“Left!
Left!”
Had a good girl when I
“Left!
Left!”
Mighty good pal when I
“Left!”
“One! Two! Three! Four!”
How
many
miles
more?
“Left!
“Left!
Left!”
Booked for a wife when I
“Left!
Left!”
That was my life when I
“Left!”
“One! Two! Three! Four!”
Hear
old
Lieutenant
roar
“Left!”
WHILE SUMMERS PASS
ALINE MICHAELIS
IN THE ENTERPRISE, BEAUMONT, TEXAS
Summer comes and summer goes,
Buds the primrose, fades the rose;
But his footfall on the grass,
Coming swiftly to my door,
I shall hear again no more,
Though a thousand summers pass.
Once he loved the clovers well,
Loved the larkspur and bluebell.
And the scent the plum-blooms yield;
But strange flowers his soul beguiled,
Pallid lilies, laurels wild,
Blooming in a crimson field.
So he plucked the laurels there,
And he found them sweet and fair
In that field of blood-red hue;
And, when on a summer night
Moonlight drenched my clovers white,
Lo! He plucked Death’s lilies, too.
It may be that e’en to-night,
In the Gardens of Delight,
Where his shining soul must dwell,
He has found some flowers more sweet
Than the clovers at my feet,
Some celestial asphodel.
But while summer comes and goes,
With the primrose and the rose
Comes his footfall on the grass--
Gladly, lightly to my door--
I shall hear it echo o’er,
Though a thousand summers pass.
THE MARINES
ADOLPHE E. SMYLIE
OF THE VIGILANTES
Permission to reproduce in this book
“Pardon! he has no Engleesh, heem,
Il ne parle que Française,
I spik it leetle some Monsieur,
Vaire bad, j’en suis fâché--
Marines? Mais oui! I fight wiz zem
At Château Thierry
An’ on ze Ourcq an’ Marne in grand
Bon camaraderie.
I see zem fight at bois Belleau,
Like sauvage make ze yell,--
Sacre nom de Dieu! zoze sailor man
Eez fightin’ like ze hell!
All time zey smile when make ze push,
Magnifique zaire élan,
Zey show ze heart of lion
For delight our brav Franchman.
An’ in ze tranch at rest, zoze troop
From ze Etats Unis
Queeck make ze good frien’ of poilu
Wiz beeg slap on ze knee!
Zey make ze song an’ joke, si drôle
An’ pass ze cigarette;
Zey call us goddam good ol’ scout
Like Marquis La Fayette.
Next day, mebbee, again ze taps--
Ze volley in ze air.--
Adieu! some fightin’ sailor man
Eez gone West. C’est la guerre!
No more ze smile, ze hug, ze hand
Queeck wiz ze cigarette;
C’est vrai, at funerall of _heem_
Ze poilu’s eye eez wet.
But, every day like tidal wave,--
Like human avalanche,--
Ze transport bring more Yankee troop,
To get ze beeg revanche!
Zen from ze heart Américaine
Come milliards of monnaie;
Eet eez ze end! Your country bring
Triomphant liberté.
So, au revoir! I mus’ go on
But first I tell to you
What some high Officier remark
Zat day at bois Belleau.
He says, our great Napoleon
Wiz envy would turn green
Eef he could see zoze sailor man,--
Zoze Uncle Sam Marines!”
AN AMBULANCE DRIVER’S PRAYER
LIEUT. CHAPLAIN THOMAS F. COAKLEY
IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A.E.F., FRANCE
’Mid blinding rain this inky night,
Loud bursting shells each foot of road,
Thy Light, O Christ, will guide me right,
To save this gasping, dying load.
Their shattered limbs have followed Thee;
Their wounded hands have done Thy work.
They bled, O Lord, to make men free;
They fought the fight--they did not shirk.
NOT TOO OLD TO FIGHT
T. C. HARBAUGH
IN THE CHICAGO LEDGER
My name is Danny Bloomer and my age is eighty-three,
Years ago I went with Sherman to the ever sunny sea.
I stood my ground at Gettysburg, that bloody summer day,
When gallant Pickett rushed the hill and lost his boys in gray;
And now our starry banner is insulted and defied,
The kaiser tears it into shreds and glories in his pride;
Just pass the word across the sea to his stronghold of might,
And say that Danny Bloomer’s here and not too old to fight.
I gave my youth to Uncle Sam in years I’ll ne’er forget,
In mem’ry of those stirring times my old blood tingles yet.
With four score years upon me I can lift the same old gun,
And to face our Flag’s insulter will be everlasting fun.
Please say that Danny Bloomer is ready for the fray,
Cry “Forward, march!” and see him in the good old ranks today.
I love the flag of Washington because it stands for Right,
And that is why I tell you I am not too old to fight.
’Tis true I’m somewhat crippled, but I do not care for that,
I feel as young as when I saw the tilt of Sherman’s hat;
I want to do my duty again before I die,
And see Old Glory proudly in the streets of Berlin fly.
I do not know the kaiser, but I hope within a year
Amid the roar of cannon he will say, “Old Bloomer’s here!”
Yes, hand me down a rifle and I will use it right,
Your Uncle Danny Bloomer isn’t yet too old to fight.
We’ve borne their insults long enough--they make me long to go.
I want to squint along my gun and aim it at the foe;
I’ll eat the same old rations that I ate in ’64,
And feel the blood of youth again amid the battle’s roar.
I haven’t long to tarry here until my work is done,
But I want to show the kaiser we’re not in it for fun;
So give me marching orders and I’ll disappear from sight,
For I am Danny Bloomer, and I’m not too old to fight.
A WAYSIDE IN FRANCE
ADOLPHE E. SMYLIE
IN THE NEW YORK HERALD
Permission to reproduce in this book
“Come shake hands, my little peach blossom.
That’s right, dear, climb up on my knee.
This big Yankee soldier is lonesome--
Ah, now we’ll be friends, ma chérie.
We won’t understand one another,
Your round eyes are telling me so,
But the cling of your chubby fingers
Is a language that all daddies know.
When I caught a sight of your pigtails
And those eyes of violet blue,
It made me heart-hungry, ma petite,
For I’ve a wee girl just like you.
She lives ’way across the wide ocean,
Out where the bald eagles nest,
And she knows all the chipmunks and gophers
At my shack out in the West.”
“Tu dis l’ouest! Est-ce ton pays?
Veux-tu, quand tu iras chez-toi--
Maman est toujours à pleurer--
Me retrouver mon soldat Papa?
Il etait avec sa batterie
Près des Anglais la, en campagne,
Mais Papa est allé dans l’ouest,
Des Anglais disaient à Maman.
Alors, Maman sera heureuse
Et, tu vois elle ne pleurera plus;
Je veux te donner un baiser,--
Merci! Tu es si bon pour nous!”
There she goes! She told me her secret,
Kissed me and then flew away,--
Say, Poilu! You savez some English,
Now what did that little tot say?
“She say Engleeshman tol’ her Mama
Zat her soldat Papa eez gone West!
You said West, bien! Zen you live zaire,
So she make you her leetle request,
Zat you find heem in your countree
So her Mama no more she weel cry;
Zen she thank you an’ kees you, si joyeuse,--
Pauvre mignonne, she think you weel try!”
MISSING
“IRIS”
FROM B. L. T.’S COLUMN IN THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE
The soldier boys are marching, are marching past my door;
They’re off to fight for Freedom, to wage and win the war;
And yet I cannot cheer them, my eyes are full of tears--
My son, who should be with them, is dead these many years.
I’ve missed his boyish laughter, I’ve missed his sunny ways,
I’ve lived alone with sorrow through endless empty days.
But now my bitter longing dims all the grief before--
His boyhood friends are marching, without him, past my door.
I’ve envied happy mothers the children at their knee;
Their very joys seemed given to mock my grief and me.
Time healed those wounds, but this one will pain me while I live--
When Freedom called her warriors, I had no son to give.
And still the boys are marching, are marching toward the sea,
To suffer and to conquer, that all men may be free.
Be glad for them, O mothers! and leave to me the tears--
My son, who should be with them, is dead these many years.
THE RIVERS OF FRANCE
H. J. M.
IN THE ENGLISH REVIEW
The rivers of France are ten score and twain,
But five are the names that we know--
The Marne, the Vesle, the Ourcq, and the Aisne,
And the Somme of the swampy flow.
The rivers of France, from source to the sea,
Are nourished by many a rill,
But these five, if ever a drought there be,
The fountains of sorrow would fill.
The rivers of France shine silvery white,
But the waters of five are red
With the richest blood, in the fiercest fight
For Freedom, that ever was shed.
The rivers of France sing soft as they run,
But five have a song of their own,
That hymns the fall of the arrogant one
And the proud cast down from his throne.
The rivers of France all quietly take
To sleep in the house of their birth,
But the carnadined wave of five shall break
On the uttermost strands of Earth.
Five rivers of France, see their names are writ
On a banner of crimson and gold,
And the glory of those who fashioned it
Shall nevermore cease to be told.
JUST THINKING
HUDSON HAWLEY
IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A. E. F., FRANCE
Standin’ up here on the fire-step,
Lookin’ ahead in the mist,
With a tin hat over your ivory
And a rifle clutched in your fist;
Waitin’ and watchin’ and wond’rin’
If the Hun’s comin’ over tonight--
Say, aren’t the things you think of
Enough to give you a fright?
Things you ain’t even thought of
For a couple o’ months or more;
Things that ’ull set you laughin’,
Things that ’ull make you sore;
Things that you saw in the movies,
Things that you saw on the street,
Things that you’re really proud of
Things that are--not so sweet;
Debts that are past collectin’,
Stories you hear and forget,
Ball games and birthday parties,
Hours of drill in the wet;
Headlines, recruitin’ posters,
Sunset ’way out at sea,
Evenings of pay-days--golly--
It’s a queer thing, this memory!
Faces of pals in Homeburg,
Voices of womenfolk,
Verses you learnt in schooldays
Pop up in the mist and smoke
As you stand there grippin’ that rifle,
A-starin’, and chilled to the bone,
Wonderin’ and wonderin’ and wonderin’,
Just thinkin’ there--all alone:
When will the war be over?
When will the gang break through?
What will the U. S. look like?
What will there be to do?
Where will the Boches be then?
Who will have married Nell?
When’s the relief a-comin’ up?--
Gosh! But this thinkin’s hell!
THE EVENING STAR
HAROLD SETON
IN THE CHICAGO EVENING POST
The evening star a child espied,
The one star in the sky.
“Is that God’s service flag?” he cried,
And waited for reply.
The mother paused a moment ere
She told the little one--
“Yes, that is why the star is there!
God gave His only Son!”
COLUMBIA’S PRAYER
THOMAS P. BASHAW
IN THE HERALD AND EXAMINER, CHICAGO
Permission to reproduce in this book
Boy in khaki, boy in blue,
I am watching over you,
Going forth amid the rattle
Of the drums that call to battle.
Oft have men waged fight for me,
Fought to make their brothers free;
God protect and succor you,
Boy in khaki, boy in blue.
God go with you on your mission,
And in His all-wise decision
Turn this tide of war to you,
Boy in khaki, boy in blue.
With the Stars and Stripes high o’er you,
Snatch the vic’try just before you,
Heaven keep, encompass you,
Boy in khaki, boy in blue.
When the foe is rent asunder,
And the world looks on in wonder,
Paying tribute rare to you,
Boy in khaki, boy in blue,
God return you safe to me;
To Columbia--Liberty;
’Tis my prayer, my hope for you,
Boy in khaki, boy in blue.
TWO VIEWPOINTS
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR
OF THE VIGILANTES
Permission to reproduce in this book.
A German soldier in his journal wrote:
He was a French Boy Scout--a little lad
No bigger than my Hansel. He refused
To tell if any of his countrymen
Were hidden thereabout. Fifty yards on
We ran into an ambush. Well, of course
We shot him--little fool! Poor little fool!
Thinking himself a hero as he stood
Facing our guns, so little and so young
Against the sunny vineyard-green, I thought
What wasted courage! for the child was brave,
Fool as he was. The pity ...
Here there came
A sudden shrapnel, and the writing stopped....
_Did I write that? O God--did I write that?
Mine--they were mine, the folly and the waste.
Now the keen edge of death has cut away
The eyelids of my soul and I must bear
The perfect understanding of the dead.
Now that I know myself as I am known,
How shall my soul endure Eternity?
God, God, if there be pity left for me,
Send to my son the child that I despised
A messenger to burn into his soul
While still he lives, the truth I died to learn!_
DESTROYERS
“KLAXON”
IN BLACKWOODS MAGAZINE
Through the dark night
And the fury of battle
Pass the destroyers in showers of spray.
As the Wolf-pack to the flank of the cattle,
We shall close in on them--shadows of gray.
In from ahead,
Through shell-flashes red,
We shall come down to them, after the Day,
Whistle and crash
Of salvo and volley
Round us and into us as we attack
Light on our target they’ll flash in their folly,
Splitting our ears with shrapnel-crack.
Fire as they will,
We’ll come to them still,
Roar as they may at us--Back--Go Back!
White though the sea
To the shell-splashes foaming,
We shall be there at the death of the Hun.
Only we pray for a star in the gloaming
(Light for torpedoes and none for a gun).
Lord--of Thy Grace
Make it a race,
Over the sea with the night to run.
NINETEEN-SEVENTEEN
SUSAN HOOKER WHITMAN
IN THE KANSAS CITY STAR
“It is long since knighthood was in flower,
There are no men today who tower
Above their kind--the knights are dust,
Their names forgot, their good swords rust,”
We idly say. And yet, in truth--
The brave soul has eternal youth,
Like the great lighthouse rising free,
Whose far-flung beams guide ships at sea,
God lifts above his fellow man
A steadfast soul to dare and plan,
A king of men, by right divine,
Who in his forehead bears the sign--
He walks along the city street;
Unknowing, in the fields we meet
A modern knight in whose hand lies
A mighty Nation’s destinies.
Then say no more, the knights are gone;
Honor and Truth and Right live on,
And men today would keep the bridge
Horatius kept--from rocky ridge
Heroic Youth would still fling down
His horse, himself, to save the town.
Columbia calls!
Off with your hats and lift them high,
Our own, our sons are passing by.
THE SILENT ARMY.
IAN ADANAC
IN THE MONTREAL DAILY STAR
No bugle is blown, no roll of drums,
No sound of an army marching.
No banners wave high, no battle-cry
Comes from the war-worn fields where they lie,
The blue sky overarching.
The call sounds clearer than the bugle call
From this silent, dreamless army.
“No cowards were we, when we heard the call,
For freedom we grudged not to give our all,”
Is the call from the silent army.
Hushed and quiet and still they lie,
This silent, dreamless army,
While living comrades spring to their side,
And the bugle-call and the battle-cry
Are heard as dreamer and dreamless lie
Under the stars of the arching sky,
The men who have heard from the men who have died
The call of the silent army.
THE SOURCE OF NEWS
FROM THE NEEDLE
Absolute knowledge I have none,
But my aunt’s washerwoman’s son
Heard a policeman on his beat
Say to a laborer in the street
That he had a letter just last week,
Written in the finest Greek,
From a Chinese coolie in Timbuctoo,
Who said the niggers in Cuba knew
Of a colored man in a Texas town
Who got it straight from a circus clown,
That a man in Klondike heard the news
From a gang of South American Jews,
About somebody in Bamboo
Who heard a man who claimed he knew
Of a swell society female rake
Whose mother-in-law will undertake
To prove that her husband’s sister’s niece
Has stated in a printed piece
That she has a son who has a friend
Who knows when the war is going to end.
TO MY SON
A poem, anonymous, sent to the Chicago Evening Post by one whose
son’s regiment was leaving for France.
My son, at last the fateful day has come
For us to part. The hours have nearly run.
May God return you safe to land and home;
Yet, what God wills, so may His will be done.
Draw tight the belt about your slender frame;
Flash blue your eyes! Hold high your proud young head!
Today you march in Liberty’s fair name,
To save the line enriched by France’s dead!
I would not it were otherwise. And yet
’Tis hard to speed your marching forth, my son!
’Tis doubly hard to live without regret
For love unsaid, and kindnesses undone.
But would the chance were mine with you to stand
Upon those shores and see our flag unfurled!
To fight on France’s brave, unconquered land
With Liberty’s great sword for all the world!
Beyond the waves, my son, the siren calls,
The sky is black and Fastnet lies abreast;
A signal rocket flings its stars and falls
Across the night to welcome England’s guest.
When mid the scud you see the Cornish lights,
And through the mist you hear faint Devon chimes,
Thank God for memories of those other nights
And days on other ships in happier times.
Perhaps you’ll stand within the pillared nave
And aisles where colored sundust falls, and see
Old Canterbury Church where Becket gave
His life’s best blood for England’s liberty!
Some night you’ll walk, perhaps, on Salisbury plain;
Above Stonehenge the Druid’s stars still sleep,
And on the turf within the circled fane
Beneath the autumn moon still lie the sheep.
And if you march beside some Kentish hedge,
And blackberries hang thick clustered o’er the ways,
Pluck down a branch! Rest by the road’s brown edge;
Eat! Nor forget our last vacation days!
And then the trench in battle-scarred Lorraine;
The town half burned but held in spite of hell;
The bridge twice taken, lost, and won again;
The cratered glacis ripped with mine and shell.
The leafless trees, bare-branched in spite of June;
The sodden road, the desolated plain;
The mateless birds, the season out of tune;
Fair France, at bay, is calling through her pain.
Oh, son! My son! God keep you safe and free--
Our flag and you! But if the hour must come
To choose at last ’twixt self and liberty--
We’ll close our eyes! So let God’s will be done!
EASTER-EGGS
REGINALD WRIGHT KAUFFMAN
From this author’s “Our Navy at Work,” published by the
Bobbs-Merrill Co. In 1917, our Government took over a large number
of pleasure-yachts, fitted them with a few light guns and
depth-charges and sent them into French waters to hunt submarines.
They were variously known as “The Suicide Fleet” and “Easter-Eggs.”
Mr. Kauffman spent some time at sea with them. Permission to
reproduce in this book.
Now, Mr. Wall of Wall St., he built himself a yacht,
And he built that yacht for comfort and for speed;
He didn’t mean that it should go
Beyond a hundred miles or so;
He wanted something made for show,
Where he could drink and feed.
Then Uncle Sam’l went to war and hadn’t any boats,
Or not enough to guard the stormy green,
And so he said to Mr. Wall:
“I’ll take your six-feet-over-all
And set it out to get the call
Upon the submarine.”
“A cruising-fighter? Never!” (The experts chorused that.)
“She’ll sink before she’s half-way out to France”;
But Sam cut out her bathtubs white,
He painted her a perfect fright
And loaded her with dynamite;
Says he: “I’ll take a chance.”
“Good-night!” said Wall of Wall St.; the experts said it, too;
But Uncle Sam was sot and sibylline;
His little plan, it warn’t a josh:
Wall’s boat ’s as dry ’s a mackintosh;
She fights, b’ gum; what’s more, b’ gosh,
She gits the submarine!
A DIRGE
VICTOR PEROWNE
IN THE LONDON TIMES
Thou art no longer here,
No longer shall we see thy face.
But, in that other place,
Where may be heard
The roar of the world rushing down the wantways of the stars;
And the silver bars
Of heaven’s gate
Shine soft and clear:
Thou mayest wait.
No longer shall we see
Thee walking in the crowded streets,
But where the ocean of the Future beats
Against the flood-gates of the Present, swirling to this earth,
Another birth
Thou mayest have;
Another Arcady
May thee receive.
Not here thou dost remain,
Thou art gone far away,
Where, at the portals of the day,
The hours ever dance in ring, a silvern-footed throng,
While time looks on,
And seraphs stand
Choiring an endless strain
On either hand.
Thou canst return no more;
Not as the happy time of spring
Comes after winter burgeoning
On wood and wold in folds of living green, for thou art dead.
Our tears we shed
In vain, for thou
Dost pace another shore,
Untroubled now.
THE WOMAN’S GAME
AUTHORSHIP NOT KNOWN
Was there ever a game we did not share,
Brother of mine?
Or a day when I did not play you fair,
Brother of mine?
“As good as a boy,” you used to say,
And I was as eager for the fray,
And as loath to cheat or to run away,
Brother of mine!
You are playing the game that is straight and true,
Brother of mine,
And I’d give my soul to stand next to you,
Brother of mine.
The spirit, indeed, is still the same;
I would not shrink from the battle’s flame,
Yet here I stay--at the woman’s game,
Brother of mine!
If the last price must needs be paid,
Brother of mine,
You will go forward, unafraid,
Brother of mine.
Death can so small a part destroy,
You will have known the fuller joy--
Ah! would that I had been born a boy,
Brother of mine!
A FLEMISH VILLAGE
H. A.
IN LONDON SPECTATOR
Gone is the spire that slept for centuries,
Whose image in the water, calm and low,
Was mingled with the lilies green and snow,
And lost itself in river mysteries.
The church lies broken near the fallen spire;
For here, among these old and human things
Death swept along the street with feet of fire,
And went upon his way with moaning wings.
Above the cluster of these homes forlorn,
Where giant fleeces of the shells are rolled,
O’er pavements by the kneeling herdsmen worn,
The wounded saints look out to see their fold.
And silence follows fast, no evening peace,
But leaden stillness, when the thunder wanes,
Haunting the slender branches of the trees,
And settling low upon the listless plains.
FRANCE
CAPT. JOSEPH MEDILL PATTERSON
IN THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE
From the French of Armentier Ohanian
Permission to reproduce in this book
I was an exile from my own country and wandered over the breast of the
world seeking another country.
And I came into a land where there was only a long spring and a long
autumn, where they did not know the deadly heats of our summers or the
mortal colds of our mountains. Among the vines and sunny fields I saw
the people of this land at work, ever young of soul, smiling, loving,
and kindly.
I asked, “What is the name of this happy place?”
And the answer was, “France the voluptuous.”
I came to towns of splendid monuments, of harmonious buildings, of proud
triumphal arches of the past, and above always I saw the spires of great
cathedrals stretching toward the sky, as if to seize upon the feet of
God.
I asked, “What is the name of this marvelous land?”
And the answer was, “France the glorious.”
I advanced again, when I was struck by the red color of a large
river.... It was a river of warm blood that rolled down from afar in
thick and heavy waves. I advanced again. Before me dark clouds of smoke
hid the endless sky above huge fields of warriors in battle; when these
died smiling at death others took their places, singing.
I asked, “What is the name of this chivalrous land?”
And the answer was, “France the courageous.”
At last I came to an immense city, of which I saw neither the beginning
nor the end, a city full of sumptuous palaces, of parks, and fountains.
The sun glistened on the marble of the streets and kissed the serene,
resigned faces of women clothed in black. The chimes of churches filled
the air with solemn sounds, and words, until then unknown to me, “Te
Deum,” came from the throats of thousands of thousands.
With respect I asked, “What is the name of this land that mourns?”
And the answer was, “France the victorious.”
I kissed the earth of this land and said, “I have found my country, who
was an exile.”
THE CLERK
B. H. M. HETHERINGTON
IN THE LONDON BOOKMAN
Perched upon an office stool, neatly adding figures,
With cuffs gone shiny and a pen behind his ear;
Deep in Liabilities, Goods and Double Entry,
So he worked from year to year.
Diligent and careful, hedged about with figures,
Given soul and body to discount and per cent;
Bounded by the columns of Purchase Book and Journal,
Soberly his moments went.
Now his pen has ceased from adding rows of figures,
Ceased from ruling ledgers and entering amounts:
Clad in sodden khaki, with a gun in Flanders
He is balancing accounts.
POILU
STEUART M. EMERY, A. E. F.
IN THE STARS AND STRIPES