The American Hospital, Neuilly,
January 1919.
Four years have passed and it is winter again. Much has happened. When
I last wrote, on the Somme in 1915, I was sickening with typhoid fever.
All that spring I was in hospital.
Nevertheless, I was sufficiently recovered to take part in the Champagne
battle in the fall of that year, and to "carry on" during the following
winter. It was at Verdun I got my first wound.
In the spring of 1917 I again served with my Corps; but on the entry of
the United States into the War I joined the army of my country. In the
Argonne I had my left arm shot away.
As far as time and health permitted, I kept a record of these years, and
also wrote much verse. All this, however, has disappeared under
circumstances into which there is no need to enter here. The loss was a
cruel one, almost more so than that of my arm; for I have neither the
heart nor the power to rewrite this material.
And now, in default of something better, I have bundled together this
manuscript, and have added to it a few more verses, written in
hospitals. Let it represent me. If I can find a publisher for it, _tant
mieux_. If not, I will print it at my own cost, and any one who cares
for a copy can write to me--
Stephen Poore,