Yanks : $b A.E.F. verse

If quartered in city or country, The cook never misses his aim; If messing in swamp or on mountain, Two things will remain quite the same; Though it may cause a row, We get bosom of sow, And beans—beans—beans.

When tasks for the day are all ended, And weary are body and brain, Small matter it makes if we’re eating Indoors, or outside in the rain, The cook makes his bow With the bosom of sow, And beans—beans—beans.

Of all that I’ve learned in the Army, This fact I am sure I know well— And others are certain to tell you— The soldier’s worst picture of hell Is thrice daily chow With the bosom of sow, And beans—beans—beans. VANCE C. CRISS, Corp., Engrs.

TO THE WEST WIND

West Wind, you’ve come from There, Surely my Girlie Breathed in your truant air— Did you kiss my Girlie? Seemed then a-sleeping she, As you passed merrily? Whispered she aught of me, Dreaming full tenderly?

West Wind, turn back your speed; Blow to my Girlie! Turn back, you wind, and heed— Hie to my Girlie! Elfin-like seeming, Close to her hover; Into her dreaming Say that I love her. WILLIAM S. LONG, Corp., A. S.

THE DRIVER

I’m a slouch and a slop and a sluffer, And my ears they are covered with hair, And I frequent inhabit the guardhouse, I’ll be “priv” until “fini la guerre.” But my off horse, she shines like a countess, And my nigh made the general blink, And they pull like twin bats fresh from Hades, And they’re quick as a demimonde’s wink.

Oh, it’s often I’m late at formations, And it’s taps I completely disdain. And my bunk, it brings tears from the captain, And the cooties are at me again. But when there’s a piece in the mire, With her muzzle just rimming the muck, Then it’s hustle for me and my beauties— If they don’t they are S.O. of luck.

And when there’s some route that’s receiving Its tender regards from the Huns, Then we gallop hell bent for election To our duty o’ feeding the guns. The gas, the H.E., and the shrapnel, They brighten our path as they burst, But they’ve never got me or my chevals— They’ll have to catch up to us first.

I’m a slouch and a slop and a sluffer, And my ears they are covered with hair, And I frequent inhabit the guardhouse, I’ll be “priv” until “fini la guerre.” But my hosses, they neigh when I’m comin’, An’ my sarge knows how hefty they drag, An’ the cap lent me ten francs this mornin’— Here’s to him an’ to me an’ the flag! F. M. H. D., F.A.

SONG OF THE CENSOR MAN

Oh, I am the man with a mightier pen Than the chisel the lawgiver knew; The snip of my shears is more dreaded of men Than the sword that Napoleon drew. I foil the young man with a nose for the news, And I stifle the first feeble note Of the soldier who ventures to air any views That he never was paid to promote.

Oh, it’s snip, snip, snip is the rhythmic swing Of my shears in the morning light, And clip, clip, clip is the raucous ring Of their voice in the starry night. I may strike from the calendar all of its dates, And I rob every town of its name, And rarely a letter but sadly relates The tale of my terrible fame.

Oh, I know all the secrets that ever were told, Till every unfortunate prays That the book of omnipotent knowledge I hold May be sealed to the end of my days. On each written syllable, proudly I state, I pronounce benediction or ban; For I’m the personification of Fate— The redoubtable Censor man! JOHN FLETCHER HALL, Sgt., Inf., Acting Chaplain.

DO YOU KNOW THIS GUY?

One hears at sound of reveille, Straight through till taps is blown, “Gimme, lemme take yer razor,” “Have you got a sou to loan?” Or maybe, “Gosh, I lost my towel, Lemme take yours, will you, Bill?” “Have you got some extra ‘Sunkums’?” “I wanna wet me gill.”

All through the day it’s e’er the same, Week in, week out, “Say, Bo, I’m just a few francs shy today, Wot’s chances for a throw? You know me, Al, me woid’s me bond, I’ve never stuck a pal, But I simply gotta keep that date Or hunt another gal.”

“Have you an extra undershirt? The Major’s gonna see What makes the men so nervous like And scratch so frequently.” “I’m gonna promenade ce soir, Lemme take yer new puttees. Aw, mine’s been muddy for a week, Loose up, yuh tight ol’ cheese.”

“I don’t know where me money goes, It takes the prize for speed, The next day after we’ve been paid, Can’t buy a punk French weed. Next month I’ll have to slacken up, Or jump into the lake”— But till that old ghost walks again, It’s gimme, lemme take! FRANK EISENBERG, Pvt., Tel. Bn.

CAMOUFLAGE

They tell us tales of camouflage, The art of hiding things; Of painted forts and bowered guns Invisible to wings. Well, it’s nothing new to us, To us, the rank and file; We understand this camouflage —We left home with a smile.

We saw the painted battleships And earthen-colored trains, And planes the hue of leaden skies, And canvas-hidden lanes. Well, we used the magic art That day of anxious fears; We understand this camouflage —We laughed away your tears.

They say that scientific men And artists of renown Debated long on camouflage Before they got it down. Well, it came right off to us, We didn’t have to learn; We understand this camouflage —We said we’d soon return.

We understand this camouflage, This art of hiding things; It’s what’s behind a soldier’s jokes And all the songs he sings. Yes, it’s nothing new to us, To us, the rank and file; We understand this camouflage —We left home with a smile. M. G.

TRENCH MUD

We have heard of Texas gumbo And the mud in the Philippines, Where, if we had legs like Jumbo, The mud would cover our jeans. But never did we get a chance To feel real mud till we hit France.

Our shoes are deep in it, We often sleep in it, We almost weep in it— It’s everywhere; We have to fight in it, And vent our spite in it, We look a sight in it, But we don’t care!

The mud that lies in No Man’s Land Is as thick on the other side, And where the Germans make their stand Is where we’ll make them slide, For our hob-nailed shoes will force a way, And we’ll knock them cold—for the U.S.A.

Though we must eat in it, Wash our feet in it, Try to look neat in it, This mud and slime; Though we get sore in it, Grumble and roar in it, _We’ll win the war in it_ In our good time! JOHN J. CURTIN, Sgt., Inf.

I LOVE CORNED BEEF

I LOVE corned beef—I never knew How good the stuff COULD taste in stew! I love it WET, I love it DRY, I love it baked and called MEAT PIE. I love it camouflaged in HASH— A hundred bucks I’d give—in CASH To have a BARREL of such chow A-standing here before me now. I say “YUM YUM” when “soupie” blows, I SNIFF and raise aloft my nose: CORNED WILLIE! Ha! Oh, BOY, that’s FINE! Can hardly keep my place in LINE. I kick my heels and wildly yell: “Old Sherman said that ‘WAR IS HELL,’ But GLADLY would I bear the heat If corned beef I could get to eat!” I love it HOT—I love it COLD, Corned Willie never WILL grow old. I love it—now PAUSE—listen, friend: When to this war there comes an end And PEACE upon the earth shall reign, I’ll hop a boat for HOME again. Then to a RESTAURANT I’ll speed— No dainty MANNERS will I heed— But to the waiter I will cry: “Bring me—well, make it corned beef PIE! And—better bring some corned beef STEW, And corned beef COLD—I’ll take that, too. And—now, don’t think I’m CRAZY, man, But could you bring a corned beef CAN? And—WAIT!—I’m not through ORDERING yet— I want a SIRLOIN STEAK—you BET, With hash browned SPUDS—now, LISTEN, friend, I’ve got the CASH, you may depend— Right HERE it is—let’s see, I’ll try— Oh, bring a piece of hot MINCE PIE And ALL this stuff that’s printed here; My appetite is HUGE, I fear.”

Then, when he’s filled my festive board With all these eats, I’ll thank the Lord (For that’s the PROPER thing to do), And then I’ll take the corned beef STEW, The corned beef PIE and corned beef COLD, The corned beef CAN I’ll then take hold And RAM the whole WORKS into it And say: “NOW, damn you, THERE you’ll sit. You’ve haunted every DREAM I’ve had— You don’t know what shame IS, egad! Now SIT there, Bo—See how you FEEL— And watch me eat a REG’LAR meal!” A. P. B.

A CHAPLAIN’S PRAYER

O Lord, I am not worthy to Be found amid these reddened hands Who offer an atoning due, Themselves, to Thee, great martyr bands.

Let me but kiss the ground they tread, And breathe a prayer above their sod, And gather up the drops they shed, These heroes in the cause of God. THOMAS F. COAKLEY, Lt., Chaplain.

BILLETS

(Dedicated to the gallant peasants of sunny France, who own them, and the officers of the A.E.F. who made the selection for the proletariat.)

I’ve slept with horse and sad-eyed cow, I’ve dreamed in peace with bearded goat, I’ve laid my head on the rusty plow, And with the pig shared table d’hôte. I’ve chased the supple, leaping flea As o’er my outstretched form he sped, And heard the sneering rooster’s crow When I chased the rabbit from my bed. I’ve marked the dog’s contented growl, His wagging tail, his playful bite; With guinea pig and wakeful owl I’ve shared my resting place at night, While overhead, where cobweb lace Like curtains drapes the oaken beams, The spiders skipped from place to place And sometimes dropped in on my dreams. And when the morning, damp and raw, Arrived at last as if by chance, I’ve crawled from out the rancid straw And cussed the stable barns of France.

And sometimes when the day is done And lengthening shadows pointing long, I dream of days when there was sun And street cars in my daily song. But over here—ah! what a change, The clouds are German-silver lined— Who worries when we get the mange? What boots it if our shoes are shined? The day speeds by and night again Looms up a specter grim and bare; We trek off to the hen house then And climb the cross barred ladder there— Another biologic night Spent in a state sans peace, sans sleep; And as I soothe some stinging bite, I mark the gentle smell of sheep, The smell that wots of grassy dell, Of hillsides green where fairies dance.... The vision’s past—I’m back in hell, An ancient stable barn of France.

We’ve slept with all the gander’s flock, By waddling duck we’ve slumbered on— In fact, we’ve slept with all the stock, And they will miss us when we’re gone. We’ve seen at times the nocturne eyes Of playful mouse on evening spree, And the coastwise trade at night he plies With Brother Louse on a jamboree. We’ve scratched and fought with foe unseen, And with the candle hunted wide For the bug that thrives on Paris green, But cashes in on bichloride.

Perchance may come a night of stars, Perchance the snow drift through the tile, Perchance the evil face of Mars Peeks in and shows his wicked smile; ’Tis then we dream of other days When we were free and in the dance, And followed in the old time ways, Far from the stable barns of France.

THE MULE SKINNERS

A wet and slippery road, And dusky figures passing in the night, The smell of steaming hide and soaking leather, The muttered oath, The sharp command as troops give way to right, Then clatter on through mud and streaming weather.

The creak and groan of wheels, And batteries that rumble down the road With pound and splash of hoof and chains a-rattle, The driver’s spurring chirp, The tugging as the mules take up the load, And ’bove it all the roar of distant battle.

All night we do our job, Hauling the supplies up from the rear, Past streams of troops and shell-shot habitation, Through rut-worn road, By blackened walls without a light to cheer, On through the night and storm and desolation.

This the life we know, The seeming endless driving and the strain, The ever pushing toil, without cessation, Necessity to do, Through biting wind and cold and chilling rain, And sleepless nights and lack of rest, privation.

This the life we lead, Reckless of screaming shell, and trusting chance, A soldier’s humble task, a soldier’s ration. But who of us would trade His soldier’s lot nor want to be in France? Who would not live his life in soldier fashion? WILLIAM BRADFORD, 2nd Lt., A.G.D.

THE OLD OVERSEAS CAP

The war of the Trojans and all the Greek crew Was fought for the sake of a fair lady who Went absent without leave, for weal or for woe, And took her permission to Paris to go.

All Greeks grasped steel helmets and trench knives and tanks And wheel teams and chariots and fell into ranks. Shipping boards gave no trouble with quarrels or slips: The beauty of Helen had launched all the ships.

All cautioned their sweethearts that since they must go, To keep home hearths heated, on flirting go slow; For each warrior was off to the battle and strife To make the world safe for a good-looking wife.

But they’d never have fought if they’d read Helen’s note, Which just before leaving she hastily wrote: “Menelaus just entered our once happy home With an overseas cap on the top of his dome!” FAIRFAX D. DOWNEY, 1st Lt., F.A.

HOGGIN’ IT

Well, I’ve eaten food sublime, and I’ve eaten food that’s rotten, From Alaska’s coldest corner to where the landscape’s cotton; At times there has been plenty, then there’s times when there’s been none, And I’ve kept me upper stiffest, for complainin’ I’m not one. But it’s now that I’m protestin’—oh, I’ve suffered silence long— It’s fancy food I’m cravin’, for me system’s goin’ wrong.

Oh, it’s bacon, bacon, bacon, Till your belly’s fairly achin’ For some biscuits or some hot cakes that in your mouth would melt; There’s no German dog could dare me, No fear of death would scare me, If I only had some chicken à la King beneath me belt.

Now I read where Mr. Hoover tells the folks to lay off hoggin’, We’ll be needin’ lots of grub to put the Fritz on the toboggan; And the way that they’ve responded makes you feel so awful proud That you’d like to meet old Bill to take his measure for a shroud. Lord, it’s plenty that we’re gettin’, but I’d be dancin’ jigs If they’d pass an order home to stop a-killin’ off the pigs.