’N’ I wonder how them drivers see without a glim o’ light;
I c’n hear the clutches roarin’ as they throw the gears in high,
An’ the radiators boilin’ as the trucks go rollin’ by.
There’s some a-draggin’ cannons, you c’n spot the sound all right—
The rumblin’ ones is heavies, an’ the rattly ones is light;
The clinkin’ shells is pointin’ up their noses at the sky—
Oh, you c’n tell what’s passin’ as the trucks go rollin’ by.
But most of ’em is packin’ loads o’ human Yankee freight
That’ll slam the ol’ soft pedal ontuh Heinie’s hymn o’ hate;
You c’n hear ’em singin’ “Dixie,” and the “Sweet Bye ’N’ Bye,”
’N’ “Where Do We Go from Here, Boys?” as the trucks go rollin’ by.
Some’s singin’ songs as, when I left, they wasn’t even ripe
(A-showin’ ’at they’s rookies wot ain’t got a service stripe),
But jus’ the same they’re good ole Yanks, and that’s the reason why
I likes the jazz ’n’ barber shop o’ the trucks a-rollin’ by.
Jus’ God and Gen’rul Pershing knows where these here birds’ll light,
Where them bumpin’ trucks is bound for under camouflage o’ night,
When they can’t take aero pitchers with their Fokkers in the sky
Of our changes o’ location by the trucks a-rollin’ by.
So altho’ my bed is puddles an’ I’m soaked through to the hide,
My heart’s out with them doughboys on their bouncin’, singin’ ride,
They’re bound for paths o’ glory, or, p’raps, to fight ’n’ die—
God bless that Yankee cargo in the trucks a-rollin’ by.
L. W. SUCKERT, 1st Lt., A.S.
GETTIN’ LETTERS
When you’re far away from home an’ you’re feelin’ kind o’ blue,
When the world is topsy turvy, nothin’ sets jest right fer you,
Yuh can sneer at all yer troubles, an’ yer cares yuh never mind,
When you’ve really had a letter from the Girl yuh left behind.
When the cook is downright nutty, an’ his biskits never raise,
When he feeds yuh canned tomatoes fer jes’ seventeen straight days,
Yuh can quite fergit he’s nutty, yuh can treat him fairly kind,
If you’ve really had a letter from the Girl yuh left behind.
When the Captain’s got a grouch on, an’ has bawled yuh out fer fair,
When some pesky Lieut has sassed yuh which to home he wouldn’t dare,
Yuh can lift yer chin an’ whistle, an’ that’s easy, yuh will find,
If you’ve really had a letter from the Girl yuh left behind.
When a letter comes yuh grab it right before the other guys,
An’ yuh git a little vision of the light that’s in Her eyes;
Yuh can see Her smiles an’ dimples, an’ fer other girls you’re blind
When you’ve really had a letter from the Girl yuh left behind.
Jest a sheet or two of paper with a purple stamp or two,
But it means the whole creation to the heart an’ soul o’ you,
An’ yuh git to feelin’ pious, an’ yuh pray a bit, yuh mind,
For the great Almighty’s blessin’ on the Girl yuh left behind.
E. C. D., Field Hospital.
TO THE CHILDREN OF FRANCE
I wish you, children, playing round
On this too-rudely trampled ground,
Only the good things I would send
To all the children I befriend.
But one wish circles all: To know
Little of what your elders do,
And somehow into the sunlight grow
Out of the mists they stumble through.
R. R. KIRK, Pvt., G2, S.O.S.
THEN WE’LL COME BACK TO YOU
Some day, when screaming shells are but a dream
That vanished with the dawn of better days,
When Love and Faith are really what they seem,
And Treachery is lost in fleeting haze;
When each sweet day recalls a noble deed,
Wherein a blinding flash plays not a part,
And Truth at last has sown the godly seed
That springs to Trust and Joy in every heart;
Some day, though it be farther down the years
Than ever mortal gazed or planned ahead,
When we have made them pay for all your tears,
And squared accounts for comrades who have bled;
When we can feel that storms of Greed and Lust
Will nevermore engulf our skies of blue;
When you can live and know each sacred trust—
And not till then—will we come back to you.
Corp. HOWARD H. HERTY,
1st Army Hq. Reg.
TO A DOUGHBOY
I watched you slog down a dusty pike,
One of many so much alike,
With a spirit keen as a breath of flame,
Ready to rise and ready to strike
Whenever the fitting moment came;
Just a kid with a boyish grin,
Waiting the order to hustle in
And lend your soul to the battle thrill,
Unafraid of the battle din
Or the guns that crashed from a hidden hill.
I watched you leap to the big advance,
With a smile for Fate and its fighting chance,
Sweeping on till the charge was done;
I saw your grave on a slope of France
Where you fell asleep when the fight was won.
Just a kid who had earned his rest
With a rifle and helmet above his breast,
Who proved, in answer to German jeers,
That a kid can charge a machine gun nest
Without the training of forty years.
I watched the shadows drifting by
As gray dusk came from a summer’s sky,
And lost winds came from beyond the fight,
And I seemed to hear them croon and sigh:
“Sleep, little dreamer, sleep tonight;
Sleep tonight, for I’m bringing you
A prayer and a dream from the home you knew;
And I’ll take them word of the big advance,
And how you fought till the game was through,
And you fell asleep in the dust of France.”
LIL’ PAL O’ MINE
Just a wee remembrance
Of a little child so fair,
From Dad, who coaxed himself away
To leave you over there.
Just a little thought or two,
A dream, a wish, a prayer,
For you, my little smiler Girl,
Across the sea back there.
Just a bit of Daddy love,
To you I send it all,
Your eyes, your smile, your golden hair,
Your love for “raggy doll.”
Just a little tear sometimes,
Yes, men they weaken too,
War is hard, but harder still
Is bein’ ’way from you.
E. S. E.
PERFECT CONTRITION
“Send for a priest,” the small disc read
That clasped his neck around;
But he, brave soul, was long since dead
When found upon the ground.
A crucifix was in his hand,
Stained by his bloody kiss,
This newest of the martyr band
To taste of Heaven’s bliss.
THOMAS F. COAKLEY, Lt., Chaplain.
WHEN PRIVATE MUGRUMS PARLAY VOOS
I can count my francs an’ santeems—
If I’ve got a basket near—
An’ I speak a wicked “bon jour,”
But the verbs are awful queer,
An’ I lose a lot o’ pronouns
When I try to talk to you,
For your eyes are so bewitchin’
I forget to parlay voo.
In your pretty little garden,
With the bench beside the wall,
An’ the sunshine on the asters,
An’ the purple phlox so tall,
I should like to whisper secrets,
But my language goes askew
With the second person plural
For the more familiar “too.”
In your pretty little garden
I could always say “juh tame,”
But it ain’t so very subtle,
An’ it ain’t not quite the same
As “You’ve got some dandy earrings,”
Or “Your eyes are nice an’ brown”—
But my adjectives get manly
Right before a lady noun
Those infinitives perplex me,
I can say you’re “tray jolee,”
But beyond that simple statement
All my tenses don’t agree.
I can make the Boche “comprenney”
When I meet ’em in a trench,
But the softer things escape me
When I try to yap in French.
In your pretty little garden
Darn the idioms that dance
On your tongue so sweet and rapid,
Ah, they hold me in a trance!
Though I stutter an’ I stammer,
In your garden, on the bench,
Yet my heart is writin’ poems
When I talk to you in French.
CHARLES DIVINE, Pvt.
IF I WERE A COOTIE
If I were a cootie (pro-Ally, of course),
I’d hie me away on a Potsdam-bound horse,
And I’d seek out the Kaiser (the war-maddened cuss),
And I’d be a bum cootie if I didn’t muss
His Imperial hide from his head to his toe!
He might hide from the bombs, but I’d give him no show!
If I were a cootie, I’d deem it my duty
To thus treat the Kaiser,
Ah, oui.
And after I’d thoroughly covered Bill’s area,
I’d hasten away to the Prince of Bavaria,
And chew him a round or two—under the Linden—
Then pack up my things and set out for old Hinden—
(Old Hindy’s the guy always talking ’bout strafing)—
To think what I’d do to that bird sets me laughing!
If I were a cootie, I’d deem it my duty
To thus threat the Prince and old Hindy,
Ah, oui!
I’d ne’er get fed up on Imperial gore—
I might rest for a while, but I’d go back for more.
I’d spend a few days with that Austrian crew,
And young Carl himself I’d put down for a chew;
There’d be no meatless days for this cootie, I know,
They’d all get one jolly good strafing or so.
For if I were a cootie, I’d deem it my duty
To thus treat their damnships,
Ah, oui!
A. P. BOWEN, Sgt., R.T.O.
THE LILY
The lily sadly drooped her head;
“My France is bowed in grief!” she said.
“Must I live on to satisfy
The conquering Teuton’s lustful eye?
Lord, let me wither!
Let me die!”
The lily proudly raised her head;
“My France is free once more!” she said.
“Free from dark and blood-smirched gloom!
The ruthless Hun has met his doom.
Lord, let me gladden!
Let me bloom!”
HOWARD J. GREEN, Corp., Inf.
ME,—AN’ WAR GOIN’ ON!
Me!—a-leadin’ a column!
Me!—that women have loved—
Me, a-leadin’ a column o’ Yanks, an’ tracin’ Her name in the Stars!
Me, that ain’t seen the purple hills before all mixed in the skies
With the gray dawn meltin’ to azure there;
Me, that ain’t a poet, growin’ poetic;
An’ the flash o’ the guns on the skyline,
An’ red wine—an’ France!
An’ me laughin’—and War!
An’ Slim Jim singin’ a song;
An’ a lop-eared mule a-kickin’ a limber
An’ axles ’thout no grease hollerin’ Maggie at me!
Me, that women have loved—
An’ War goin’ on!
Mornin’ comin’,
An’ me—a-leadin’ a column
Along o’ them from the College,
Along o’ them from the Streets,
An’ them as had mothers that spiled them, and them as hadn’t,—
Lovin’ names in the Stars,
An’ Slim Jim singin’ a song,
An’ Folks to Home watchin’ them, too,
An’ Maggie that never had loved me, lovin’ me now,
An’ thinkin’ an’ cryin’ for me!—
For me that loved Maggie that never loved me till now.
Mornin’ comin’,
An’ me—a-leadin’ a column,
An’ a town in the valley
Round the bend in the road,
An’ Ginger strainin’ his neck
An’ thinkin’ o’ Picket Lines—
An’ me an’ the rest o’ them thinkin’ o’ home and eggs down there in
the village,
An’ Coney startin’ to close at Home
An’ Maggie mashed in the crowd—
An’ me a-leadin’ a column—
An’ War goin’ on!
Me that hollered for water,
With a splinter o’ hell in my side;
Me that have laid in the sun a-cursin’ the beggars and stretchers
As looked like they’d never a-come;
Me that found God with the gas at my throat
An’ raved like a madman for Maggie,
An’ wanted a wooden cross over me!
Me—an’ Slim Jim back o’ me singin’,
An’ tracin’ a name in the fade o’ the Stars!
Me—knowin’ that some’ll be ridin’ that’s walkin’ tonight—
Knowin’ that some’ll never see Broadway again,
An’ red wine,
An’ Little Italy,
An’ Maggies like Mine,—
Me!—a-murmurin’ a prayer for Maggie
An’ stoppin’ to laugh at Slim,
An’ shoutin’ “To the right o’ the road for the Swoi-zant-canze!”
Them babies that raise such hell up the line,
An’ marchin’,
An’ marchin’ by night,
An’ sleepin’ by day,
An’ France,
An’ red wine,
An’ me thinkin’ o’ Home,
Me—a-leadin’ a column,—
An’ War goin’ on!
JOHN PALMER CUMMING, Inf.
THE ROAD TO MONTFAUCON
“M. P., the road from Avocourt
That leads to Montfaucon?”
“The road, sir, black with mules and carts
And brown with men a-marching on—
The Romagne woods that lie beyond
The ruined heights of Montfaucon—
“North over reclaimed No Man’s Land
The martyred roadway leads,
Quick with forward moving hosts
And quick with valiant deeds
Avenging Rheims, Liége, and Lille,
And outraged gods and creeds.
“There lies the road from Avocourt
That leads to Montfaucon,
Past sniper and machine gun nest,
By steel and thermite cleansed. They’ve gone—
And there in thund’rous echelon
The ruined heights of Montfaucon.”
HAROLD RIEZELMAN, 1st Lt., C.W.S.
VESTAL STAR
The long, long march is o’er, the weary roaming;
We bivouac, yearning for a peaceful night;
I lie and dream amid the purple gloaming,
And scan the heavens for a beacon light.
As graying shadows lengthen o’er the landscape,
And gentle zephyrs lightly stir the air,
In yon first twinkling star I gleam a vision
Of little sister offering up a prayer.
FRA GUIDO, F.A.
THE DOUGHBOY PROMISES
SHE
When you come back—
Ah, ’twill be such returning
As only lips like mine can sanctify!
Then will my arms, that ache with endless yearning,
Find sweet surcease from the regret of learning
To give you up, if need there be, to die.
Should you come back
Aged from the toil of fighting,
Marred, it may be, though perfect you set out,
What matters, so your heart has known no blighting,
Your soul has met the test without affrighting?
What is there, dear one, after that, to doubt!
_Oh, but you must come back to me, beloved!
Wounded or no, you must come back._
HE
When I come back,
Beneath my helmet muddy,
There’ll be a smile, stored through the strife, for you;
There’ll be a kiss, tender and warm—aye, ruddy
With hint of Gallic skies, for my real buddy
(That’s soldier talk, and soldier talk rings true).
As I come back,
Down the street flags adorning,
Half seeing all the pomp for sight of you,
Foretaste I’ll know of gladsome days a-borning
For us, come out of Night at last to Morning
From the Long Trail that terminates for two.
_Oh, but I will come back to you, my Mother!
Wounded? Why, no! ... I will come back!_
ARTHUR MCKEOGH, Lt., Inf.
OLD LADY RUMOR
There is nothing like a rumor just to set the gang afire,
They receive it,
And believe it,
Does it matter who’s the liar?
No, it doesn’t. For as often as we hear of something new,
Though it’s doubted,
It is shouted
By our gossip-loving crew.
Conversation is a morsel, and, with greedy appetite,
How we chew it,
As we brew it,
Be it daytime, be it night.
Back in the States it started and continues o’er the foam,
And we’ll swally
It, by golly,
When we join the Soldiers’ Home!
A-h-h-h—men-n!
C. H. MACCOY, Base Hosp. 38.
THE LOST TOWNS
Beneath the new moon sleeping
The little lost towns lie;
Their streets are very white and hushed,
Their black spires tilt the sky.
Across the darkened meadows
A plaintive night bird calls;
The sea of fog that clouds the fields
Rolls softly to their walls.
Within their shuttered houses
No midnight candles glance;
Their womenfolk are all abed,
Their menfolk fight for France.
They dream the little lost towns
Of Alsace and Lorraine,
The vision of the patient years,
The old frontier again.
Sleep on, nor cease your dreaming,
Who pitted men and crowns,
We’ll bring you back, we’ll bring you back,
Oh, little, long lost towns.
STEUART M. EMERY, Pvt., M.P.
DER TAG
(In answer to the German toast “Der Tag” in which the
German war lords toasted the time when Deutschland would
be “über alles.”)
Here’s to the day when the whole thing is won!
Here’s to the day when the Kaiser is done!
Here’s to the day when we break his swelled dome!
Here’s to the day that we go marching home!
Long, restless nights
With cursed cootie bites
Things of the past!
Hot baths at last!
Real dollar bills!
No more O.D. pills!
Chicken instead of our canned willie chow!
All of the ice cream the law will allow!
Mess in the way we want to be messed!
Dress in the way we like to be dressed!
Neckties and suits!
No more salutes!
A nice, comfy bed
With a mattress instead
Of some billet floor
That makes your ribs sore.
The day when we no longer blister our heels,
But know how a ride in the old subway feels!
The day that we no longer parlez Français,
But speak once again in the good old home way!
Keep running, Fritz, as you’re now on the run,
And before very long you will be a licked Hun,
With “Der Tag” that you toasted time-worn and passé,
While we drink triumphantly: Here’s to Our Day!
HOWARD J. GREEN, Corp., Inf.
THERE’S ABOUT TWO MILLION FELLOWS—
There’s about two million fellows from the North, South, East and West
Who scurried up the gang plank of a ship;
They have felt the guy ropes paying and the troopship gently swaying
As it started on its journey from the country of the blest.
They have washed in hard salt water, bucked the Army transport grub,
Had a hitch of crow’s nest duty on the way;
Strained their eyes mistaking white caps for a humpback Prussian sub
Just at twilight when “the danger’s great, they say.”
When their ship had lost the convoy they were worried just a bit,
And rather thought the skipper should be canned;
And the sigh of heartfelt feeling almost set the boat to reeling
When each of those two million sighted land.
There’s about two million fellows that have landed here in France,
They’re scattered God and G.H.Q. know where;
By the cranes where steamers anchor, schooner, tramp, or greasy
tanker,
There’s an O.D. outfit waiting just to make the cargo dance.
They are chopping in the forest, double-timing on the roads,
Putting two-ways where a single went before;
In the cabs of sweating engines, pushing, pulling double loads
When the R.T.O.’s in frenzied tones implore.
For it’s duty, solid duty with the hustling men behind,
From the P. of E.’s on up to No Man’s Land;
And there’s never chance of shirking when the boys up front are
working—
Night and day must go the answer to the front line’s stern demand.
There’s about two million fellows and there’s some of them who lie
Where eighty-eights and G.I.’s gently drop;
Where the trucks and trains are jamming and the colonel he is damning
Half the earth and in particular the Service of Supply.
They have had a stretch of trenches, beat the Prussian at his best,
Seen their buddies fall like heroes right beside;
But—there’s nigh two million fellows from the country of the blest
Who know the cause for which their comrades died,
Who have crossed the sluggish shallows where their little life streams
ran
And broadened just a trifle, you will find;
And their vision’s cleaner, clearer and they hold just that much
dearer
The great and glorious land they left behind!
ALBERT J. COOK,
Sgt., Hq. Detch.,—Army Corps.
[Illustration: C. LeRoy Baldridge Pvt A E F Audenarde Belgium Nov.
11/1918]
NOVEMBER ELEVENTH
We stood up and we didn’t say a word,
It felt just like when you have dropped your pack
After a hike, and straightened out your back
And seem just twice as light as any bird.
We stood up straight and, God! but it was good!
When you have crouched like that for months, to stand
Straight up and look right out toward No-Man’s-Land
And feel the way you never thought you could.
We saw the trenches on the other side
And Jerry, too, not making any fuss,
But prob’ly stupid-happy, just like us,
Nobody shot and no one tried to hide.
If you had listened then I guess you’d heard
A sort of sigh from everybody there,
But all we did was stand and stare and stare,
Just stare and stand and never say a word.
HILMAR R. BAUKHAGE,
Pvt., A. E. F.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as
printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.