Yanks : $b A.E.F. verse

For it’s bacon, bacon, bacon, Till your very soul is shakin’— If I could pick me eatin’, it’s a different song I’d sing; I’d not miss a raidin’ party, For patrol I’d be quite hearty, Oh, I’d swap me chance of Heaven for some chicken à la King. MED. MIQUE.

THE MAN

Here today in the sunshine I saw a soldier go Out of Life’s heated battle into the evening glow. He was just a common soldier, one of a mighty clan, But every watcher bared his head in honor to the Man. We stood there at attention, and the flag-draped coffin came, And we snapped up to salute him, though we never knew his name. He was just a common soldier, but we couldn’t salute as well The best old major general on this bright side o’ hell! H. T. S.

SONG OF THE GUNS

This is the song that our guns keep singing, Here where the dark steel shines; This is the song with their big shells winging Over the German lines—

“We are taking you home by the shortest way, We are taking you out of this blood and slime To the land you left in an ancient day, Where lost lanes wander at twilight time; We are bringing you peace In the swift release From the grind where the gas drifts blur; On a steel shod track We are taking you back, We are taking you back to Her!”

This is the song that our guns keep roaring, Out through the night and rain; This is the song with their big shell soaring Over the battered plain—

“We are taking you home by the only way, By the only road that will get you back To the dreams you left where the dusk was gray And the night wind sang of a long-lost track; We are bringing you rest From the bitter test, From the pits where the great shells whirr; Through the bloody loam We are taking you home, We are taking you home to Her!” GRANTLAND RICE, 1st Lt., F.A.

THROUGH THE WHEAT

(The Sergeant’s Story)

“There’s a job out there before us,” Said the Captain, kinder solemn; “There’s a crop out there to gather Through the wheat fields just ahead.” Through the wheat of Château-Thierry That was soon to hold our column, “There’s a crop out there to gather,” That was all the Captain said. (Oh, at dawn the wheat was yellow, But at night the wheat was red.)

“There’s a crop out there to gather,” And we felt contentment stealin’ Like a ghost from out the shadows Of a lost, old-fashioned street; For the crop out there before us Brought a kinder home-like feelin’, Though the zippin’ German bullets Started hissin’ through the wheat. But it didn’t seem to bother As we slogged along the beat.

“There’s snakes here,” whooped a private As the bullets started hissin’; And we saw that Hun machine guns In the thicket formed our crop; So we started for the harvest Where a bunch of them was missin’, But a bunch of them was hittin’ Where we hadn’t time to stop. But we damned ’em to a finish As we saw a bunkie drop.

So we gathered in the harvest, And we didn’t leave one missin’; (We had gathered crops before this With as tough a job ahead.) Through the wheat of Château-Thierry, With the German bullets hissin’, “There’s a crop out there to gather,” That was all the Captain said. (Oh, at dawn the wheat was yellow, But at night the wheat was red.)

ALLIES

The French, the British, and the Portugee, Captain, or colonel, or king though he be, Gives a salute in response to me, Buck private in Uncle Sam’s Infantry. There’s much that a soldier’s salute implies, But it means the most when it means, “We’re Allies!”

In Belgium and France and Italy They talk in ways that are Greek to me, But the speech of soldiers’ courtesy Is a Lingua Franca wherever you be. With a single gesture, I recognize That I am one of the Twenty Allies.

I never could tell just why it should be That the first salute should be up to me In this queer, new army democracy, But every commander must answer me, British, or French, or Indo-Chinee, Captain, or colonel, or king though he be. There’s much that a soldier’s salute implies, But it means the most when it means, “We’re Allies!” MERRITT Y. HUGHES, Pvt., Inf.

TO BUDDY

It’s a tough fight for you, Buddy, And it takes a heap of grit To stick and win And keep your grin When you’re in the thick of it.

It’s no cinch for you, Buddy, When the dreams with which you came Melt into naught As you are taught The horrid, bitter game.

It’s a hard pull for you, Buddy, And oft times it looks damned blue, But square your chin And vow to win, And play the game clean through.

For there’s a great time coming, Buddy, A time worth waiting for, When Kultur’s done And all is won, And the boys come home from war.

Oh, she’ll be waiting, Buddy, And the lovelight in her eye Will shine with joy As Her Big Boy Goes proudly marching by.

It’s a hard road for you, Buddy, But it’s more than worth the game To buck all fears So Mother’s tears Will be for joy, not shame. HOWARD J. GREEN, Corp., Inf.

THE WOOD CALLED ROUGE-BOUQUET[1]

(Dedicated to the memory of 19 members of Co. E., 165th Infantry, who made the supreme sacrifice at Rouge-Bouquet, Forest of Parroy, France, March 7; read by the chaplain at the funeral, the refrain echoing the music of Taps from a distant grove.)

I

In the woods they call Rouge-Bouquet There is a new-made grave today, Built by never a spade or pick, Yet covered by earth ten metres thick.

There lie many fighting men, Dead in their youthful prime, Never to laugh or live again Or taste of the summer time;

For death came flying through the air And stopped his flight at the dugout stair, Touched his prey— And left them there— Clay to clay. He hid their bodies stealthily In the soil of the land they sought to free, And fled away.

Now over the grave, abrupt and clear, Three volleys ring; And perhaps their brave young spirits hear: Go to sleep— Go to sleep— (_Taps sounding in distance._)

II

There is on earth no worthier grave To hold the bodies of the brave Than this spot of pain and pride Where they nobly fought and nobly died. Never fear but in the skies Saints and angels stand, Smiling with their holy eyes On this new come band.

St. Michael’s sword darts through the air And touches the aureole on his hair, As he sees them stand saluting there His stalwart sons; And Patrick, Bridget, and Columbkill Rejoice that in veins of warriors still The Gael’s blood runs

And up to Heaven’s doorway floats, From the woods called Rouge-Bouquet, A delicate sound of bugle notes That softly say: Farewell— Farewell— (_Taps sounding in distance._)

L’ENVOI

Comrades true, Born anew, Peace to you; Your souls shall be where the heroes are, And your memory shine like the morning star, Brave and dear, Shield us here— Farewell! JOYCE KILMER, Sgt., Inf. Killed in action, July 30, 1918.

Footnote 1:

Copyright, 1918, Charles Scribner’s Sons. Copyright, 1919, George H. Doran Co.

GOOD-BYE

Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, We’re on the seas for France, We’re on our way to make them pay The piper for the dance. To starboard and to port Our paint-splotched convoys toss, Grim thunderbolts in rainbow garb, We jam a path across. Our guns are slugged and set To smack the U-boat’s eye— God help the Hun that tries his luck— Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye.

Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, The decks are deep with men, We’re going out to God knows what, We’ll be back God knows when. Old friends are at our sides, Old songs drift out to sea, Oh, it is good to go to war In such a company. The sun is on the waves That race to meet the sky, Where strange new shores reach out to us— Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye.

Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, A long and weary while, Through all the drab and empty days, Remember us and smile. Our good ship shoulders on Along a lane of foam, And every turn the screw goes round Is farther still from home. We’ll miss the things we left, The more the white miles fly, So keep them till we come again— Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye.

THE FIELDS OF THE MARNE

The fields of the Marne are growing green, The river murmurs on and on; No more the hail of mitrailleuse, The cannon from the hills are gone.

The herder leads the sheep afield, Where grasses grow o’er broken blade; And toil-worn women till the soil O’er human mold, in sunny glade.

The splintered shell and bayonet Are lost in crumbling village wall; No sniper scans the rim of hills, No sentry hears the night bird call.

From blood-wet soil and sunken trench, The flowers bloom in summer light; And farther down the vale beyond, The peasant smiles are sad, yet bright.

The wounded Marne is growing green, The gash of Hun no longer smarts; Democracy is born again, But what about the troubled hearts? FRANK CARBAUGH, Sgt., Inf. (Written while lying wounded in hospital; died August, 1918.)

A NURSE’S PRAYER

O Lord, I must not cry, And yet mine eyes contain Such floods of scalding tears That they will never dry, Descending soft as rain, Through all the coming years.

Cor Jesu, I must weep, When I behold the sight! These men who fought and bled, Who moan and cannot sleep, Their souls so snowy white, The wounded and the dead. THOMAS F. COAKLEY, Lt., Chaplain.

LINES ON LEAVING A LITTLE TOWN WHERE WE RESTED

We with the war ahead, You who have held the line, Laughing, have broken bread And taken wine.

We cannot speak your tongue, We cannot fully know Things hid beneath your smile Four years ago.

Things which have given us, Grimly, a common debt, Now that we take the field, We won’t forget! RUSSELL LORD, Corp., F. A.

POPPIES

Poppies in the wheat fields on the pleasant hills of France, Reddening in the summer breeze that bids them nod and dance; Over them the skylark sings his lilting, liquid tune— Poppies in the wheat fields, and all the world in June.

Poppies in the wheat fields on the road to Monthiers— Hark, the spiteful rattle where the masked machine guns play! Over them the shrapnel’s song greets the summer morn— Poppies in the wheat fields—but, ah, the fields are torn.

See the stalwart Yankee lads, never ones to blench, Poppies in their helmets as they clear the shallow trench, Leaping down the furrows with eager, boyish tread Through the poppied wheat fields to the flaming woods ahead.

Poppies in the wheat fields as sinks the summer sun, Broken, bruised and trampled—but the bitter day is won; Yonder in the woodland where the flashing rifles shine, With their poppies in their helmets, the front files hold the line.

Poppies in the wheat field; how still beside them lie Scattered forms that stir not when the star shells burst on high; Gently bending o’er them beneath the moon’s soft glance, Poppies of the wheat fields on the ransomed hills of France. JOSEPH MILLS HANSON, Capt., F.A.

POILU

You’re a funny fellow, poilu, in your dinky little cap And your war worn, faded uniform of blue, With your multitude of haversacks abulge from heel to flap, And your rifle that is ’most as big as you. You were made for love and laughter, for good wine and merry song, Now your sunlit world has sadly gone astray, And the road today you travel stretches rough and red and long, Yet you make it, petit soldat, brave and gay.

Though you live within the shadow, fagged and hungry half the while, And your days and nights are racking in the line, There is nothing under heaven that can take away your smile, Oh, so wistful and so patient and so fine. You are tender as a woman with the tiny ones who crowd To upraise their lips and for your kisses pout, Still, we’d hate to have to face you when the bugle’s sounding loud And your slim, steel sweetheart Rosalie is out. You’re devoted to mustaches which you twirl with such an air O’er a cigarette with nigh an inch to run, And quite often you are noticed in a beard that’s full of hair, But that heart of yours is always twenty-one. No, you do not “parlee English,” and you find it very hard, For you want to chum with us and words you lack; So you pat us on the shoulder and say, “Nous sommes camarades.” We are that, my poilu pal, to hell and back. STEUART M. EMERY, Pvt., M. P.

AS THINGS ARE

The old home State is drier now Than forty-seven clucks Of forty-seven desert hens A-chewin’ peanut shucks.

There everybody’s standin’ sad Beside the Fishhill store, A-sweatin’ dust an’ spittin’ rust Because there ain’t no more.

The constable, they write, has went A week without a pinch. There ain’t no jobs, so there’s a gent ’At sure has got a cinch.

I ain’t a’gonna beef a bit, But still, it’s kinda nice, A-knowin’ where there’s some to git Without requestin’ twice.

THE GIRL OF GIRLS

When the war god reached out his talons And showed me the way to the fray, My sweethearts shed tears by the gallons— There was weeping and gnashing that day.

Don’t blame them for crying like babies; I’m surprised they recovered at all, ’Cause I sure made a hit with the ladies, Just one look at me and they’d fall.

Take Evelyn or Peggy or Jennie— They surely were there with the looks, And I’ve never regretted a penny I blew in on flowers and books.

And Mildred—that kid was a thriller, A complexion like peaches and cream; She was sweeter than Marilynn Miller, And Phyllis—oh, boy, what a dream!

And now that I’m over the ocean, I remember them each by their smile; But there’s one who gets all my devotion, And I’m thinking of her all the while.

When my clothes need mending and scrubbing, And only one sock I can find, And my knuckles are swollen with rubbing, Why, girlies, you’re far from my mind.

My thoughts are for one who is dearer Than Phyllis or Peggy or Mae; Each day that I’m gone she seems nearer— And she’s feeble, but smiling and gay. HOWARD A. HERTY, Corp., 1st Army Hq.

THE LITTLE DREAMS

Now, France is a pleasant land to know If you’re back in a billet town, And a hell of a hole for the human mole Where the trenches burrow down; But where doughboys be in their worn O.D., Whatever their daily grinds, There’s a little dream on this sort of theme In the background of their minds:

“Oh, gee whiz, I’d give my mess kit And the barrel off my gat Just to take a stroll up Main Street In a new Fedora hat; Just to hit the Rexall drug store For an ice-cream soda stew, And not a doggoned officer To tell me what to do.”