Part 5

Don't you think as we peddle a card of pins the counter will fade away, And again we'll be seeing the sand-bag rims, and the barb-wire's misty grey? As a flat voice asks for a pound of tea, don't you fancy we'll hear instead The night-wind moan and the soothing drone of the packet that's overhead?

Don't you guess that the things we're seeing now will haunt us through all the years; Heaven and hell rolled into one, glory and blood and tears; Life's pattern picked with a scarlet thread, where once we wove with a grey To remind us all how we played our part in the shock of an epic day?

Oh, we're booked for the Great Adventure now, we're pledged to the Real Romance; We'll find ourselves or we'll lose ourselves somewhere in giddy old France; We'll know the zest of the fighter's life; the best that we have we'll give; We'll hunger and thirst; we'll die . . . but first-- we'll live; by the gods, we'll live!

We'll breathe free air and we'll bivouac under the starry sky; We'll march with men and we'll fight with men, and we'll see men laugh and die; We'll know such joy as we never dreamed; we'll fathom the deeps of pain: But the hardest bit of it all will be--when we come back home again.

_For some of us smirk in a chiffon shop, and some of us teach in a school; Some of us help with the seat of our pants to polish an office stool; The merits of somebody's soap or jam some of us seek to explain, But all of us wonder what we'll do when we have to go back again._

Grand-père

And so when he reached my bed The General made a stand: "My brave young fellow," he said, "I would shake your hand."

So I lifted my arm, the right, With never a hand at all; Only a stump, a sight Fit to appal.

"Well, well. Now that's too bad! That's sorrowful luck," he said; "But there! You give me, my lad, The left instead."

So from under the blanket's rim I raised and showed him the other, A snag as ugly and grim As its ugly brother.

He looked at each jagged wrist; He looked, but he did not speak; And then he bent down and kissed Me on either cheek.

You wonder now I don't mind I hadn't a hand to offer. . . . They tell me (you know I'm blind) _'TWAS GRAND-PEÈRE JOFFRE._

Son

He hurried away, young heart of joy, under our Devon sky! And I watched him go, my beautiful boy, and a weary woman was I. For my hair is grey, and his was gold; he'd the best of his life to live; And I'd loved him so, and I'm old, I'm old; and he's all I had to give.

Ah yes, he was proud and swift and gay, but oh how my eyes were dim! With the sun in his heart he went away, but he took the sun with him. For look! How the leaves are falling now, and the winter won't be long. . . . Oh boy, my boy with the sunny brow, and the lips of love and of song!

How we used to sit at the day's sweet end, we two by the firelight's gleam, And we'd drift to the Valley of Let's Pretend, on the beautiful river of Dream. Oh dear little heart! All wealth untold would I gladly, gladly pay Could I just for a moment closely hold that golden head to my grey.

For I gaze in the fire, and I'm seeing there a child, and he waves to me; And I run and I hold him up in the air, and he laughs and shouts with glee; A little bundle of love and mirth, crying: "Come, Mumsie dear!" Ah me! If he called from the ends of the earth I know that my heart would hear.

. . . . .

Yet the thought comes thrilling through all my pain: how worthier could he die? Yea, a loss like that is a glorious gain, and pitiful proud am I. For Peace must be bought with blood and tears, and the boys of our hearts must pay; And so in our joy of the after-years, let us bless them every day.

And though I know there's a hasty grave with a poor little cross at its head, And the gold of his youth he so gladly gave, yet to me he'll never be dead. And the sun in my Devon lane will be gay, and my boy will be with me still, So I'm finding the heart to smile and say: "Oh God, if it be Thy Will!"

The Black Dudeen

_Humping it here in the dug-out, Sucking me black dudeen, I'd like to say in a general way, There's nothing like Nickyteen; There's nothing like Nickyteen, me boys, Be it pipes or snipes or cigars; So be sure that a bloke Has plenty to smoke, If you wants him to fight your wars._

When I've eat my fill and my belt is snug, I begin to think of my baccy plug. I whittle a fill in my horny palm, And the bowl of me old clay pipe I cram. I trim the edges, I tamp it down, I nurse a light with an anxious frown; I begin to draw, and my cheeks tuck in, And all my face is a blissful grin; And up in a cloud the good smoke goes, And the good pipe glimmers and fades and glows; In its throat it chuckles a cheery song, For I likes it hot and I likes it strong. Oh, it's good is grub when you're feeling hollow, But the best of a meal's the smoke to follow.

There was Micky and me on a night patrol, Having to hide in a fizz-bang hole; And sure I thought I was worse than dead Wi' them crump-crumps hustlin' over me head. Sure I thought 'twas the dirty spot, Hammer and tongs till the air was hot. And mind you, water up to your knees. And cold! A monkey of brass would freeze. And if we ventured our noses out A "typewriter" clattered its pills about. The field of glory! Well, I don't think! I'd sooner be safe and snug in clink.

Then Micky, he goes and he cops one bad, He always was having ill-luck, poor lad. Says he: "Old chummy, I'm booked right through; Death and me 'as a wrongday voo. But . . . 'aven't you got a pinch of shag?-- I'd sell me perishin' soul for a fag." And there he shivered and cussed his luck, So I gave him me old black pipe to suck. And he heaves a sigh, and he takes to it Like a babby takes to his mammy's tit; Like an infant takes to his mother's breast, Poor little Micky! he went to rest.

But the dawn was near, though the night was black, So I left him there and I started back. And I laughed as the silly old bullets came, For the bullet ain't made wot's got me name. Yet some of 'em buzzed onhealthily near, And one little blighter just chipped me ear. But there! I got to the trench all right, When sudden I jumped wi' a start o' fright, And a word that doesn't look well in type: _I'D CLEAN FORGOTTEN ME OLD CLAY PIPE._

So I had to do it all over again, Crawling out on that filthy plain. Through shells and bombs and bullets and all-- Only this time--I do not crawl. I run like a man wot's missing a train, Or a tom-cat caught in a plump of rain. I hear the spit of a quick-fire gun Tickle my heels, but I run, I run.

Through crash and crackle, and flicker and flame, (Oh, the packet ain't issued wot's got me name!) I run like a man that's no ideer Of hunting around for a sooveneer. I run bang into a German chap, And he stares like an owl, so I bash his map. And just to show him that I'm his boss, I gives him a kick on the parados. And I marches him back with me all serene, With, _TUCKED IN ME GUB, ME OLD DUDEEN._

_Sitting here in the trenches Me heart's a-splittin' with spleen, For a parcel o' lead comes missing me head, But it smashes me old dudeen. God blast that red-headed sniper! I'll give him somethin' to snipe; Before the war's through Just see how I do That blighter that smashed me pipe._

The Little Piou-piou

* The French "Tommy".

Oh, some of us lolled in the chateau, And some of us slinked in the slum; But now we are here with a song and a cheer To serve at the sign of the drum. They put us in trousers of scarlet, In big sloppy ulsters of blue; In boots that are flat, a box of a hat, And they call us the little piou-piou, Piou-piou, The laughing and quaffing piou-piou, The swinging and singing piou-piou; And so with a rattle we march to the battle, The weary but cheery piou-piou.

_Encore un petit verre de vin, Pour nous mettre en route; Encore un petit verre de vin Pour nous mettre en train._

They drive us head-on for the slaughter; We haven't got much of a chance; The issue looks bad, but we're awfully glad To battle and die for La France. For some must be killed, that is certain; There's only one's duty to do; So we leap to the fray in the glorious way They expect of the little piou-piou. En avant! The way of the gallant piou-piou, The dashing and smashing piou-piou; The way grim and gory that leads us to glory Is the way of the little piou-piou.

_Allons, enfants de la Patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrivé._

To-day you would scarce recognise us, Such veterans war-wise are we; So grimy and hard, so calloused and scarred, So "crummy", yet gay as can be. We've finished with trousers of scarlet, They're giving us breeches of blue, With a helmet instead of a cap on our head, Yet still we're the little piou-piou. Nous les aurons! The jesting, unresting piou-piou; The cheering, unfearing piou-piou; The keep-your-head-level and fight-like-the-devil; The dying, defying piou-piou.

_À la bayonette! Jusqu'à la mort! Sonnez la charge, clairons!_

Bill the Bomber

The poppies gleamed like bloody pools through cotton-woolly mist; The Captain kept a-lookin' at the watch upon his wrist; And there we smoked and squatted, as we watched the shrapnel flame; 'Twas wonnerful, I'm tellin' you, how fast them bullets came. 'Twas weary work the waiting, though; I tried to sleep a wink, For waitin' means a-thinkin', and it doesn't do to think. So I closed my eyes a little, and I had a niceish dream Of a-standin' by a dresser with a dish of Devon cream; But I hadn't time to sample it, for suddenlike I woke: "Come on, me lads!" the Captain says, 'n I climbed out through the smoke.

We spread out in the open: it was like a bath of lead; But the boys they cheered and hollered fit to raise the bloody dead, Till a beastly bullet copped 'em, then they lay without a sound, And it's odd--we didn't seem to heed them corpses on the ground. And I kept on thinkin', thinkin', as the bullets faster flew, How they picks the werry best men, and they lets the rotters through; So indiscriminatin' like, they spares a man of sin, And a rare lad wot's a husband and a father gets done in. And while havin' these reflections and advancin' on the run, A bullet biffs me shoulder, and says I: "That's number one."

Well, it downed me for a jiffy, but I didn't lose me calm, For I knew that I was needed: I'm a bomber, so I am. I 'ad lost me cap and rifle, but I "carried on" because I 'ad me bombs and knew that they was needed, so they was. We didn't 'ave no singin' now, nor many men to cheer; Maybe the shrapnel drowned 'em, crashin' out so werry near; And the Maxims got us sideways, and the bullets faster flew, And I copped one on me flipper, and says I: "That's number two."

I was pleased it was the left one, for I 'ad me bombs, ye see, And 'twas 'ard if they'd be wasted like, and all along o' me. And I'd lost me 'at and rifle--but I told you that before, So I packed me mit inside me coat and "carried on" once more. But the rumpus it was wicked, and the men were scarcer yet, And I felt me ginger goin', but me jaws I kindo set, And we passed the Boche first trenches, which was 'eapin' 'igh with dead, And we started for their second, which was fifty feet ahead; When something like a 'ammer smashed me savage on the knee, And down I came all muck and blood: Says I: "That's number three."

So there I lay all 'elpless like, and bloody sick at that, And worryin' like anythink, because I'd lost me 'at; And thinkin' of me missis, and the partin' words she said: "If you gets killed, write quick, ol' man, and tell me as you're dead." And lookin' at me bunch o' bombs--that was the 'ardest blow, To think I'd never 'ave the chance to 'url them at the foe. And there was all our boys in front, a-fightin' there like mad, And me as could 'ave 'elped 'em wiv the lovely bombs I 'ad. And so I cussed and cussed, and then I struggled back again, Into that bit of battered trench, packed solid with its slain.

Now as I lay a-lyin' there and blastin' of me lot, And wishin' I could just dispose of all them bombs I'd got, I sees within the doorway of a shy, retirin' dug-out Six Boches all a-grinnin', and their Captain stuck 'is mug out; And they 'ad a nice machine gun, and I twigged what they was at; And they fixed it on a tripod, and I watched 'em like a cat; And they got it in position, and they seemed so werry glad, Like they'd got us in a death-trap, which, condemn their souls! they 'ad. For there our boys was fightin' fifty yards in front, and 'ere This lousy bunch of Boches they 'ad got us in the rear.

Oh it set me blood a-boilin' and I quite forgot me pain, So I started crawlin', crawlin' over all them mounds of slain; And them barstards was so busy-like they 'ad no eyes for me, And me bleedin' leg was draggin', but me right arm it was free. . . . And now they 'ave it all in shape, and swingin' sweet and clear; And now they're all excited like, but--I am drawin' near; And now they 'ave it loaded up, and now they're takin' aim. . . . Rat-tat-tat-tat! Oh here, says I, is where I join the game. And my right arm it goes swingin', and a bomb it goes a-slingin', And that "typewriter" goes wingin' in a thunderbolt of flame.

Then these Boches, wot was left of 'em, they tumbled down their 'ole, And up I climbed a mound of dead, and down on them I stole. And oh that blessed moment when I heard their frightened yell, And I laughed down in that dug-out, ere I bombed their souls to hell. And now I'm in the hospital, surprised that I'm alive; We started out a thousand men, we came back thirty-five. And I'm minus of a trotter, but I'm most amazin' gay, For me bombs they wasn't wasted, though, you might say, "thrown away".

The Whistle of Sandy McGraw

You may talk o' your lutes and your dulcimers fine, Your harps and your tabors and cymbals and a', But here in the trenches jist gie me for mine The wee penny whistle o' Sandy McGraw. Oh, it's: "Sandy, ma lad, will you lilt us a tune?" And Sandy is willin' and trillin' like mad; Sae silvery sweet that we a' throng aroun', And some o' it's gay, but the maist o' it's sad. Jist the wee simple airs that sink intae your hert, And grup ye wi' love and wi' longin' for hame; And ye glour like an owl till you're feelin' the stert O' a tear, and you blink wi' a feelin' o' shame. For his song's o' the heather, and here in the dirt You listen and dream o' a land that's sae braw, And he mak's you forget a' the harm and the hurt, For he pipes like a laverock, does Sandy McGraw.

. . . . .

At Eepers I mind me when rank upon rank We rose from the trenches and swept like the gale, Till the rapid-fire guns got us fell on the flank And the murderin' bullets came swishin' like hail: Till a' that were left o' us faltered and broke; Till it seemed for a moment a panicky rout, When shrill through the fume and the flash and the smoke The wee valiant voice o' a whistle piped out. 'The Campbells are Comin'': Then into the fray We bounded wi' bayonets reekin' and raw, And oh we fair revelled in glory that day, Jist thanks to the whistle o' Sandy McGraw.

. . . . .

At Loose, it wis after a sconnersome fecht, On the field o' the slain I wis crawlin' aboot; And the rockets were burnin' red holes in the nicht; And the guns they were veciously thunderin' oot; When sudden I heard a bit sound like a sigh, And there in a crump-hole a kiltie I saw: "Whit ails ye, ma lad? Are ye woundit?" says I. "I've lost ma wee whustle," says Sandy McGraw. "'Twas oot by yon bing where we pressed the attack, It drapped frae ma pooch, and between noo and dawn There isna much time so I'm jist crawlin' back. . . ." "Ye're daft, man!" I telt him, but Sandy wis gone.

Weel, I waited a wee, then I crawled oot masel, And the big stuff wis gorin' and roarin' around, And I seemed tae be under the oxter o' hell, And Creation wis crackin' tae bits by the sound. And I says in ma mind: "Gang ye back, ye auld fule!" When I thrilled tae a note that wis saucy and sma'; And there in a crater, collected and cool, Wi' his wee penny whistle wis Sandy McGraw. Ay, there he wis playin' as gleg as could be, And listenin' hard wis a spectacled Boche; Then Sandy turned roon' and he noddit tae me, And he says: "Dinna blab on me, Sergeant McTosh. The auld chap is deein'. He likes me tae play. It's makin' him happy. Jist see his een shine!" And thrillin' and sweet in the hert o' the fray Wee Sandy wis playin' 'The Watch on the Rhine'.

. . . . .

The last scene o' a'--'twas the day that we took That bit o' black ruin they ca' Labbiesell. It seemed the hale hillside jist shivered and shook, And the red skies were roarin' and spewin' oot shell. And the Sergeants were cursin' tae keep us in hand, And hard on the leash we were strainin' like dugs, When upward we shot at the word o' command, And the bullets were dingin' their songs in oor lugs. And onward we swept wi' a yell and a cheer, And a' wis destruction, confusion and din, And we knew that the trench o' the Boches wis near, And it seemed jist the safest bit hole tae be in. So we a' tumbled doon, and the Boches were there, And they held up their hands, and they yelled: "Kamarad!" And I merched aff wi' ten, wi' their palms in the air, And my! I wis prood-like, and my! I wis glad. And I thocht: if ma lassie could see me jist then. . . . When sudden I sobered at somethin' I saw, And I stopped and I stared, and I halted ma men, For there on a stretcher wis Sandy McGraw.

Weel, he looks in ma face, jist as game as ye please: "Ye ken hoo I hate tae be workin'," says he; "But noo I can play in the street for bawbees, Wi' baith o' ma legs taken aff at the knee." And though I could see he wis rackit wi' pain, He reached for his whistle and stertit tae play; And quaverin' sweet wis the pensive refrain: 'The floors o' the forest are a' wede away'. Then sudden he stoppit: "Man, wis it no grand Hoo we took a' them trenches?" . . . He shakit his heid: "I'll--no--play--nae--mair----" feebly doon frae his hand Slipped the wee penny whistle and--_SANDY WIS DEID._

. . . . .

And so you may talk o' your Steinways and Strads, Your wonderful organs and brasses sae braw; But oot in the trenches jist gie me, ma lads, Yon wee penny whistle o' Sandy McGraw.

The Stretcher-Bearer

My stretcher is one scarlet stain, And as I tries to scrape it clean, I tell you wot--I'm sick with pain For all I've 'eard, for all I've seen; Around me is the 'ellish night, And as the war's red rim I trace, I wonder if in 'Eaven's height, Our God don't turn away 'Is Face.

I don't care 'oose the Crime may be; I 'olds no brief for kin or clan; I 'ymns no 'ate: I only see As man destroys his brother man; I waves no flag: I only know, As 'ere beside the dead I wait, A million 'earts is weighed with woe, A million 'omes is desolate.

In drippin' darkness, far and near, All night I've sought them woeful ones. Dawn shudders up and still I 'ear The crimson chorus of the guns. Look! like a ball of blood the sun 'Angs o'er the scene of wrath and wrong. . . . "Quick! Stretcher-bearers on the run!" _O PRINCE OF PEACE! 'OW LONG, 'OW LONG?_

Wounded

Is it not strange? A year ago to-day, With scarce a thought beyond the hum-drum round, I did my decent job and earned my pay; Was averagely happy, I'll be bound. Ay, in my little groove I was content, Seeing my life run smoothly to the end, With prosy days in stolid labour spent, And jolly nights, a pipe, a glass, a friend. In God's good time a hearth fire's cosy gleam, A wife and kids, and all a fellow needs; When presto! like a bubble goes my dream: I leap upon the Stage of Splendid Deeds. I yell with rage; I wallow deep in gore: I, that was clerk in a drysalter's store.

Stranger than any book I've ever read. Here on the reeking battlefield I lie, Under the stars, propped up with smeary dead, Like too, if no one takes me in, to die. Hit on the arms, legs, liver, lungs and gall; Damn glad there's nothing more of me to hit; But calm, and feeling never pain at all, And full of wonder at the turn of it. For of the dead around me three are mine, Three foemen vanquished in the whirl of fight; So if I die I have no right to whine, I feel I've done my little bit all right. I don't know how--but there the beggars are, As dead as herrings pickled in a jar.