Part 6

And here am I, worse wounded than I thought; For in the fight a bullet bee-like stings; You never heed; the air is metal-hot, And all alive with little flicking wings. _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ You see the fellows fall; Your pal was by your side, fair fighting-mad; You turn to him, and lo! no pal at all; You wonder vaguely if he's copped it bad. _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ The heavens vomit death; And vicious death is besoming the ground. You're blind with sweat; you're dazed, and out of breath, And though you yell, you cannot hear a sound. _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ Oh, War's a rousing game! Around you smoky clouds like ogres tower; The earth is rowelled deep with spurs of flame, And on your helmet stones and ashes shower. _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ It's odd! You have no fear. Machine-gun bullets whip and lash your path; Red, yellow, black the smoky giants rear; The shrapnel rips, the heavens roar in wrath. _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ Barbed wire all trampled down. The ground all gored and rent as by a blast; Grim heaps of grey where once were heaps of brown; A ragged ditch--the Hun first line at last. All smashed to hell. Their second right ahead, _SO ON YOU CHARGE._ There's nothing else to do. More reeking holes, blood, barbed wire, gruesome dead; (Your puttee strap's undone--that worries you). You glare around. You think you're all alone. But no; your chums come surging left and right. The nearest chap flops down without a groan, His face still snarling with the rage of fight. Ha! here's the second trench--just like the first, Only a little more so, more "laid out"; More pounded, flame-corroded, death-accurst; A pretty piece of work, beyond a doubt. Now for the third, and there your job is done, _SO ON YOU CHARGE._ You never stop to think. Your cursed puttee's trailing as you run; You feel you'd sell your soul to have a drink. The acrid air is full of cracking whips. You wonder how it is you're going still. You foam with rage. Oh, God! to be at grips With someone you can rush and crush and kill. Your sleeve is dripping blood; you're seeing red; You're battle-mad; your turn is coming now. See! there's the jagged barbed wire straight ahead, And there's the trench--you'll get there anyhow. Your puttee catches on a strand of wire, And down you go; perhaps it saves your life, For over sandbag rims you see 'em fire, Crop-headed chaps, their eyes ablaze with strife. You crawl, you cower; then once again you plunge With all your comrades roaring at your heels. _HAVE AT 'EM, LADS!_ You stab, you jab, you lunge; A blaze of glory, then the red world reels. A crash of triumph, then . . . you're faint a bit . . . That cursed puttee! Now to fasten it. . . .

Well, that's the charge. And now I'm here alone. I've built a little wall of Hun on Hun, To shield me from the leaden bees that drone (It saves me worry, and it hurts 'em none). The only thing I'm wondering is when Some stretcher-men will stroll along my way? It isn't much that's left of me, but then Where life is, hope is, so at least they say. Well, if I'm spared I'll be the happy lad. I tell you I won't envy any king. I've stood the racket, and I'm proud and glad; I've had my crowning hour. Oh, War's the thing! It gives us common, working chaps our chance, A taste of glory, chivalry, romance.

Ay, War, they say, is hell; it's heaven, too. It lets a man discover what he's worth. It takes his measure, shows what he can do, Gives him a joy like nothing else on earth. It fans in him a flame that otherwise Would flicker out, these drab, discordant days; It teaches him in pain and sacrifice Faith, fortitude, grim courage past all praise. Yes, War is good. So here beside my slain, A happy wreck I wait amid the din; For even if I perish mine's the gain. . . . Hi, there, you fellows! WON'T you take me in? Give me a fag to smoke upon the way. . . . We've taken La Boiselle! The hell, you say! Well, that would make a corpse sit up and grin. . . . Lead on! I'll live to fight another day.

Faith

Since all that is was ever bound to be; Since grim, eternal laws our Being bind; And both the riddle and the answer find, And both the carnage and the calm decree; Since plain within the Book of Destiny Is written all the journey of mankind Inexorably to the end; since blind And mortal puppets playing parts are we:

Then let's have faith; good cometh out of ill; The power that shaped the strife shall end the strife; Then let's bow down before the Unknown Will; Fight on, believing all is well with life; Seeing within the worst of War's red rage The gleam, the glory of the Golden Age.

The Coward

'Ave you seen Bill's mug in the Noos to-day? 'E's gyned the Victoriar Cross, they say; Little Bill wot would grizzle and run away, If you 'it 'im a swipe on the jawr. 'E's slaughtered the Kaiser's men in tons; 'E's captured one of their quick-fire guns, And 'e 'adn't no practice in killin' 'Uns Afore 'e went off to the war.

Little Bill wot I nussed in 'is by-by clothes; Little Bill wot told me 'is childish woes; 'Ow often I've tidied 'is pore little nose Wiv the 'em of me pinnyfore. And now all the papers 'is praises ring, And 'e's been and 'e's shaken the 'and of the King And I sawr 'im to-day in the ward, pore thing, Where they're patchin' 'im up once more.

And 'e says: "Wot d'ye think of it, Lizer Ann?" And I says: "Well, I can't make it out, old man; You'd 'ook it as soon as a scrap began, When you was a bit of a kid." And 'e whispers: "'Ere, on the quiet, Liz, They're makin' too much of the 'ole damn biz, And the papers is printin' me ugly phiz, But . . . I'm 'anged if I know wot I did.

"Oh, the Captain comes and 'e says: 'Look 'ere! They're far too quiet out there: it's queer. They're up to somethin'--'oo'll volunteer To crawl in the dark and see?' Then I felt me 'eart like a 'ammer go, And up jumps a chap and 'e says: 'Right O!' But I chips in straight, and I says 'Oh no! 'E's a missis and kids--take me.'

"And the next I knew I was sneakin' out, And the oozy corpses was all about, And I felt so scared I wanted to shout, And me skin fair prickled wiv fear; And I sez: 'You coward! You 'ad no right To take on the job of a man this night,' Yet still I kept creepin' till ('orrid sight!) The trench of the 'Uns was near.

"It was all so dark, it was all so still; Yet somethin' pushed me against me will; 'Ow I wanted to turn! Yet I crawled until I was seein' a dim light shine. Then thinks I: 'I'll just go a little bit, And see wot the doose I can make of it,' And it seemed to come from the mouth of a pit: 'Christmas!' sez I, 'a _MINE.'_

"Then 'ere's the part wot I can't explain: I wanted to make for 'ome again, But somethin' was blazin' inside me brain, So I crawled to the trench instead; Then I saw the bullet 'ead of a 'Un, And 'e stood by a rapid-firer gun, And I lifted a rock and I 'it 'im one, And 'e dropped like a chunk o' lead.

"Then all the 'Uns that was underground, Comes up with a rush and on with a bound, And I swings that giddy old Maxim round And belts 'em solid and square. You see I was off me chump wiv fear: 'If I'm sellin' me life,' sez I, 'it's dear.' And the trench was narrow and they was near, So I peppered the brutes for fair.

"So I 'eld 'em back and I yelled wiv fright, And the boys attacked and we 'ad a fight, And we 'captured a section o' trench' that night Which we didn't expect to get; And they found me there with me Maxim gun, And I'd laid out a score if I'd laid out one, And I fainted away when the thing was done, And I 'aven't got over it yet."

So that's the 'istory Bill told me. Of course it's all on the strict Q. T.; It wouldn't do to get out, you see, As 'e hacted against 'is will. But 'e's convalescin' wiv all 'is might, And 'e 'opes to be fit for another fight-- Say! Ain't 'e a bit of the real all right? Wot's the matter with Bill!

Missis Moriarty's Boy

Missis Moriarty called last week, and says she to me, says she: "Sure the heart of me's broken entirely now-- it's the fortunate woman you are; You've still got your Dinnis to cheer up your home, but me Patsy boy where is he? Lyin' alone, cold as a stone, kilt in the weariful wahr. Oh, I'm seein' him now as I looked on him last, wid his hair all curly and bright, And the wonderful, tenderful heart he had, and his eyes as he wint away, Shinin' and lookin' down on me from the pride of his proper height: Sure I'll remember me boy like that if I live to me dyin' day."

And just as she spoke them very same words me Dinnis came in at the door, Came in from McGonigle's ould shebeen, came in from drinkin' his pay; And Missis Moriarty looked at him, and she didn't say anny more, But she wrapped her head in her ould black shawl, and she quietly wint away. And what was I thinkin', I ask ye now, as I put me Dinnis to bed, Wid him ravin' and cursin' one half of the night, as cold by his side I sat; Was I thinkin' the poor ould woman she was wid her Patsy slaughtered and dead? Was I weepin' for Missis Moriarty? I'm not so sure about that.

Missis Moriarty goes about wid a shinin' look on her face; Wid her grey hair under her ould black shawl, and the eyes of her mother-mild; Some say she's a little bit off her head; but annyway it's the case, Her timper's so swate that you nivver would tell she'd be losin' her only child. And I think, as I wait up ivery night for me Dinnis to come home blind, And I'm hearin' his stumblin' foot on the stair along about half-past three: Sure there's many a way of breakin' a heart, and I haven't made up me mind-- Would I be Missis Moriarty, or Missis Moriarty me?

My Foe

A Belgian Priest-Soldier Speaks:--

_GURR!_ You 'cochon'! Stand and fight! Show your mettle! Snarl and bite! Spawn of an accursed race, Turn and meet me face to face! Here amid the wreck and rout Let us grip and have it out! Here where ruins rock and reel Let us settle, steel to steel! Look! Our houses, how they spit Sparks from brands your friends have lit. See! Our gutters running red, Bright with blood your friends have shed. Hark! Amid your drunken brawl How our maidens shriek and call. Why have _YOU_ come here alone, To this hearth's blood-spattered stone? Come to ravish, come to loot, Come to play the ghoulish brute. Ah, indeed! We well are met, Bayonet to bayonet. God! I never killed a man: Now I'll do the best I can. Rip you to the evil heart, Laugh to see the life-blood start. Bah! You swine! I hate you so. Show you mercy? No! . . . and no! . . .

There! I've done it. See! He lies Death a-staring from his eyes; Glazing eyeballs, panting breath, How it's horrible, is Death! Plucking at his bloody lips With his trembling finger-tips; Choking in a dreadful way As if he would something say In that uncouth tongue of his. . . . Oh, how horrible Death is!

How I wish that he would die! So unnerved, unmanned am I. See! His twitching face is white! See! His bubbling blood is bright. Why do I not shout with glee? What strange spell is over me? There he lies; the fight was fair; Let me toss my cap in air. Why am I so silent? Why Do I pray for him to die? Where is all my vengeful joy? Ugh! _MY FOE IS BUT A BOY._

I'd a brother of his age Perished in the war's red rage; Perished in the Ypres hell: Oh, I loved my brother well. And though I be hard and grim, How it makes me think of him! He had just such flaxen hair As the lad that's lying there. Just such frank blue eyes were his. . . . God! How horrible war is!

I have reason to be gay: There is one less foe to slay. I have reason to be glad: Yet--my foe is such a lad. So I watch in dull amaze, See his dying eyes a-glaze, See his face grow glorified, See his hands outstretched and wide To that bit of ruined wall Where the flames have ceased to crawl, Where amid the crumbling bricks Hangs _A BLACKENED CRUCIFIX._

Now, oh now I understand. Quick I press it in his hand, Close his feeble finger-tips, Hold it to his faltering lips. As I watch his welling blood I would stem it if I could. God of Pity, let him live! God of Love, forgive, forgive.

. . . . .

His face looked strangely, as he died, Like that of One they crucified. And in the pocket of his coat I found a letter; thus he wrote: 'The things I've seen! Oh, mother dear, I'm wondering can God be here? To-night amid the drunken brawl I saw a Cross hung on a wall; I'll seek it now, and there alone Perhaps I may atone, atone. . . .'

Ah no! 'Tis I who must atone. No other saw but God alone; Yet how can I forget the sight Of that face so woeful white! Dead I kissed him as he lay, Knelt by him and tried to pray; Left him lying there at rest, Crucifix upon his breast.

Not for him the pity be. Ye who pity, pity me, Crawling now the ways I trod, Blood-guilty in sight of God.

My Job

I've got a little job on 'and, the time is drawin' nigh; At seven by the Captain's watch I'm due to go and do it; I wants to 'ave it nice and neat, and pleasin' to the eye, And I 'opes the God of soldier men will see me safely through it. Because, you see, it's somethin' I 'ave never done before; And till you 'as experience noo stunts is always tryin'; The chances is I'll never 'ave to do it any more: At seven by the Captain's watch my little job is . . . _DYIN'._

I've got a little note to write; I'd best begin it now. I ain't much good at writin' notes, but here goes: "Dearest Mother, I've been in many 'ot old 'do's'; I've scraped through safe some'ow, But now I'm on the very point of tacklin' another. A little job of hand-grenades; they called for volunteers. They picked me out; I'm proud of it; it seems a trifle dicky. If anythin' should 'appen, well, there ain't no call for tears, And so . . . I 'opes this finds you well.--Your werry lovin' Micky."

I've got a little score to settle wiv them swine out there. I've 'ad so many of me pals done in it's quite upset me. I've seen so much of bloody death I don't seem for to care, If I can only even up, how soon the blighters get me. I'm sorry for them perishers that corpses in a bed; I only 'opes mine's short and sweet, no linger-longer-lyin'; I've made a mess of life, but now I'll try to make instead . . . It's seven sharp. Good-bye, old pals! . . . _A DECENT JOB IN DYIN'._

The Song of the Pacifist

What do they matter, our headlong hates, when we take the toll of our Dead? Think ye our glory and gain will pay for the torrent of blood we have shed? By the cheers of our Victory will the heart of the mother be comforted?

If by the Victory all we mean is a broken and brooding foe; Is the pomp and power of a glitt'ring hour, and a truce for an age or so: By the clay-cold hand on the broken blade we have smitten a bootless blow!

If by the Triumph we only prove that the sword we sheathe is bright; That justice and truth and love endure; that freedom's throned on the height; That the feebler folks shall be unafraid; that Might shall never be Right;

If this be all: by the blood-drenched plains, by the havoc of fire and fear, By the rending roar of the War of Wars, by the Dead so doubly dear. . . . Then our Victory is a vast defeat, and it mocks us as we cheer.

Victory! there can be but one, hallowed in every land: When by the graves of our common dead we who were foemen stand; And in the hush of our common grief hand is tendered to hand.

Triumph! Yes, when out of the dust in the splendour of their release The spirits of those who fell go forth and they hallow our hearts to peace, And, brothers in pain, with world-wide voice, we clamour that War shall cease.

Glory! Ay, when from blackest loss shall be born most radiant gain; When over the gory fields shall rise a star that never shall wane: Then, and then only, our Dead shall know that they have not fall'n in vain.

When our children's children shall talk of War as a madness that may not be; When we thank our God for our grief to-day, and blazon from sea to sea In the name of the Dead the banner of Peace . . . _THAT WILL BE VICTORY._

The Twins

There were two brothers, John and James, And when the town went up in flames, To save the house of James dashed John, Then turned, and lo! his own was gone.

And when the great World War began, To volunteer John promptly ran; And while he learned live bombs to lob, James stayed at home and--sneaked his job.

John came home with a missing limb; That didn't seem to worry him; But oh, it set his brain awhirl To find that James had--sneaked his girl!

Time passed. John tried his grief to drown; To-day James owns one-half the town; His army contracts riches yield; And John? Well, _SEARCH THE POTTER'S FIELD._

The Song of the Soldier-born

_Give me the scorn of the stars and a peak defiant; Wail of the pines and a wind with the shout of a giant; Night and a trail unknown and a heart reliant._

Give me to live and love in the old, bold fashion; A soldier's billet at night and a soldier's ration; A heart that leaps to the fight with a soldier's passion.

For I hold as a simple faith there's no denying: The trade of a soldier's the only trade worth plying; The death of a soldier's the only death worth dying.

So let me go and leave your safety behind me; Go to the spaces of hazard where nothing shall bind me; Go till the word is War--and then you will find me.

Then you will call me and claim me because you will need me; Cheer me and gird me and into the battle-wrath speed me. . . . And when it's over, spurn me and no longer heed me.

For guile and a purse gold-greased are the arms you carry; With deeds of paper you fight and with pens you parry; You call on the hounds of the law your foes to harry.

You with your "Art for its own sake", posing and prinking; You with your "Live and be merry", eating and drinking; You with your "Peace at all hazard", from bright blood shrinking.

Fools! I will tell you now: though the red rain patters, And a million of men go down, it's little it matters. . . . There's the Flag upflung to the stars, though it streams in tatters.

There's a glory gold never can buy to yearn and to cry for; There's a hope that's as old as the sky to suffer and sigh for; There's a faith that out-dazzles the sun to martyr and die for.

Ah no! it's my dream that War will never be ended; That men will perish like men, and valour be splendid; That the Flag by the sword will be served, and honour defended.

That the tale of my fights will never be ancient story; That though my eye may be dim and my beard be hoary, I'll die as a soldier dies on the Field of Glory.

_So give me a strong right arm for a wrong's swift righting; Stave of a song on my lips as my sword is smiting; Death in my boots may-be, but fighting, fighting._

Afternoon Tea