he — " I've seen a beaver and it's just a swelled-up rat, With a tail that's far too big for him and pounded kind of flat." We wear a Beaver on our caps upon a maple leaf, So we couldn't stand such statements from a red- haired cattle-thief: We looked at one another, more in anger than in grief. 'Twas Big Bill took the challenge up and rose up in his might, He landed on the red-haired mut — and landed on him right, And that was the commencement of a very pretty fight. 79 PAY DAY There, where the dove of peace had perched, the air was stiff with strife, Formalities were cast aside and war was to the knife; I've never struck a sweeter scrap in all my mis- spent life. It was a peach — I saw Big Bill backed up against the door, Doing Horatius at the Bridge, and, tangled on the floor, A ball of concentrated strife with Jimmy for the core. Fists, bottles, jugs and table-legs were mussing up the air. And missiles, mixed with wicked words, were flying here and there, And — someone laid out Micky with the ruins of a chair. Big Bill was next to bite the dust, he got it good and hard, (An upper-cut that jarred his spine and lifted him a yard), Bill always was a careless cuss about his bloomin' guard. 8q PAY DAY Right then things happened with such speed they're hard to tell about — Someone got jugglin' with a jug that had been full of stout, And Jimmy Noyes was in the way — they counted Jimmy out. Some careless person, fooling with a bottle, let it fly, It landed with a sickly thud upon my dexter eye. And I went peacefully to sleep and let the world slip by. I can't say just what happened next — I wasn't in the game, But, from the tales I've heard, I judge that things were far from tame, And everyone enjoyed himself until the piquet came. Now Rod O'Shea, and Micky Walsh, and Tilli- cum McGhee, And Big Bill Black, and Shorty Jones, and Jimmy Noyes, and me, Are doing twenty-eight long days on number one F. P. 8i PAY DAY They've moved our leave back just six months, that means that v^e'll get none, Until old Fritz is flattened out and this darned war is done, But — though we're paying for it now — we sure had lots of fun. 82 DAWN — APRIL 9th, 1917 Not yet Dawn — and the gray mists lie Thick on the Ridge ahead. Here and there, Hke a Hghtning flash, Blazons a burst of red Through the dark that lies on a storm-swept world — heavy and cold as lead. Not yet dawn — and the storm-whirls sweep Over a world a-strain — The men of the Youngest Nation wait — Out in the dark and rain, Ready to die that a world may live — Reckoning death as gain. There, in the black of the storm-swept dark, Men of the Western Lands Strain their eyes where a darker shape Shows where the grim Ridge stands — Kultur's stronghold for two long years — Boast of the Kaiser's bands. 83 DAWN — APRIL 9th, 191 7 Gunners stand in their deep-dug pits, Hard by their high-piled shells — Guns all trained on the Ridge's slope — There where the Hun horde dwells — Waiting to loose on the German line Flames of a hundred hells. Seconds dragging with leaden feet — Minutes as long as days — Faint gray streaks in the eastern sky, Piercing the heavy haze — When, oh, when, will the minute strike? When will the great guns blaze? When, oh, when, will the minute strike? Dawn's creeping up so fast — When — in the crash of a riven world Waiting is done at last — Gone are the doubts, and the hopes, and fears, Now that the vigil's past. Guns a-bark like the hounds of hell! Guns that but now were dumb, Bellow deep in their iron throats Now that their hour has come, And their song to some is a hymn of joy — Music of death to some. 84 DAWN — APRIL 9tli, 1917 Through the dusk and the driving sleet, Out through the steel-shod rain. Go the men of the Western Lands, Fearing not death nor pain — Going gaily and caring not Who shall come back again. Where are the Huns who would hold the Ridge, Boasting their iron might, Where are the Legions of Kultur now, Faced by the Hosts of Right? Dead, or captured, or — hero Huns ! — ' Scattered in craven flight. A new flag floats in a freer air. High on the Ridge's crown — A new flag floats o'er the shattered square, There in the shell-torn town — The Flag of Freedom's unfurled again — The Eagle of Kultur' s down. Safe they sleep on that barren slope — They who went forth and died, 85 DAWN — APRIL 9th, 1917 To plant the Flag of the Maple Leaf High up on the Ridge's side — And their graves shall be, while the world en- dures. The shrine of a people's pride. 86 SHELL-SHOCK I'm scared, by God 1 I'm good and scared — my nerves are all gone smash — I'm scareder than I ever was before — An' I'm crouchin' here a-shakin', an' a-waitin' for the crash That a coal-box makes a-knockin' at the door. All my nerves are shot to pieces an' I'm soakin' in my sweat, An' my teeth are rattlin' like a box of dice, All my joints are hangin' loose, an' I'm jumpy as the deuce, An' my feet, they feel like fair-sized chunks of ice. It feels a most unholy time since first I came out here, (The days are lengthy on the Western front), It feels about a century — it's really just a year, — Since I started on the " Death or Glory " stunt. I've seen mighty little Glory an' an awful lot of Death, 87 SHELL-SHOCK But I stuck it out, though often feelin' queer — Now, I'm crouchin' in a hole, with a chill around my soul, An' I'm pretty nearly fit to faint with fear. Fve took my chances with the rest, there's nothin' much in that, — A risk or two is neither here nor there,— I've snuggled close to Mother Earth and laid un- holy flat When old Fritz's guns were pounding us for fair. I've gone across to visit Fritz and thought it lots of sport To mix it good and proper with the Hun, Now my nerves are shot to strings, an' I'm almost seein' things. An' I'd give my soul if I could cut and run. I never thought I'd get like this — I thought that I could stick, But they gave us hell in sections all the day, An' they've got me now — Gott strafe 'em — 'twas the Heavies did the trick, (Hear 'em hammer, hammer, hammer in' away). 88 SHELL-SHOCK They've polished off our parapet, they've slaugh- tered all my pals, An' they've left me here, too sick to even curse. No, I haven't lost no blood, but I'm lyin in the mud With my guts all gone — an' that's a d d sight worse. I wouldn't mind it half so much if I'd been wounded right, But it's hell to have to quit the game like this, Scared an' shaken up, an' jumpy — scared of everything in sight. Almost faintin' when I hear a bullet hiss. I'll be goin' back to Blighty soon with " Shell- Shock " on my sheet, An' the boys will think my feet got cold, maybe, But old Dante could write swell 'bout the agonies of hell If he'd got a dose of shell-shock, same as me. 89 THE ONE WAY TRAIL It's before us in the noonday, with the sunlight gleaming, — gleaming, — We can see it in the corpse-light of the green and ghastly flare, — In the lonely midnight watches, when the world lies still and dreaming, We can watch it winding, winding, winding, winding, God knows where. In the crash of war appalling we can hear it call- ing, calling, And it lures us — " Come and follow," in the song the bullet sings, But our feet can never follow till the shades of death are falling On the One Way Trail a-leading out unto the End of Things — The long, long trail a-leading out unto the End of Things. Never glint of sun upon it, nor the moonlight soft and mellow, 9Q THE ONE WAY TRAIL Nor the silver sheen of starhght shines upon the One Way Trail, But the grimmer lights of battle, bloody red and leprous yellow, And the ghastly green of star-shells with their pallid light and pale. And the red and wrathful flashes, where the blaz- ing batt'ry smashes; The burning towns, like blots of blood, upon the midnight sky; The rifle fire that stabs the dark, the thirsty bayo- net flashing, Are sun and moon and stars to light the trail we travel by — And there's light enough to guide us on the trail we travel by. Never song of birds upon it, nor the evening breezes sighing, Nor the laughter of the waters splashing down in silver spray, Breaks the silence of that pathway : but the last cries of the dying Telling of a body broken and a spirit sped away : Mighty guns a-roar like thunder; crash of earth that's torn asunder; 91 THE ONE WAY TRAIL Rifles cracking sharp and sudden, and the rasp of hard-drawn breath: These are music meet to cheer us on the Road of Woe and Wonder, On the One Way Trail we follow, that men call the road of Death — And there's merry, merry music on the One Way Trail of Death. Though the way seem dark and dreary, there's brave company to cheer us — They who followed, gay and gallant, till the Trail's end came in sight — With our feet upon the pathway we can feel them marching near us — All the men who fought and suffered in the cause of Truth and Right; Men, who, through the march of age — kings and warriors, priests and sages — Dared to lay their lives down lightly that earth's freedom might not fail. Whose undying names enlighten History's best and brightest pages — March beside us through the shadows as we tread the One Way Trail — 92 THE ONE WAY TRAIL And there's gay and gallant company upon the One Way Trail. Though the Trail's end may be hidden, and the shadows hang before it, Though we see it only darkly, dim and vague, as in a glass. Still we're hoping, when we reach it, that the sen- try posted o'er it Will believe we did our little best and give us leave to pass; Take our bodies, bent and broken, and our death- wounds as a token That we fell, but did not falter — that we died, but did not fail. And from out the last great silence we may hear the message spoken — ** There's a welcome at the journey's end for those who tread the trail — *' And there's rest and peace a-plenty at the end- ing of the trail." 93 A HUNDRED YEARS You may come through this rather risky game — (Some fellows do, somehow) — Unsmashed, unscarred, and generally the same, In wind and limb, as now. You may have all the luck, and get away Without a scratch where fellows every day Are changed from living men to clammy clay — But, what's the odds a hundred years from now ? You may — (some fellows do it) — lose a leg; Maybe an arm, or two; Crawl through life's journey with a wooden peg, A wing you never grew. For, over here, where shrapnel's on the wing, Where Crumps go crumping and gay bullets sing, An accident's a mighty common thing — A hundred years will mend it all for you. You may, perhaps — (chaps do it every day) — Acquire an R. I. P. 94 A HUNDRED YEARS And, in your little bed down in the clay, Be beautifully free From all your cares and sorrows, hopes and fears, And, though the folks at home may scatter tears. What will it matter in a hundred years? — Who's going to care a hang for you or me ? In five score years men will your life and death. Even your name, forget : Forget for them you gave your latest breath. Forget their heavy debt. Don't let that worry you, but drag along, Finish your little job of righting wrong And, though you be forgotten like this song, Your work will stand still till the last sun has set. 95 LUCK Bill Jones, who easily forgot the little that he knew, Holds down a mighty cushy job, draws down a darned good screw. And wears red patches on his coat, 'way back at G. H. Q. While Smith, who studied twenty years to learn how wars are run, Who knows the works of every shell and every kind of gun, Will be a simple subaltern until the war is done. This doesn't prove a single thing, but, after many days Of thinking hard, one gleam of fact shines thro' my mental haze. And this is it — " the Army moves in most mys- terious ways." You may have old Napoleon beat and still stay in the ruck — You may acquire an R. I. P., no matter how you duck — But D. S. O. or R. I. P. depends a lot on luck. 97 LUCK One guy went out and did a stunt and gathered a V. c, Another did about the same — and copped an R. I. P., The way that things are divied up looks hke a joke to me. One chap I knew played " safety first " and never took a chance — He'd rather an unpunctured hide than glory or romance — And now he's pushing daisies up, somewhere in sunny France. Another chap — a careless cuss — took chances as they camic, He looked upon the blessed war as nothing but a game — He should be dead a dozen times — he isn't, just the same. 96 THE HINDENBURG LINE Oh, where, oh, where, is the Hindenburg line - Is it here, or there, or across the Rhine ? We search, but we never find it ; The line that took three long years to make; The line no troops in the world can take; The steel and concrete no shells can shake, And the millions of guns behind it, — Deep, shell-proof dugouts of steel and brick, Strong concrete parapets ten feet thick. Barbed wire beyond all telling; Where Hans and Fritz and the other folk In sweet security sit and smoke And treat the war as a darned good joke And laugh at our heaviest shelling. Baupomme, they said, was a piece of it, Vimy, we heard, was another bit, And so was Messines, they told us. And now they say, in a whisper small. These lines, of which they had talked so tall, 98 THE HINDENBURG LINE Are not the Hindenburg line at all, And never were meant to hold us. It's really deucedly hard on us To take a chance on a lot of fuss And a decent amount of murther, To take a line that, we have no doubt, Is Hindy's special — to chase Fritz out, And hear the journals of Hunland shout That the Hindenburg line's back further. A dozen times we've been on its track — A dozen times it's moved further back — So we never quite seem to reach it. Old Hindy's strategy seems, in fine. To pick up his blooming funny line And take it with him across the Rhine So we won't get a chance to breach it. But some fine morning — (may it be near!) We'll ramble over the Hun frontier And see how things look behind it. By then the line will be rather thin And travel-stained, but, as sure as sin, They can't go further than old Berlin, So there we'll be sure to find it 99 BALLAD OF BOOZE Two extracts from Divisional Orders: (i) Water from these wells to be drunk only after having been chlorinated. (2) An issue of Petrol tins (empty) has been author- ized at the rate of per Bn. These cans will be used to hold drinking water and will be shown as trench stores. Bards sing the glory of the grape — The sun-kissed clusters of the vine — And claim some god in human shape Brought down from heaven the gift of wine. (I'd like to hear their Hymn of Hate If they but had to sing their song On luke-warm water taken straight And chlorinated far too strong.) Under the feet of maidens fair Of old, 'tis said, the vintage flowed — That was the stuff to banish care And help a man along his road. (How can a rhymester really rhyme, Or scribble verses that will scan, 100 BALLAD OF BOOZE On water and chloride of lime, Out of a rusty petrol can?) Oh, shades of schooners that have sunk Sailing across the polished bar! Oh, dreams of all the drinks I've drunk, Mem'ries of bottle, glass and jar! Oh, Bacchus, veil thy vine-wreathed brow And mourn the sorry fate of man : Tm drinking muddy water now Out of a rusty petrol can. But, though the world be dry and sad, There are some places yet, methinks. Where priests of Bacchus, linen-clad, Concoct benign and soothing drinks. Where men absorb the soothing rye, Where highballs cheer the heart of man, And the lone cherry floats on high — Not in a rusty petrol can. l'envoi In vain, in vain, the grape may flow From Leicester Square to Yucatan — The only vintage that we know Comes from a rusty petrol can. ' lOI A MINOR OPERATION This is just a little story of a very little mine That straightened out a little bit of very awkward line. The mine went up at four o'clock and that began the show, Then the infantry went over, half a thousand men, or so — Just the half of one battalion — (t'was a very small attack). Went out that misty morning, but very few came back. For Fritz was waiting ready and his shells came thick and fast, And men went down without a sound before the shrapnel's blast. While Maxims from their hidden pits — dug in on either hand — Raked with their red-hot rain of death the width of No Man's Land. 102 A MINOR OPERATION So men went down without a sound and lay with- out a stir; At every step the thinning line gapped to the whine and whirr Of shrapnel, and at every step the Maxims took their toll, Till, when they reached the muddy pit — the pit that was their goal — Of all the men that started out across the steel- swept strip A score were left to take and hold, along the crater's lip. A half a thousand fighting men at dawn, and now, so soon, A score of weak and weary men of Number Nine Platoon : A score of weak and weary men — weary, but full of fight. With not a chance on earth of help before the fall of night. One Lewis and a score of men wait, silently and grim. Ready to hold while one still stands along the crater's rim, 103 A MINOR OPERATION So, through the long, long morning shrapnel barked and screamed and skirled, And the crash of bursting heavies seemed to shake the very v^orld, All through the long, long morning serried waves of grey-green men Came surging down upon them, broke, and melted back again. All through the long, long morning those behind the line could tell That the few who'd reached the crater's rim were hanging on like hell. They could hear the rifles cracking, sharp and sudden, like a whip. And the rattle of the Lewis, out upon the crater's lip, But when the morning drifted on into the after- noon. There still were seven weary men of Number Nine Platoon. All through the long, long afternoon they held, and suffered sore — The grey-green waves came rolling up, and melted back once more; 104 A MINOR OPERATION The shrapnel tore and seared them and the heavies racked and rent, But they hung on, grim and stubborn, weak and weary, worn and spent. But still holding, ever holding, growing weaker, but still game; The grey-green waves broke on them till, at last, the darkness came And reinforcements, creeping up — and not a bit too soon — To help the little that was left of Number Nine Platoon, — Found nineteen men dead — stiff and stark — down in the mud, and one Dying, but with his failing strength gripping a Lewis gun. Just a minor operation that you'd never hear about. But 'twill, maybe, help to show you just how MEN can stick it out — Can go through red hell for hours and get up and fight again While there's one life left amongst them, and then die — and die like MEN. 105 A MINOR OPERATION Though there isn't any monument to mark their stubborn stand — Just a group of wooden crosses in a bare and bar- ren land — When they'd got that crater fastened, good and solid, to the Line, In the name of those who held it, it was chris- tened " Number Nine." 1 06 EVOLUTION Back in the dim grey dawn of things, When snakes flew round on leather wings, When sHmy things with spiky spines Built nests in the primeval pines, When ten-ton lizards wandered wide And lived upon the countryside, Man, in his shaggy suit of hair. Found life a gloomy vale of care. Things were so big and he so small He didn't seem to count at all. Now though his life was far from gay He didn't want to pass away — He even figured if he stuck And had a little decent luck He might outlive the snakes and things, In spite of fangs and claws and wings. Now, Man had never thought before, (Professors say his brain was poor), But, as he had to think or die. He settled down to have a try, 107 EVOLUTION And after years of mental strain He got just one idea plain: That other creatures, all and each, Had got him beaten on the reach ; That, armed with nothing but a club, He soon became some serpent's grub. And that, to save himself from harm, He had to lengthen out his arm. He took the simplest method known And learned at last to throw a stone. That helped to even things a bit. For now he found that he could sit Secure upon some high rock's rim, Where nothing could get up to him, And soak the beasts that prowled below With chunks of flint he'd learned to throw. So, many ages passed away And Man grew stronger every day. While snakes began to lose their wings And all the other nightmare things Grew smaller, weaker everyhow. More like the beasties we have now, Until positions were reversed And all the monsters who, at first. Considered man their daily bread 1 08 EVOLUTION Now found he hunted them instead. About that time — although, in fact, I haven't got the date exact — Somebody, from a rawhide string, Evolved a rough and ready sling And found that with it he could get His stones to travel farther yet. So 'mong the tribes 'twas quite the thing . To have the latest type of sling. Artillery had come to stay. So, age by age and day by day, Came great improvements, strange and new, Upon the rock the cavemen threw. A springy bough, a supple string. And Man first heard an arrow sing. (Although he didn't know it then. That fellow started something when He " shot an arrow in the air That fell to earth he knew not where.") Then heaps of new ideas came For speeding up the killing game — Far stronger bows, far straighter shafts, With fancy feathers on their hafts, And catapults of every size And every shape man could devise 109 EVOLUTION To throw a rock that weighed a ton, Or, since a bow could throw but one Shaft at a time, machines to throw A dozen at a time or so — But all these fancy killing things Depended for their strength on springs. Then Roger Bacon — merry monk — Learned in the lore of things that stunk And hissed and spluttered in retorts — Mixed up some dopes of different sorts Which nearly blew that learned lad Across the Styx — (I wish they had), But Roger, feeling sure he'd struck Something worth while, trusted to luck And kept on fooling with the stuff, Till, by and by, he'd learned enough To use it in a lot of ways. Much to his fellow men's amaze. By filling up a tube with it — (They say it shook things up a bit), He made it throw a chunk of stone Farther than any weapon known; So bow and catapult were dead And Roger's powder reigned instead. no EVOLUTION Tis hardly worth our while to trace The other changes that took place Between this morning and the one When Roger fired his wooden gun, — But now, if you get close to Fritz, You'll probably be spread in bits Around the landscape by a bomb Before you know where it came from — For bombs, in our progressive world. Replace the rocks the cavemen hurled. Or, if you show your silly dome Above the parapet of home. Some sniper, half a mile away, Will (if it is his lucky day), Drill a neat hole through it, and then You'll never have to work again — And that will only go to show How much we have improved the bow. And all those guns you see about, Little and big, beyond a doubt Are just the daughters and the sons Of Roger's little wooden guns. That mess of dials, gears and springs, Wheels, verniers, screws and other things III EVOLUTION Beyond the wit of man to tell, That only throws a one-ton shell And throws it twenty miles or so: It's funny when you think, you know, That all these guns and things are due To that guy who, when earth was new. Pulled off a stunt, till then unknown, And threw the first rough chunk of stone. It must be 'most a million years Since that guy died, but it appears To me that if his astral shade Could see the progress we have made, — Well, he, who started all this fuss, Would think the joke was sure on us. 112 THE INFANTRYMAN'S OPINION OF THE INFANTRY It's bomb and bayonet and bullet, it's bullet and bayonet and bomb, In the mud and rain, in the death and pain, from the grey North Sea to the Somme; Till your soul beats back o'er the unmapped track to the place that it first came from You must do your stunt on the Western Front with bullet and bayonet and bomb. For the Engineers and Pioneers, the aeroplanes and guns, Were made to help the Infantry to lick the bloomin' Huns. They're all mighty useful people and they do their little bit, But they're only blasted specialists — the Infantry is IT. We've ciuite a lot of specialists around To do a lot of very special things; 113 THE INFANTRYMAN'S OPINION Some burrow like the mole beneath the ground, While some go gliding far above on wings; Some build our roads and clear away the muck; Some build us little railways up ahead, While others keep a store or drive a truck, Or see that we are bathed, or clothed, or fed. All useful men, of course, but then — this isn't really crowing — The one and only job they have is just to keep US going. The engineers, we know, turn out in state And peg out pretty tapes along the ground. But they'd sure have a most unholy wait If, when they finished some fine night, they found There wasn't any Infantry in sight To dig a trench along their blessed tape. The engineers are useful guys, all right. But without US they'd be in rotten shape. They stake things out — beyond a doubt they do it mighty pretty — But then it's up to US to dig — and that's a blasted pity. Of course the guns are mighty useful, too — We've got to have 'em, everybody knows, 114 THE INFANTRYMAN'S OPINION To bust the wire so we can wander through Without a fear of tearing up our clothes ; They raise a lot of noise and mud and fuss And batter Fritz's parapet to bits, But then — they kindly leave it up to US To go across and settle things with Fritz. When the nine-point-twos are on the loose and Fritz is hunting cover. They've got to have the Infantry to chase the barrage over. And so it is with all the other guys Who think they've got some special job to do — Their job (and we'll admit it's quite a size) Is just to help the Infantry go through. So, if the A. S. C. will give us grub And if the guns will kind o' clear the way, Just leave it to the plain Infantry dub To put a crimp in Kaiser Billy's Day. And so, my son, until we're done, there's just one view to take — The specialist's the frosting, but the Infantry's the cake. So it's pick and shovel and rifle, it's rifle and shovel and pick, 115 THE INFANTRYMAN'S OPINION In the mud and rain, in the death and pain, till you're sorry and sore and sick; And it's dig and fight, through the day and night, till your finish comes sure and quick. You must do your stunt on the Western Front with rifle, shovel and pick. For the R. F. C, the A. S. C, and R. A. M. C, too, Were put upon this wicked world to 'tend to me and you; They're all mighty useful people and they do their Httle bit, But they're only bloomin' specialists — the In- fantry is IT. ii6 ILS NE PASSERONT PAS! " They shall not pass ! " Battered the line and bent But holding still — men weary, worn and spent Breasting the grey-green waves that, like a flood, Roll down to crush them. All that flesh and blood Can bear, they bear; holding like living rock, But crumbling, falling, dying, 'neath the shock Of hordes that seem as many as the grass — Then down the line it came — *' They shall not pass! " " They shall not pass ! " — along the line it came. Sharp as a sword-thrust, vivid as a flame — The soul of France encompassed in a breath, The voice of France that called her sons to death. Then men, already dead, rose up again, Laughing at Death — triumphant over pain — Back from the gates of Death again to die — " They shall not pass ! "— They heard the Moth- er's cry. 117 ILS NE PASSERONT PASS! " They shall not pass ! " rolls down the grey-green flood — " They shall not pass ! " — the earth's a-reek with blood, The land they love is gashed and torn with shell, The smiling fields a torn and tortured hell; The air's a-riot with the storm of steel. Locked in a grip of death the armies reel. But ever holds the thinning line of blue — " They shall not pass ! " France said : they held it true. " They shall not pass ! " Unbroken still the wall That guards fair France; and, though her sons may fall, As many fell beneath those grey-green waves, Better to die as men than live as slaves. And, think you, when they stand before the great Angelic guard, that watch at Heaven's gate. That He, Who trod Himself the bitter way. Will say, " They shall not pass ! " to such as they? ii8 FED UP Fed up ! I'm more sick of the war every day, It's sure getting monotonous now ; This war game that used to look gallant and gay Is beginning to bore me, somehow. I'm sick of the bullets, I'm sick of the shells, I'm sick of the mud and the rain, I'm sick of the sounds and the sights and the smells, I'm sick of the terror and pain ; I'm sick of the trenches, so slimy and low. Of the dugouts, so gloomy and small; I'm sick unto death of the whole blasted show, Yes, I'm darned well fed up with it all. I'm sick of the flame of the batteries a-blaze, As they bellow and batter and bark ; I'm sick of the sun shining dim through the haze That hangs over a land dead and stark. I'm sick of the flare-lights that glimmer and gleam So ghostly and ghastly and pale, I'm sick for the sheen of the sun on the stream 119 FED UP And the starlight a-shine on the trail ; For the moonbeams that creep through the branches o'erhead ; For the campfire a-glow on the plain; For the dawn breaking grey, for the sun setting red On the hills of the Northland again. I'm sick of the bullets a-hissing like snakes, Of the whine of the shells overhead, Of the nerve-racking rattle the " typewriter " makes — I want some new noises instead. The yelp of the speeding and hard-straining dogs, As they eat up the miles through the snow ; The crackle and snap of the bright-blazing logs With the mercury thirty below; The laugh of the waters alive with the spring; The sigh of the wind in the trees; As I crouch here and hark to the bullets that sing I can't keep from thinking of these. I'm sick of the trenches, I'm sick of the war, Of the death that's abroad night and day ; I'm tired of wondering what it's all for. If it's worth the grim price that we pay. 1 20 FED UP Well, it isn't a picnic; it's merely a job — Just a damned dirty job to be done — And we didn't come out here to weep and to sob, And we didn't come out here for fun. No, we came over here just to clean up a mess — Some folks call it '' doing our bit " — So we'll stick to the finish, but, nevertheless, I'll be deucedly glad when we quit. When we get back again to the lands that we knew. To the rivers the maps never show ; To the crystal-capped mountains that pierce to the blue, To the purple-veiled valleys below. Back again to the paddle ; again to the pack ; Back again to the pick and the pan ; To the mountains imnamed; to the untrodden track ; To the plains unpolluted by man. In the peace of the pines and the hush of the hills, In the silvery song of the stream, I will purge my soul clear of all terrors and ills And believe that the war was a dream. 121 LAW — AND OTHER THINGS As I was mopin' 'round a trench to see what I could see, I came upon a bloomin' shaft an' a guy a-sittin' there. " Good evenin', mate," says I to him. " Evenin'," says he to me — His boots was lumps of sticky mud, so was his bloomin' hair, An' half the mud in Sunny France was plastered in between ; So I knew he was a miner. Well, we chewed the fat a lot About the funny things we'd heard — the won- drous things we'd seen, Since we landed in this happy land where Hell is served out hot. We figured out the war from every known and unknown angle — We straightened every blasted twist and untied every tangle. 122 LAW — AND OTHER THINGS Says I, ** Where are you workin' now?" Says he, '' That hole right there " Is where I earn my dollar-ten, and earn it mighty hard — " But she's creepin' out quite nicely — yep, she's goin' mighty fine — " Tho' we get a million tons of dirty water to the yard." "What did you do before the war?" says I to him,—" no bull." " I was a lawyer once," says he. Says I, " Upon my soul, *' My legal friend, it seems to me you must have lost your pull, *' 'Cause till to-day I never saw a lawyer in the hole." " Oh, I don't know," he says, says he, " my son," says he, " I've found " A lot of lawyers make their pile by workin' underground." " Begob," says I, "maybe you're right" — (Re- memberin' the day A lawyer took my hard-earned kale an' blew the bloomin' case). 123 LAW — AND OTHER THINGS " But tell me, has a miner, grubbin' in the dirty clay, " Any other points of likeness to the * judge an' jury ' race? " " The points," says he, " are many, but I'll give 'em to you short — " They both get in their finest work when audi- ences are small — " A lot of stuff a lawyer pulls is never known in court — *' A lot of things a miner does are never ..nown at all — " A lawyer's doctrine, someone said ( an' mighty well he knew it), " Is — * find a loophole in the law, then pull your client through it/ " Now, there's your bloomin' Law," says he, " out there," an' waved his hand Towards the stretch of shattered earth an' torn an' tattered wire — " The Law is represented here, we'll say, by No Man's Land, "An' we've got to find a hole in it to earn our bloomin' hire — 124 LAW — AND OTHER THINGS *' (It used to be ' Retaining Fee '). An' there's your bloomin' hole — ''That tunnel that we're diggin' now — and all around," says he, *' With Enfield rifles in their fists an' battle in their soul, *' You'll find our clients waitin' — they're the bloomin' Infantree — " They're watchin', an' they're waitin', an' the only thing they're heedin' *' Is the damages that they'll collect when we get through our pleadin'. " An' when we've laid our case out fair, an' got our pleadin' done — - " (That's when we've got our tunnel dug an' chambered at the ends) — " We start upon our summary. Our main points, one by one, " Are displayed in such a manner as to jar our learned friends — " The gentlemen that represent the other side — an' then, " Although they do their blasted best to block our every move, 125 LAW — AND OTHER THINGS *' In spite of all that they can do, we reach a juncture when " A ton or so of ammonal is pretty sure to prove *' That, though our methods sometimes overstep decorum's border, ** They never fail to make the Hun ' rise to a point of order/ *' An' now I'm goin' down again, to file another plea — *' (This job is like the Higher Court — plumb full of * Law's delays ') — "If you stick round this line a while, you bet your boots you'll see " That in a crooked case like this, the side that loses, pays. *' An' when we make our final speech an' push things heavenwards, " An' our clients ramble over some grey mornin', wet an' cold, " To gather in the damages the bloomin' Court awards, " I think you'll realize, although a lot of lawyers hold " That an appeal to Higher Courts is generally sufficient, 126 LAW — AND OTHER THINGS " An appeal to high explosives is a damn' sight more efficient.'' With that he vanished down his shaft, an' I sat in the trench, Chewin' the cud on what he'd said, an' this is how it struck me — That all the wordy wisdom of the battlefield an' bench Could be put in a score of words, as far as I could see — '' That, if the guy is double-armed that has his quarrel just, " (This summing up is borrowed from some liter- ary sport), " The other chap is triple armed that lands his wallop fust." But, if I just could get that guy to plead for me in court. In spite of honest juries, an' in spite of legal sinning, I'd sue a million-dollar trust — an' take a chance on winning. 127 BEFORE ZERO My backbone's limp as a chewed-up string; my belly's hugging my spine, My joints hang loose as the very deuce and I'd like to lie down and whine. I'm sick of the whole confounded game and gen- erally on the bum, And I'd sell my shoes for a shot of booze, or my soul for a jolt of rum. I'm cold and weary and mighty wet — I'm sorry and scared as well — I like a fight when it's started right, but this waiting's just live red hell. That wind is some beautiful zephyr, too; sweet breezes of balmy spring — I do NOT think — and as black as ink — can't see a confounded thing. But what in hell is the bloomin' odds? There isn't a thing to see 'Cept a mangled mill and a shell-shocked hill — an' that doesn't look good to me. 128 BEFORE ZERO Gee, but that rain is most awful cold — I bet it'll turn to snow, They never forget to turn on the wet whenever we stage a show. I wonder how Fritz is feelin' now — I'll bet he don't care a damn — Down sound asleep in a dugout deep, as happy's a blasted clam. Don't let it w^orry you, Fritz, old pal; you wait for a little while — We'll be visitin' you in an hour or two, and then it's our turn to smile. Say, how do you think it's goin' to work ? Think you'll enjoy the fun? What'll you do when we get to you, Kamerad or fight or run? Kamerad or scrap or beat it — throw up your hands or fight? Think you can stick when the shells fall thick and the bayonets look cold and white? When the first grey streaks are showing and the boys are over the top, Think you can stay when we're once away? Think you can make us stop? 129 BEFORE ZERO Oh, well, what's the blasted difference? WeVe done the same stunt before, And the lucky men that get back again will tackle it ten times more. There's a streak of grey to the east'ard, I guess we'll be startin' soon, An' we'll have some fun with the gentle Hun, 'fore we finish the afternoon. There go the guns — some racket — now it's our turn, I guess — Over the top where the big shells drop to clean up the nasty mess. The Devil may take the hindmost, but watch my smoke and you'll see That, whoe'er he gets, you can make your bets that he won't get his claws on me. 130 THE SNIPER You can sometimes dodge a whizz-bang — you can hear a coal-box coming; You can duck machine-gun bullets once you hear the blighters humming; You can beat it from a sausage when you see it coming over, And a rum-jar'll seldom jar you if you've got half decent cover — But, once let a sniper spot you through his tele- scopic sight And you're booked straight through to Blighty — either that, or else '* Good-night." A jolt of rum's the remedy for all the rains that wet you ; If you rub on lots of whale oil, why, trench feet will seldom get you; You can dodge 'most every form of death this wicked war produces. But, as sure as three big aces will clean up a pair of deuces, 131 THE SNIPER When a sniper gets you covered, spite of all that you can do, It's a little bed in Blighty or an R. I. P. for you. He's a willing little worker and confoundedly efficient, He doesn't need a lot of time — a second is suf- ficient. If my word isn't good enough just have a demon- stration — There's a fellow snipes from over there that's surer than damnation ; Just stick up your head a second and I'll bet a good cigar That you'll get a trip to Blighty or a long sleep where you are. He's a marvel at concealment and a wizard at disguises — He's full of unexpectedness and loaded with sur- prises — He's sudden death in human form, waiting, alert and ready. With a trigger finger always crooked, a nerve that's always steady. 132 THE SNIPER That bush 'cross there may be a bush — it looks Hke one to me — But unless you're tired of living don't put up your head to see. Though we curse the busy sniper to the seventh generation And express grim hopes regarding his post- mortem habitation — Though his ways are disconcerting and his habits most upsetting — Though we try so hard to get him — and he takes a lot of getting: Still, he's got a darned tough job to do and does it mighty well, So we've got to hand it to him, for he's got cold nerve to sell. 133 " UP THE LINE " I've mushed a lot of miles along a lot of frozen trails, with my trotters just like little lumps of ice — I've crossed some bloomin' deserts, ankle-deep in red-hot sand, an', by the great horn spoon, 'twas far from nice; I've packed my blankets over quite a bunch of railway lines, an' stubbed my toes on 'bout a million ties — I've nearly worn my legs away, hiking, for twenty years, on every kind of trail man could devise. But I never struck the real thing till I got khaki clothes, an' made a little trip across the sea : Now I've learned — and learned it proper — in this healthy, happy land, what a most un- holy job a hike can be. I used to think a hundred miles was just a decent stroll — I never used to mind it, over there — 134 " UP THE LINE '* But, with half the blasted country stickin' to your bloomin' boots, why, a mile or two will get your goat for fair. .When the whole darned earth's converted to a. mess of sticky mush - When you slip and slide and slither in the slimy, stinkin' slush — When you make a mile an hour when you're tryin' hard to rush — In the clingin' Flanders slime — When it's four miles and a quarter from the rest camp to the line, An' the trip takes six long hours, it's a sure and certain sign, If you're steppin' thirty inches, that you're slip- pin' twenty-nine — An' the roads are sure a crime. When you start the march you're happy as an old deep-water clam ; you haven't got a trou- ble to your name; You've been fed and bathed and rested and, as far as you can see, the war is quite a decent sort of game. 135 "UP THE LINE'' You're all dressed up like Astor's Horse, all pol- ished up and clean — you've polished every bit of brass in sight — Your rifle's just a bloomin' toy an' doesn't weigh an ounce, an' your pack is really sunshine, it's so light. Then you start out good an' happy an' you whistle as you go, for a march is just a darned good joke to you. An' you swing along regardless, for the road is good just here, till, by and bye, you strike a rut or two. Then your pack gets kind o' heavy, an' the straps begin to chafe, an' you curse your rifle for a clumsy swine, An' the boys begin to straggle as they hit the muddy spots, an' the whist'lin' grows fainter down the line. Oh, the first half-mile is easy — you can do it in your sleep. But your pack gets kind o' heavy an' the mud gets kind o' deep. An' you wonder what confounde^ fool expects a man to keep The step they set in front. 136 " UP THE LINE " An' your rifle weighs a hundredweight, your pack at least a ton, Your boots weigh fifty pounds apiece as sure as they weigh one, You've got a long way yet to go — you're pretty nearly done — It's sure a cheerful stunt. Well, you plug on for an hour ; then you fall out for a rest — ten minutes by the roadside in the rain — Chuck your pack down in a puddle, try to straighten out your kinks, an' it's time to start and plug along again. Find your pack all soaked an' slimy an' your rifle choked with mud, an' the strings of both your puttees come untied — An' then, just as you get started, some fool lorry rolls along, an' you're pushed into the ditch along the side. Sick an' sorry, wet an' weary, fed up to the bloomin' teeth, an' a long, long stretch of road to cover yet. So you slip along an' slide along, you flounder, flop an' splash, through the darkness an' the dirtiness, an' wet; ^37 " UP THE LINE '' Till at last you reach the trenches an' you thank the gods of war that, in spite of all the gen- tle Hun can do, You'll have several days to rest in — that is, if you've any luck — 'fore they drag you out to do that hike anew. Oh, the trenches ain't no Paradise, as everybody knows — An' there's mighty little kindness in the bouquets Fritzy throws. An* the fun of dodgin' rum- jars kind o' keeps us on our toes. Still, it ain't so awful worse — But a hike along a highway where the mud is ankle deep, When you're loaded down like pack-mules an' you're stragglin' like sheep, Would, if he could only see it, make a bloomin' angel weep — Though it only makes us curse. 138 THE PRICE There's never a yard of all these yards of tram- pled grass and mud But has felt the stain of the war's red rain, the drip of a hero's blood. And never a tree of all these trees, grim gaunt 'gainst the sullen sky. Nor barn nor byre nor shattered spire, but has visioned a brave man die. Or on which the eye of a dying man has rested, ere Death's kind hand Tore the soul away from the tortured clay. In all of this dreary land There is never a spot where a man may stand, to east, or to west, or north. But a man has fought, as a brave man ought, and a brave man's soul's gone forth. There is never a road of the roads that wind oy meadow and farm and hill. But a man has trod e'er he faced his God, new- hot from the lust to kill. 139 THE PRICE And never a town of all these towns, so battered and drear and dead, But has seen men hale as the stars grew pale and cold e'er the sun rose red. We have won it hard — we have bought it dear — id the price has been fairly paid — And the payment's told, not alone in gold, but the coin of the soldier's trade; We have won it hard — we have bought it dear — and the price has been stern and hard — A dying groan for each heap of stone — a life for each hard-held yard. We have paid rich toll at the gate of Death for the dreary roads that we tread, For each winding lane we have paid again — we have blazed the trails with our dead. We have paid full fee for each tortured town — shell-shattered and scarred with fire — Full tax and rent for each tenement — for build- ing and barn and byre — And the deed is writ on the ravished fields, and sealed with a wooden cross — We have paid the price in grim sacrifice — in death and in bitter loss — 140 THE PRICE For a group of villages, racked and rent — for a holding of barren land — For some war-pruned trees — we have paid the fees to the full of the law's demand. To the last grim coin of a grim account, we have paid by the war's grim laws, In doom and death and the rasping breath that struggles through stiffening jaws — In broken bodies and broken hearts — in graves and in crosses white. Has the price been told for the lands we hold by the strength of our naked might. Then, when the cannon shall cease to roar and the sword shall be laid away. When ye come in bands from your sheltered lands, as ye flock to the fields of play, What will ye see in this barren land that lies like a land struck dead? In shattered spire and ruined byre, and in streets that have once run red? Will ye set a price on these ruined towns, that many have died to hold ? Will ye name the loss in your merchant's dross, in silver or minted gold? 141 THE PRICE Will ye figure the worth of this mangled mound, where men died quick and hard? Or reckon the yield of this flower-strewn field at so many pounds per yard? Will ye prate of shadows and light-effects, as ye gaze when the day is done, At that stump of spire that's bathed in fire by the rays of the setting sun? Will ye chatter the jargon of architects in that ruined cathedral's naves? Will ye stand by the bed of a thousand dead, and say, " What a lot of graves ! " Will ye come with your sketch-books and maps and guides and, thronging the land like sheep, Bring the sordid talk of the merchants' walk to the land where wc take our sleep? Or, as ye stand in a waking dream, in the streets of some old grey town. Will ye hear the beat of unnumbered feet, as the legions of dead march down Through the gathering gloom of the eventide, as they marched in the days of yore, By the ragged lanes and the ravished plains to the line that they held before? 142 THE PRICE Will ye see the gleam of the cold, white steel as down through the line it runs, As the battle locks and the whole world rocks to the rage of the reeking guns? Will ye hear the rattle of rifle fire as it runs down the firing-bench? Or the snarl and smash when the shrapnel's crash bursts low on the crowded trench? Will ye see men walk through an iron storm as men stroll down a peaceful path, When the earth's a-reel with the storm of steel and the skies seem to vomit wrath ? Will ye see men rise from the heaped up dead, with never a thought of pain, For one last weak blow, ere they're forced to go to the land of the gallant slain? Will ye see men die for a battered trench as if for a holy place, And laugh at Death with their latest breath, and die with a smiling face? If ye see these things in this dead drear land — the doom and the death and pain, Ye will know the price in grim sacrifice that we paid for this barren plain. 143 THE PRICE But 'twas not alone for a strip of land we were willing and glad to give Our lives in fee but to guarantee the right of the world to live. So as ye stand by our bitter graves, by the grace of God ye may see In each wooden cross, not the sign of loss, but the seal of a world set free. 144 STILL-HUNTING I'm lyin' on a slag-heap — an' it ain't no feather- bed— With a million comers borin' through my hide; There's a dead Hun lyin' just in front — he's very, very dead — I wonder how the hell the blighter died. The German trenches twist an' twine five hundred yards away, (You can see the dirty sandbags good an' plain) An' I'm layin' for a sniper : if I have to wait all day I'll fix him so he'll never snipe again. There's little, lazy smoke-wreaths from some chimneys up ahead — I wonder now what village that would be? (Confound that Hun — I wish he wasn't quite so blasted dead) Lyin' up here, there's lots of things to see. . . . I'll bet that bust-up house is gettin' mighty hot for Fritz, 145 STlLL-HUNTlNG Our heavies sure are poundin' it like futt. * 4 * Well, go to it, my hearties, take the blurry place to bits — I'm waitin' for an extra special Hun. I wonder where the blighter hides? Somewhere in front, that's sure. There's no place in his trench where he could shoot An' enfilade our blasted bay — I compreed that before; But how in blazes can I find the brute? He must be somewhere out in front — the ques- tion is " Just where ? " If I knew that, I guess, Fd know a lot. . . . That sun is most ungodly hot — it's f rizzlin' my hair — Oh, well. ... If I can only get a shot. The shrapnel puffs are woolly-white — the sky is solid blue; The sun is like a red-hot copper ball ; The skin is all burnt off my neck, I'm good an' thirsty, too — Straight, now — I'm not enjoyin' this at all. 146 STILL-HUNTING If I could only see that Hun. . . . Now, what the hell was that ? I^m sure that something moved just over there — By God, I've got the blighter — got him proper, got him flat — Heiney, old boy, I've got you now for fair. We owe you quite a little an' we'll settle good an' right — (I guess three hundred ought to do the trick — P'rhaps we'd better say three-fifty, 'cause the sun is pretty bright), There's Bill McGay, an' Jimmy House, an' Mick ; They're all napoo, my snipin' friend — I guess that you're to blame ; There's Sergeant Smith in Blighty, an' there's Bob — I guess 'twas you that got 'em all. Well, here's to end your game An' finish up a dirty little job. Three-fifty — not a breath of wind — that ought to do the trick — I couldn't miss the blighter if I tried. Now, gently on the trigger. . . . Got him. . . . See the blighter kick ! 147 STILL-HUNTING An' here's another, just from sinful pride, To show you I can do it twice. Take that, you snipin' swine, I guess that ought to hold you for a while. You made life damned uncertain in our corner of the line. But now, confound you, it's our turn to smile. Well, that job's done, an' now I s'pose I've got to wait till night 'Fore I can get to blazes out of here. But, anyhow, I got the guy I started for all right, So I should worry if Fm stuck a year. I'll have to write to Smith, an' Bob, first time I get a chance, *Twill, maybe, buck *em up a bit to know The Hun that perforated them stopped something out in France An' lost his bloomin' interest in the show. 1148 ANTICIPATION (With apologies to Rudyard Kipling) .When we've followed the last, lean barrage — when we've fired the final gun — When we've landed the ultimate wallop on the jaw of the last, lone Hun — We shall wash, and, faith, we shall need it : our need will be bitter by then ; We will revel in soap and water for ever and ever, amen. We will wallow in water tepid, in water that*s icy cold, In water as hot as the hell-fire they preached in the days of old; The soap that is scented shall soothe us, until, at the long, long last, We shall stand forth clean and resplendent as we did in the days long past. Then none shall be muddy and trench-stained, and none shall be soiled with dirt, 149 ANTICIPATION But the skin that is clean shall answer the kiss of the silken shirt; When each in separate bath-room, to the full of his heart's content, Shall be free from the dirt he gathered on his tour of the Continent. ISO "STUNTS"— ANCIENT AND MODERN Old Ajax dared the lightning, just to sho\v that he was game — (At least, the school-books say he did, an' that's about the same). They all said he was a hero, an' they tell about him yet — Maybe it was some stunt to pull, but, still, I'd like to bet, If we had old Ajax over here he wouldn't show at all, 'Cause the stuff that Fritzy throws all day makes thunderbolts look small. Old Ajax was " some pumpkins," but I'd surely like to see Him do his great defyin' stunt on fifteen-inch H. E. The Spartan boy, he caught a fox, an' cached it in his vest; The fox, he chewed an' chewed until the Spartan boy went west; 151 ^\J " STUNTS "— ANCIENT AND MODERN Th' Official Correspondent wrote the story in pure Greek, An' I read it — in bum English — in a news- paper last week. But that Spartan boy has nothing on the soldier on parade, Who stands just as still an* steady as the stiffest statue made. (Every scrap of metal polished, not the smallest speck of dirt) While a hundred hungry " cooties " do a route- march on his shirt. Old Sinbad in the story had the Old Man of the Sea Hangin' heavy on his shoulders, but at last he shook him free ; But old Sinbad sure was lucky, 'cause he never had a pack Weighin' half a million hundredweight on his unhappy back. With straps that cut like wire, an' all kinds of knobs and knots, Pressin' on his poor anatomy at all the tender spots — 152 " STUNTS "— ANCIENT AND MODERN Old Sinbad shook his load one day, as simple as can be, But, if we ditch our blasted packs, it's fourteen days F. P. Von Hercules got busy with a shovel, it appears, An' he cleaned a set of horse-lines that had not been cleaned for years. Which they thought was quite some diggin', an' they made a lot of fuss Over Here, because he did it — but they ought to look at us, Landscape-gard'nin' out in Flanders, with our '' Shovels, G. S., One," On a job that's always doin' but is never, never done. Sure, old Here cleaned up a stable, an' no doubt he did it right. But — we shovel half of Belgium into sandbags every night. For the lightning that old Ajax faced, we've shells of every kind. Our " cooties " leave the Spartan's fox a long, long way behind; 153 "STUNTS"— ANCIENT AND MODERN Though we're not blessed, Hke Sinbad, with an old man on our backs, We've got something just as pleasant — thafs our blasted army packs. An' though cleanin' someone's stable might be quite a job for Here, Why, compared to fill in' sandbags, you could hardly call it work; So Friends Ajax, Here, an' Sinbad, an' my Spar- tan stripling gay, We see all your bets — an' raise 'em — on a dol- lar-ten a day. 154 THE DUD I was stowed away down in a hole, As happy and snug as could be — With never a care on my soul — Just wishin' 'twas time for my tea. With never a sign of a care, An' never a trouble in sight, When, shrill in the air, an' a-comin' for fair, I hears a big Krump on a flight, — A blurry big Krump on the wing, An' I knew she was comin' my way ; But there wasn't a single darn' thing I could do, or could think, or could say. That would do me a cent's worth of good — 'Cept to sit there an' wait for the bump — Well, that's how things stood. I'd 'a' run if I could, But — I can't run as fast as a Krump. So I flops on my face in the dirt. An' I lays there most humble an' flat, 155 THE DUD With my spine creepin' under my shirt, An' my hair pushin' up my tin hat, With the fear of death freezin' my blood — An' I hope it won't hurt when I goes — Then — a whizz, an' a thud — an' she plunks in the mud, A bloomin' short yard from my nose. Then I lays there for ages untold, A-waitin' the end of the game, While burnin' hot shivers an' cold Keep chasin' themselves round my frame. Till it strikes me my luck's runnin' well. An' I'm not booked for Paradise yet — For that blasted big shell is as harmless as hell An* she couldn't explode on a bet. She was only a dud — just a dud — Just as tame as a two-day-old pup ; But, a-waitin' for her in the mud, I got the wind properly up. She was perfectly harmless, *tis true, I can think of her now with a smile, But — the hell I went through for a second or two Will last me the deuce of a while. 156 CROSSES Little white crosses, crowded row on row, And crimson poppies thronging thick between, (The blood-stained flowers, that nowhere seem to grow So rich as where the hand of war has been). Little white crosses, and their tale is brief — " Name, Number, Killed in Action, R. L P."— No word of pain or pride, of hope or grief; No graven boast for all the world to see. Little white crosses, dressed as on parade, That thrill and quiver to the great guns' roar; No prouder monument needs he who's laid To sleep in Flanders, be he rich or poor — Gentle or simple — saint or branded thief. — What marble can replace that plain tin plate That blazons forth its tale so brave and brief — Whose '' killed in action " crowns him of the great. 157 CROSSES 'Neath a tall marble shaft a man may lie ; A deep-carved catalogue of all he did May shout to every curious passer-by How great a man was he whose bones lie hid Beneath the stone — " In all things he did well — Served well his country — helped to make her laws — Who may his many virtues hope to tell — His open heart and hand for each just cause?'* Take you your marbles. Any man, for gold, May sleep beneath a carven shaft of stone; (A shaft that bears deep-graven, plainly told, Virtues, perhaps, that he has never known). But " Killed in Action " on a stamped tin plate, Nailed to a wooden cross, 'mid poppies red — (The crosses stand like soldiers still and straight), Is fitter far to mark a brave man's bed. 158 TWO MEN Bill Jones was pretty useless — Not good for very much; He worked just when he had to, He drank to beat the Dutch. All decent people cut him Whene'er he mixed with such. Tom Smith had all the virtues — Swore by the Golden Rule, He passed the plate on Sunday And taught the Sunday School. (He used to speak of Billy As a " poor misguided fool "). EIll's past was rather shady. As everybody knew, Good people used to whisper ("Strictly 'twixt me and you") Tales that were far from pretty — And some of them were true. 159 TWO MEN While Tom Smith's snow-white record Held neither spot nor stain. He'd never shocked the village Or caused good people pain. He knew the worth of virtue, And used it — to his gain. Bill Jones, he joined the army As soon as war began; He wasn't any angel But, still, he was a man. And soldier, as civilian, Bill was an '' also ran." But Tom, whose tender conscience Could not approve of war. Took on an army contract And, though it grieved him sore, Took cent per centum profit — 'Cos he could get no more. Bill Jones went out to Flanders, (A most unhealthy spot, Where men die every minute And Hell is served up hot). A strafe one misty morning. And — Billy Jones was not. 1 60 TWO MEN Tom Smith, more full of wisdom, Stayed home and served the State By making army blankets At quite a decent rate, And, with an easy conscience, On Sundays passed the plate. A wooden cross in Flanders Shows where Bill Jones is laid To wait the great Reveille That calls the last parade. The debts that Bill contracted Are now most fully paid. Tom Smith is in his home town And there intends to stay, His business is expanding In a most amazing way; The balance in his bank-book Grows bigger every day. A " rising business man," Tom Smith — Safe, prosperous, and free. One of the pillars of the Church — But, God! if he could see How stands that wastrel dead in France Beside such men as he. i6i FAGS When the cold is making ice cream of the marrow of your bones, When you're shaking like a jelly and your feet are dead as stones, When your clothes and boots and blankets, and your rifle and your kit, Are soaked from Hell to Breakfast, and the dug- out where you sit Is leaking like a basket, and upon the muddy floor The water lies in filthy pools, six inches deep or more ; Tho' life seems cold and mis'rable and all the world is wet. You'll always get thro' somehow if you've got a cigarette. When you're lying in a listening post 'way out beyond the wire. While a blasted Hun, behind a gun, is doing rapid fire; • • 162 FAGS When the bullets whine above your head, and sputter on the ground, When your eyes are strained for every move, your ears for every sound — You'd bet your life a Hun patrol is prowling somewhere near; A shiver runs along your spine that's very much like fear; You'll stick it to the finish — but, I'll make a little bet, You'd feel a whole lot better if you had a ciga- rette. When Fritz is starting something and his guns are on the bust When the parapet goes up in chunks, and settles down in dust. When the roly-poly " rum- jar " comes a- wobbling thro' the air, Til it lands upon a dugout — and the dugout isn't there; When the air is full of dust, and smoke, and scraps of steel, and noise And you think you're booked for golden crowns and other Heavenly joys, 163 FAGS When your nerves are all a-tremble, and your brain is all a-f ret — It isn't half so hopeless if you've got a cigarette. When you're waiting for the whistle and your foot is on the step, You bluff yourself, it's lots of fun, and all the time you're hep To the fact that you may stop one 'fore you ve gone a dozen feet, And you wonder what it feels like, and your thoughts are far from sweet; Then you think about a little grave, with R. I. P. on top. And you know you've got to go across — altho' you'd like to stop ; When your backbone's limp as water, and you're bathed in icy sweat, Why, you'll feel a lot more cheerful if you puff your cigarette. Then, when you stop a good one, and the stretcher bearers come And patch you up with strings, and splints, and bandages, and gum; 164 FAGS When you think you've got a milUon wounds and fifty thousand breaks, And your body's just a blasted sack packed full of pains and aches; Then you feel you've reached the finish, and you're sure your number's up, And you feel as weak as Belgian beer, and help- less as a pup — But you know that you're not down and out, that life's worth living yet, ,When some old war-wise Red Cross guy slips you a cigarette. We can do without MacConachies, and Bully, and hard tack, When Fritz's curtain fire keeps the ration parties back; We can do without our greatcoats, and our socks, and shirts, and shoes, We might almost — tho' I doubt it — get along without our booze; We can do without " K. R. & O.," and " Military Law," We can beat the ancient IsraeHtes at making bricks, sans straw; 165 FAGS We can do without a lot of things and still win out, you bet, But I'd hate to think of soldiering without a cigarette. {Reprinted by permission of The Imperial To- bacco Company, Ltd., Newfoundland, owners of the copyright,)^ i66 ZERO MINUS ONE The G. O. C. is sitting in his office all alone ; The Brigadier has got his ear glued to the tele- phone ; The Colonel tunes his nerves up with a modest shot of Scotch ; The Sub up in the trenches takes a dekko at his watch ; While Tommy wallows in the mud and damns things in a heap, And wonders just what brand of time official watches keep. For it's just a minute to Zero, just sixty seconds to wait, Then we're over the top with the best of luck to finish the job in state. We're very fed up and far from home, though we're doing our best to smile. For the sixty seconds before things start is a hell of a weary while. 167 ZERO MINUS ONE The Gunners all are waiting and the shells are stacked up high; The Battery Commander counts the seconds drag- ging by; The targets all are spotted and the barrage maps are set; There's not a detail missing — but, there's sixty seconds yet. And Tommy's somewhere up the line, fed up and sick and sore, There never was a minute half so blasted long before. For it's just a minute to Zero, in sixty seconds you start ; The chill works up from your frozen feet and settles around your heart. You're far from keen on the killing game — you're not very stuck on strife, But that minute waiting for things to start is the longest in all your Hfe. The mud is squelching in your boots, the rain beats in your eyes ; j68 ZERO MINUS ONE A little, dirty streak of dawn creeps up the east- ern skies; The wind sweeps over No Man's Land and cuts you Hke a knife; You never felt so rotten cheap in all your lengthy life. Your backbone's full of shivers and your heart is full of fears. That cursed minute drags along for fifty miUion years. For it's just a minute to Zero, just sixty seconds to go; That don't seem long if you say it quick, but it's dragging almighty slow. The guns are waiting — the Gunners, too — to start up their Hymn of Hate; But the sixty seconds before things start is a hell of a time to wait. 169 ^ggljl 14 DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. ■ % 1 sji0rt'6SJ0 Hec'o Ln OCT 11 '6/5 -4 pu *'*' ^ llfl / / / / / / LD 21A-60m-3,'65 TTni^ / (F2336sl0)476B "^*"^^ ^ / ivi2685;24 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY