Yanks : $b A.E.F. verse

May we aim again at a tyrant’s men As straight and swift a blow As at Yorktown came, with smoke and flame, From the guns of Rochambeau!

Oh, a mistress fit for our soldier love Is the soixante-quinze, our boast, Our hope and pride, like a new-won bride, But the dread of the Kaiser’s host! J. M. H., F.A.

HOME IS WHERE THE PIE IS

“Home is where the heart is”— Thus the poet sang; But “home is where the pie is” For the doughboy gang. Crullers in the craters Pastry in abris— Our Salvation Army lass Sure knows how to please.

Watch her roll the pie crust Mellower than gold; Watch her place it neatly Within its ample mold; Sniff the grand aroma While it slowly bakes— Though the whine of Minnie shells Echoes far awakes.

Tin hat for a halo! Ah, she wears it well! Making pies for homesick lads Sure is “beating hell”; In a region blasted By fire and flame and sword, Our Salvation Army lass Battles for the Lord!

Call me sacrilegious, And irreverent, too; Pies? They link us up with home As naught else can do! “Home is where the heart is”— True, the poet sang; But “home is where the pie is” To the Yankee gang!

HOW IT WORKS OUT

When Jonesy joined the Army he had all the dope down fine. Said he, “I’d ought to land the cush, though serving in the line. A private’s pay is thirty, then by adding ten per cent— That’s thirty-three, And now lessee, In this here now French currency— Five-sixty rate, Makes one-eight-eight, Or thereabouts; why, hell! that’s great! It’s more’n enough To buy me stuff, And let me throw a swell front bluff. Because my chow Is paid for now, And I don’t need but to allow A little kale For vin or ale, And maybe some day blow a frail To vo-de-vee In gay Paree Or some live joint like that citee— Why, I’ll be flush—besides, Friend Govt. is staking me the rent.”

On pay day Jones was right on deck, an outstretched cap in view— He thought by trusting to his hands some clackers might leak through. He’d planned to split his wages among all the leading banks, But the Q.M. Just said, “Ahem Expenses come To quite a sum, Though where the tin is coming from Is not my care, But your affair. We’ll have to charge you for a pair Of leggins lost, Ten francs the cost; On board the ship we note you tossed A cigarette Into the wet— Subs might upon our trail have set. That’ll put you Back ninety-two; Insurance, bonds, allotments, too— In short, you owe the Government just eighty-seven francs.” TYLER H. BLISS, Corp., Inf.

FAITH

I heard the cannons’ monotone A mile or two away; But in the shell-torn town I saw Two little boys at play.

From what was yesterday a home I heard the cannons booming; But in the garden I could see A bed of pansies blooming.

Along the weary, dreary road, Forspent and dull I trod; But in the sky of spring I saw The countenance of God.

THE ORPHANS OF FRANCE

Gone are the games that they should be playing; Gone are the trinkets to childhood dear. Hushed are the voices that should be saying Words of parental cheer.

Give them the joy that is theirs by birthright! Give them the smiles they are robbed of! Give, Give them the love that is childhood’s earth-right— Give them the right to live! FRANKLIN P. ADAMS, Capt., U.S.A.

Give, and the baby buds shall grow In childhood’s sheltered garden plot; Give, and the coming years shall show Each blossom a forget-me-not.

Give, and the dawn of lonesome years Shall turn to a springtime morning mild; Give, and receive through a mist of tears, The blessing of a little child. STUART H. CARROLL, Sgt., Q.M.C.

REVEILLE

Get up, get up, you sleepy head, And grab your sox and trou; Get up, get up, get out of bed, You’re in the Army now.

Get up, get up, you carrion beast, Get up and dig for chow; It doesn’t matter what you think, You’re in the Army now.

Get up and powder, rouge and curl And dress—no matter how— But don’t be late for reveille, You’re in the Army now.

Get up, you foozle, ninny, boob, There’s eggs and cheese and ham (For officers) and slum for you, You slave of Uncle Sam.

But don’t you fret or don’t you fume, For honest Injun! How Would you have felt if you were not In Uncle’s Army now? RAY L. HUFF, Pvt., M.D.

FULL DIRECTIONS

We saw them, but we did not need to ask where lay the Front; Their clothes were neat and rolls aback, well made; They marched with faces wrinkled, not by smiles or many frowns, Betokening men determined, unafraid.

Once more we saw them, needing not to ask where lay the Front; Their clothes were soiled, and packs in careless roll; They, greeting, made their way along with faces tired yet bright, Betokening men who fought with heart and soul.

We need not hear the cannon’s boom to know where action lies, Nor yet to seek until we find the place, For map and compass, signboard, news we’re ever getting from The look upon the passing poilu’s face. DANIEL TURNER BALMER, A.S.

ON LEARNING FRENCH

Like silver bells heard in a mist, Or moonstone echoes from some brook Where silver birches wall a nook, Or like sea ripples moon-lit kissed,

Or like a lake of silver ledges Where iris water-lilies lave, Or like some lark’s translucent wave Of song above white hawthorn hedges,

The maiden ripples French to me; But I am like an argonaut In some mute agony of thought, Lost in sound’s sweet tranquillity. ALFRED J. FRITCHEY, Camp Hospital 30.

“WHO SAID SUNNY FRANCE?”

It lies on your blankets and over your bed, There’s mud in the cover that covers your head, There’s mud in the coffee, the slum, and the bread— Sunny France! There’s mud in your eyebrows, there’s mud up your nose, There’s mud on your leggins to add to your woes, The mud in your boots finds its place ’twixt your toes— Sunny France!

_Oh, the grimy mud, the slimy mud, the mud that makes you swear, The cheesy mud, the greasy mud, that filters through your hair._

You sleep in the mud, and drink it, that’s true; There’s mud in the bacon, the rice, and the stew, When you open an egg, you’ll find mud in it, too— Sunny France! There’s mud in the water, there’s mud in the tea,

There’s mud in your mess-kit as thick as can be, It sticks to your fingers like leaves to a tree— Sunny France!

_Oh, the ruddy mud, the muddy mud, the mud that gets your goat, The sliding mud, the gliding mud, that sprays your pants and coat!_

It cakes in your mouth till you feel like an ox, It slips down your back and it rests in your sox; You think that you’re walking on cut glass and rocks— Sunny France! There’s mud in your gas mask, there’s mud in your hat, There’s mud in your helmet, there’s mud on your gat, Yet though mud’s all around us, we’re happy at that— Sunny France!

_Oh, the dank, dank mud, the rank, rank mud, there’s just one guy to blame; We’ll wish him well (we will like hell!) and Kaiser Bill’s his name!_ JACK WARREN CARROL, Corp., F.A.

THE TRUANT

The wise years saw him go from them, Untaught by them, yet wise; He had but romped with the hoyden years, Unwitting how time flies; Whose laughter glooms to wistfulness At swift, undreamt good-byes.

The wise, grave, patient mistresses Of his young manhood’s school, The wise, grave, patient years-to-be— He never knew their rule; And yet he marches by a man, A hero, and no fool!

The wise years see him go from them, Untaught by them, yet wise; The lad who played where, yesterday, Girls’ kisses were the prize! They wonder whence his manhood came, So well he lives—and dies! R. R. KIRK, Pvt., G2, S.O.S.

TRIBUTE

There’s tumultuous confusion a-comin’ down the road, An’ the camouflage don’t nearways hide the dust, An’ it ain’t no flock of camions, though some’s carryin’ a load (I guess the provos winked—or got it fust). But now it’s comin’ closer, you can tell ’em by the roar— It’s the Hundred Second Infantry a-goin’ in once more.

Oh, they’ve met the Hun at the length of a gun, And they know what he is and they mind what he’s done, So that’s why they sing as they slog to more fun! You doughboys, you slow boys, Here’s luck, an’ let her go, boys— We like you, Infantry.

Now us in the Artillery don’t live no life of ease Nor yet particular security, For the present that Fritz sends us one can’t dodge behind the trees, Unless trees was much thicker than they be. But we know our lot is doughnuts, Orders Home, and Gay Paree To what you march to singin’, Hundred Second Infantry.

Oh, there’s numerous blanks in your company ranks, But there’s two in the Boches’ for one in the Yanks’, An’ all that he guv, you returned him with thanks, You doughboys, you slow boys, Here’s luck, an’ let her go, boys— We like you, Infantry. F. M. H. D., F.A.

SEA STUFF

Now I’m a soldier, so I ain’t No hand at art, but say, There’s things at sea I’d like to paint Before I’m tucked away.

A cruiser on the sunrise track, Alert to find the morn, With every funnel belching black Into the red, gold dawn;

A flock o’ transports, crazy lined, On blue-green waves advance, That sink their bows, all spray an’ dewed, Hellbootin’ it for France;

A manned gun peerin’ out to port As evenin’ shadows close; Beyond, a ship slipped up an’ caught Against a cloud o’ rose;

A crow’s nest loomin’ from below Across the Milk Way’s bars, Just like a cradle rockin’ slow, An’ sung to by the stars.

No, I can’t paint the things I’ve seen While we were passin’ by, But, all the same, they sure have been Worth lookin’ at, say I. STEUART M. EMERY, Pvt., M.P.

LETTERS

My buddy reads his letters to me, and, say, he sure can write! I have to sit and chew my pen and even then The way it reads when I get through I know it’s pretty sad As far as composition goes; the grammar, too, is bad. But talk about—gee, he can sling the ink to beat the band, And picture everything he’s seen a way that sure is grand.

I got him to write a note to my gal and, golly, it was fine! I copied it and signed my name, but, all the same, It didn’t seem to please her, for she wrote in her reply She’d read it several times and it didn’t sound like I Was sayin’ exactly what I meant, and was I feelin’ good; I’m kind of glad she took it so—in fact, I hoped she would. MEL RYDER, Sgt. Major, Inf.

SOLDIER SMILES

You may talk of kings and princes, And the glory of their show; You may sing of knights and ladies In the days of long ago; You may paint a vivid picture Of the wonder worlds to see, But the smiles on soldier faces Look the best of all to me.

They are gassed and shelled and tortured, They are muddy, thin, and weak; They are shocked and shot and shattered, And you marvel when they speak; They will give their all in battle That the world may be made free, And their smiles amidst their sorrows Are real miracles to see.

They have smiled since they were babies— Laughter, love have been their charms— And their smiles were patriotic When their country called to arms; They go laughing to the trenches, Filling fighting lines with glee, And with smiles they come back wounded— Those are smiles that puzzle me.

Kings and kaisers may be mighty As the bloody brutes of war; They may use the worst of weapons Never dreamed of e’er before; But they’re sure to meet disaster Over land and on the sea, For the soldier boys of Freedom Fight—and smile—the whole world free! ALLEN A. STOCKDALE, Capt., U.S.A.

BEEFING

It seems I’m never satisfied No matter where I go. My job’s a cinch, my duties soft, I still find grief and woe. If I’m stationed in a training camp Where drills are very light, I holler to be sent up front To get into the fight.

When we were in the U. S. A., I thought we had no chance, And I wasn’t really satisfied Till on my way to France. We’ve been here now about six months, And if I had kept track, I’ll bet I’ve said, a thousand times, “I wish that I was back.”

And when I was a corporal I belly-ached around And thought a better sergeant Than I’d make could not be found. I’ve had three stripes for eight long months, And still I curse my luck, And threaten that I’ll tear ’em off And go back to a buck.

For when they try to please me And dish out first class chow, And there’s sugar in the coffee, I’ll holler anyhow. And if I was sent to Heaven And up there was doing well, I wouldn’t, yet, be satisfied Till I’d got a look at hell! H. H. HUSS, Sgt., Inf.

THE TANK

Oh, she’s nothin’ sweet to look at an’ no symphony to hear; She ain’t no pome of beauty, that’s a cinch— She howls like Holy Jumpin’ when a feller shifts a gear, But she’s sure a lovey-dovey in a pinch. Just head her straight for Berlin and no matter what the road, Or whether it’s just trenches, trees, and mud, And I’ll guarantee she’ll get there with her precious human load And her treads a-drippin’ red with German blood. Oh, you tank! tank! tank! She’s a pippin’, she’s a daisy, she’s a dream! Where the star-shells are a-lightin’ up the thickest of the fightin’, She’ll be sailin’ like a demon through the gleam.

If the way is rough and stony and the vantage point is far, Just slip her into high and hang on tight, Shove your foot down on the throttle and to hell with all the jar!— She’ll take you clean from here to out of sight. ’Course you’ve got to clean and scrub her same as any piece of tin That’s worth the smoke to blow her up the flue; But just whisper to her gently, pat her back and yell “Giddap!” And there ain’t a thing she wouldn’t do for you. Oh, you tank! tank! tank! She’s a Lulu, she’s a cuckoo! She’s the goods! When the Boches see you comin’, they will set the air to hummin’ A-wavin’ of their legs to reach the woods.

When the last great rush is over and the last grim trench is past, She will roll in high right through old Berlin town,

Her grim old sides a-shakin’ and her innerds raisin’ hob, Intent on runnin’ Kaiser William down. Then she’ll find him and we’ll bind him to her grindin’, tearin’ treads, And we’ll start her rollin’ on the road to hell, Shove her into high and leave her, tie her bloomin’ throttle down— We’ll say she’s lived her life and lived it well. Oh, you tank! tank! tank! She’s a devil! She’s a dandy! She’s sublime! When her grimy hide goes hurlin’ through the dirty streets of Berlin, Watch the goose step change to Yankee double time! RICHARD C. COLBURN, Sgt., Tank Corps.

THE NEW ARMY

Who are those soldiers Who go marching down? They’re the young fellows Of your old home town.

The butcher’s son, the baker’s, His Honor’s lad, too; The old casual mixture Of Gentile and Jew.

Don’t they march manly! Ay, they step light; And soon by the papers Ye’ll see they can fight! R. R. KIRK, S.S.U.

TOUJOURS LE MÊME

No matter how wise or how foolish The company’s cook may be, When down at the table we’re seated, Two things we all plainly can see; When we look at the chow There’s the bosom of sow, And beans—beans—beans.