Yanks : $b A.E.F. verse

[Illustration: He’s been on every front from Château-Thierry to the Rhine CLR, Baldwin Jr. Coblenz—1919]

YANKS A. E. F. VERSE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN “THE STARS AND STRIPES”

THE OFFICIAL NEWSPAPER OF THE AMERICAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCES

❧

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS NEW YORK AND LONDON The Knickerbocker Press 1919

COPYRIGHT, 1919 BY G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

[Illustration]

To

THE CHILDREN OF FRANCE

FOREWORD

The A. E. F. was about the most sentimental outfit that ever lived. Most of it—so it seemed to anyone who served on the staff of _The Stars and Stripes_—wrote poetry. All of it read poetry. “The Army’s Poets” column, in which some hundred thousand lines of verse were printed during the course of the Army newspaper’s existence, was re-read, cut out, sent home, pinned or pasted up in dugouts, Adrian barracks and mess shacks, laughed over and, in all likelihood, wept over.

It was good verse. Occasionally the metre was out of joint, the rhymes faulty, the whole mechanism awry, but it was good verse for all that. For it rang true, every syllable of it, however the scansion may have halted or the expression blundered. It was inspired by mud and cooties and gas and mess-kits and Boche 77’s and home and mother, all subordinated to a determination to stick it through whatever the time and pains involved.

Various anthologies of war verse have appeared in America. Nearly all have consisted almost wholly of the work of non-combatant poets—indeed of professionals—who wrote smoothly, visioned the horror with facile accuracy for what it was, and interpreted well—for people who didn’t get to the war. _Yanks_ is the work of men who got there. It is a source book of A. E. F. emotion.

_Yanks_ is composed entirely of selections from the verse published in _The Stars and Stripes_ during the nine months of its pre-armistice career, and seven months before the Army newspaper, according to the pledge of its editors, was “folded away, never to be taken out again.” The profits from the original edition were to have been used to buy fruit and delicacies for American sick and wounded in overseas hospitals, and would have been but for the decision of the Judge Advocate General of the A. E. F. who, after the publication and sale of the volume, refused to permit the expenditure of the proceeds because of a technicality.

The royalties accruing from the sale of this volume will be devoted to _The Stars and Stripes_ Fund for French War Orphans, to which 600,000 American soldiers gave more than 2,200,000 francs during their stay in France.

This republication is made with the consent and approval of Newton D. Baker, Secretary of War, under the direction of the former editorial council of _The Stars and Stripes_, now associated in the publication of _The Home Sector_.

[Illustration: John T. Winterich]

CONTENTS

PAGE

FOREWORD v

JUST THINKIN’—_Hudson Hawley, Pvt., M.G. Bn._ 1

TO THE KID SISTER—_J. T. W., Pvt., A.S._ 3

CORP’RAL’S CHEVRONS 5

YOU’RE NOT A FAN, PIERRETTE—_S. H. C._ 6

MY SWEETHEART—_Frank C. McCarthy, Sgt., A.S._ 8

DAD’S LETTERS 9

MLLE. SOIXANTE-QUINZE—_J. M. H., F.A._ 11

HOME IS WHERE THE PIE IS 14

HOW IT WORKS OUT—_Tyler H. Bliss, Corp., Inf._ 16

FAITH 19

THE ORPHANS OF FRANCE—_Franklin P. Adams, Capt., U. S. A.; Stuart H. Carroll, Sgt., Q.M.C._ 20

REVEILLE—_Ray L. Huff, Pvt., M.D._ 22

FULL DIRECTIONS—_Daniel Turner Balmer, A.S._ 24

ON LEARNING FRENCH—_Alfred J. Fritchey, Camp Hospital 30_ 25

“WHO SAID SUNNY FRANCE?”—_Jack Warren Carrol, Corp., F.A._ 26

THE TRUANT—_R. R. Kirk, Pvt., G2, S.O.S._ 28

TRIBUTE—_F. M. H. D., F.A._ 29

SEA STUFF—_Steuart M. Emery, Pvt., M.P._ 31

LETTERS—_Mel Ryder, Sgt. Major, Inf._ 33

SOLDIER SMILES—_Allen A. Stockdale, Capt., U.S.A._ 35

BEEFING—_H. H. Huss, Sgt., Inf._ 37

THE TANK—_Richard C. Colburn, Sgt., Tank Corps_ 39

THE NEW ARMY—_R. R. Kirk, S.S.U._ 42

TOUJOURS LE MÊME—_Vance C. Criss, Corp., Engrs._ 43

TO THE WEST WIND—_William S. Long, Corp., A.S._ 45

THE DRIVER—_F. M. H. D., F.A._ 46

SONG OF THE CENSOR MAN—_John Fletcher Hall, Sgt., Inf., Acting Chaplain_ 48

DO YOU KNOW THIS GUY?—_Frank Eisenberg, Pvt., Tel. Bn._ 50

CAMOUFLAGE—_M. G._ 52

TRENCH MUD—_John J. Curtin, Sgt., Inf._ 54

I LOVE CORNED BEEF—_A. P. B._ 56

A CHAPLAIN’S PRAYER—_Thomas F. Coakley, Lt., Chaplain_ 59

BILLETS 60

THE MULE SKINNERS—_William Bradford, 2nd Lt., A.G.D._ 63

THE OLD OVERSEAS CAP—_Fairfax D. Downey, 1st Lt., F.A._ 65

HOGGIN’ IT—_Med. Mique_ 67

THE MAN—_H. T. S._ 69

SONG OF THE GUNS—_Grantland Rice, 1st Lt., F.A._ 70

THROUGH THE WHEAT 72

ALLIES—_Merritt Y. Hughes, Pvt., Inf._ 74

TO BUDDY—_Howard J. Green, Corp., Inf._ 76

THE WOOD CALLED ROUGE-BOUQUET—_Joyce Kilmer, Sgt., Inf. Killed in action, July 30, 1918_ 78

GOOD-BYE 81

THE FIELDS OF THE MARNE—_Frank Carbaugh, Sgt., Inf. (Written while lying wounded in hospital; died, August, 1918)_ 83

A NURSE’S PRAYER—_Thomas F. Coakley, Lt., Chaplain_ 85

LINES ON LEAVING A LITTLE TOWN WHERE WE RESTED—_Russell Lord, Corp., F.A._ 86

POPPIES—_Joseph Mills Hanson, Capt., F.A._ 87

POILU—_Steuart M. Emery, Pvt., M.P._ 89

AS THINGS ARE 91

THE GIRL OF GIRLS—_Howard A. Herty, Corp., 1st Army Hq._ 92

THE LITTLE DREAMS—_Joseph Mills Hanson, Capt., F.A._ 94

THE R.T.O.—_A. P. Bowen, Sgt., R.T.O._ 98

THE MACHINE GUN—_Albert Jay Cook, Corp., M.G. Bn._ 100

OUR DEAD 102

EVERYBODY’S FRIEND—_Frederick W. Kurth, Sgt., M.T.D._ 103

THE STEVEDORE—_C. C. Shanfelter, Sgt., S.C._ 105

BLACK AND WHITE—_Harv._ 108

THE OL’ CAMPAIGN HAT 111

WHEN THE GENERAL CAME TO TOWN—_Vance C. Criss, Corp., Engrs._ 113

SEICHEPREY—_J. M. H._ 116

BEFORE A DRIVE—_Charles Lyn Fox, Inf._ 117

PRIVATE JONES, A. E. F.—_William I. Engle, Pvt., Inf._ 119

“HOMMES 40, CHEVAUX 8” 121

THE BUGLER—_Lin Davies, Pvt._ 123

THE RETURN OF THE REFUGEES—_Frederick W. Kurth, Sgt., M.T.D._ 124

AS THE TRUCKS GO ROLLIN’ BY—_L. W. Suckert, 1st Lt., A.S._ 126

GETTIN’ LETTERS—_E. C. D., Field Hospital_ 129

TO THE CHILDREN OF FRANCE—_R. R. Kirk, Pvt., G2, S.O.S._ 131

THEN WE’LL COME BACK TO YOU—_Howard H. Herty, Corp., 1st Army Hq. Reg._ 132

TO A DOUGHBOY 133

LIL’ PAL O’ MINE—_E.S.E._ 135

PERFECT CONTRITION—_Thomas F. Coakley, Lt., Chaplain_ 136

WHEN PRIVATE MUGRUMS PARLAY VOOS—_Charles Divine, Pvt._ 137

IF I WERE A COOTIE—_A. P. Bowen, Sgt., R.T.O._ 139

THE LILY—_Howard J. Green, Corp., Inf._ 141

ME,—AN’ WAR GOIN’ ON!—_John Palmer Cumming, Inf._ 142

THE ROAD TO MONTFAUCON—_Harold Riezelman, 1st Lt., C.W.S._ 145

VESTAL STAR—_Fra Guido, F.A._ 146

THE DOUGHBOY PROMISES—_Arthur McKeogh, Lt., Inf._ 147

OLD LADY RUMOR—_C. H. MacCoy, Base Hosp. 38_ 149

THE LOST TOWNS—_Steuart M. Emery, Pvt., M.P._ 150

DER TAG—_Howard J. Green, Corp., Inf._ 152

THERE’S ABOUT TWO MILLION FELLOWS—_Albert J. Cook, Sgt., Hq. Detch.,—Army Corps_ 154

NOVEMBER ELEVENTH—_Hilmar R. Baukhage, Pvt., A.E.F._ 157

JUST THINKIN’

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 to-night— Say, ain’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, Sunsets ’way out at sea, Evenings of pay days—golly, It’s a queer thing, this memory!

Faces of pals in Homeburg Voices of women folk, 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 that relief a-comin’ up? Gosh! But this thinkin’s hell! HUDSON HAWLEY, Pvt., M.G. Bn.

TO THE KID SISTER

You were only a kid, little sister, When I started over the sea, But you’ve grown quite a lot since I came here, And you’ve written a letter to me, And nobody knows that you wrote it— It’s a secret—and we’ll keep it well, Your brother and you and the ocean, And nobody’s going to tell.

You were only a tot when I left you. I remember I bade you goodbye And kissed you, a little bit flustered, And you promised you never would cry. But I know that you cried, little sister, As soon as I’d gone out the door, And did I cry myself? I’m a soldier, So don’t ask me anything more.

I think of you often, kid sister— You’re the only kid sister I’ve got— I know you’ll be good to your mother, And I know that you’ll help her a lot. And whenever she seems to be gloomy, You’ve just got to cheer her somehow— You were only a kid to your brother, But you’re more than the world to him now. J. T. W., Pvt., A.S.

CORP’RAL’S CHEVRONS

Oh, the General with his shiny stars, leadin’ a parade, The Colonel and the Adjutant a-sportin’ of their braid, The Major and the Skipper—none of ’em look so fine As a newly minted corp’ral comin’ down the line!

Oh, the Bishop in his mitre, pacin’ up the aisle, The Governor, frock-coated, with a votes-for-women smile, The Congressman, the Mayor, aren’t in it, I opine, With a newly minted corp’ral comin’ down the line!

YOU’RE NOT A FAN, PIERRETTE

I’ll take you to the Follies, dear, If there you think you’d like to go; I’ll buy you beaucoup wine and beer Down at the gay Casino show; In short, I’ll do whatever task Your little heart desires to name Save one: You must not ever ask To see another baseball game.

Your understanding is immense At “compreying” the jokes they spring In vaudeville shows—and you’re not dense Because you like to hear me sing. But, cherie, you will never be The one to set my heart aflame, Because you simply cannot see The inside of a baseball game.

When you and I were watching while The Doughboys battled the Marines, Did classy hitting make you smile? Did you rejoice in home run scenes? Ah, no; when Meyer slammed the pill— They couldn’t find it for a week— You turned to me and said, “Oh, Bill, I sink hees uniform ees chique.”

And did you holler “Atta Boy!” When Powell zipped ’em, one, two, three, And made the Doughboys dance with joy— Was yours the voice that rose in glee? Not so; you made your escort feel Like one big, foolish, roasted goose, When all the bleachers heard you squeal, “But, Bill, hees nose ees so retrousse.”

So when you don your new chapeau Hereafter for a promenade, Remember that no more we’ll go To sit beneath the grandstand shade; Your curtain calls are surely great Where Thespians tread the boards of fame, But, Gosh! you can’t appreciate A good old Yankee baseball game. S. H. C.

MY SWEETHEART

I saw her in a dream as though in life, Her form, her soft blue eyes, her eider hair, Which fell as silken, golden portals, draped Before her bosom fair.

She whispered in my ear, “Sweetheart, be brave, We’ll back you up in all you do and dare.” Then bending o’er, she pressed her lips to mine ... I woke—she was not there. FRANK C. MCCARTHY, Sgt., A.S.

DAD’S LETTERS

My dad ain’t just the letter writin’ kind— He’d rather let the women see to that; He’s got a mess o’ troubles on his mind, And likes to keep ’em underneath his hat.

And p’raps because he isn’t very strong On talkin’, why, he’s kind o’ weak on ink; But he can work like sin the whole year long, And, crickey, how that dad o’ mine can think!

When I set out from Homeville last July, He didn’t bawl the way my sister did; He just shook hands and says, “Well, boy, goodbye.” (He’s got his feelin’s, but he keeps ’em hid.)

And so when mother writes about the things That I spend half my time a-thinkin’ of, There’s one short line that every letter brings: “Father will write, and meanwhile sends his love.”

“Father will write.” Well, some day p’raps he will— There’s lots of funny prophecies come true; But if he just keeps promisin’ to, still, I’ll understand, and dad’ll know I do.

MLLE. SOIXANTE-QUINZE

Oh, a mistress fit for a soldier’s love Is the graceful 75; As neat and slim, and as strong and trim As ever a girl alive.

Where the steel-blue sheen of her mail is seen, And the light of her flashing glance, In the broken spray of the roaring fray Is the soul of embattled France.

Her love is true as the heaven’s blue— She will fight for her love till death; Her hate is a flame no fear can tame, That slays with the lightning’s breath.

For the sun of day turns fogged and gray, And night is a reeling hell When she swings the flail of the shrapnel’s hail, Or looses the bursting shell.

From high Lorraine to the Somme and the Aisne, She has held at bay the Hun, That with broken strength he may pay, at length, For the sins that his race has done;

For Alsace, torn from the mother land, Ravished and mocked and chained; For Belgium, nailed to the martyr’s cross, For holding her faith unstained.

Thou Maid, who cam’st, like a beacon flame, In thy people’s darkest hour, Who bade them thrill with patriot will By the spell of thy mystic power,

As thou gav’st them heart to speed the dart From arquebus and bow, Give us to drive, with the 75, Our bolts on a baser foe,

That we who have come from Freedom’s home Across the western wave, Such blows shall give that France may live As once for us she gave.

May our good guns play with a stinging spray On the Prussian ranks of war, And smite them yet as did Lafayette The hireling Huns of yore!