Yanks : $b A.E.F. verse

Here’s a youngster sprawled in an old shell hole With a Chauchat at his eye; There’s some wide H.E. on the next O.P. And a Fokker in the sky. It’s a hundred yards to his jump-off trench And ten to the German wire, But what does he hear, more loud and clear Than the crack of harassing fire?

Echoed footsteps on the marble Throbs of a revolving door, And the starter’s ticking signal— “Up! Express here—fourteenth floor!” Click of coins on the cigar stand; Two stout parties passing by— “I sold short and took no chances; Lackawanna’s too damn high.”

Here’s a C.O. down in his dugout deep Who once was a poor N.G. The field phone rings and someone sings, “Red Gulch, sir. 12–9–3 Is spilling lach on Mary Black; Have Jane retaliate.” Two minutes more and he hears Jane roar, While he thinks this hymn of hate:

“That north forty must look pretty, Head high, now, and ears all set; And the haystacks in the meadow— Wonder if they’ve mowed it yet? Crickets clicking in the stubble; Apples reddening on the trees— Oh, good Lord, I’m seeing double; That’s not gas that made me sneeze.”

Here’s a Q.M. warehouse, locked and still, At the end of a village street; The sunset red on the woods ahead, And a sentry on his beat. The hour chimes from the ancient spire, A child laughs out below, And the sentry’s eyes, on the western skies, Behold, in the afterglow,

Row on row of smoking chimneys, Long steel roofs and swinging cranes, Maze of tracks and puffing engines, Creeping strings of shunted trains, Asphalt streets and stuccoed houses, Lots, with brick and lath piled high; Whips of shade trees by the curbings, Yellow trolleys clanging by.

These are tawdry thoughts in an epic time For martial souls to own? They are thoughts, my friend, that we would not mend, That are bred of our blood and bone. A mustard shell it is very well, And an egg grenade’s O.K., But we get our steam from our little dream Of the good old U.S.A.

Cotton fields along the river, Night lights streaming from a mill; Corn, with curling leaves a-quiver, Dump cars lining out a fill; Presses roaring in a basement, Woods, with waters gleaming through— Kaiser Bill, we’ll up and go there When we’ve rid the world of you! JOSEPH MILLS HANSON, Capt., F.A.

THE R.T.O.

O hear the song of the R.T.O. With his “40 Hommes or 8 Chevaux.” He works in the day and he works at night, For the men must go or the men can’t fight. They call him here and they call him there, They ask him Why and they ask him Where. O his cars don’t come, but his cars must go, Be it wet or dry or rain or snow, If they call for Hommes or they want Chevaux. Thus goes the song of the R.T.O.

O it’s “How we love you, R.T.O., With your ’40 Hommes or 8 Chevaux’! Say, whadja do before the war— Work in a packin’ house? O Lor’! We got an army in here now, And we ain’t got room for our packs and chow. They’s 40 Hommes aboard, you KNOW, So come ahead with your 8 Chevaux, And shout ‘Allez’ and away we’ll go. O how we LOVE you, R.T.O.!”

Heaven help the R.T.O. With his “40 Hommes or 8 Chevaux”! He’s got five hundred men to load On a few small cars and a busy road. O the war won’t end if he don’t make good, ’Cause he’s got to send ’em the men and food, Be it wet or dry or rain or snow. And they call for Hommes or they want Chevaux, There’s hell to pay if the stuff don’t go, So Heaven help the R.T.O. A. P. BOWEN, Sgt., R.T.O.

THE MACHINE GUN

Anywhere and everywhere, It’s me the soldiers love, Underneath a parapet Or periscoped above; Backing up the barrage fire, And always wanting more; Chewing up a dozen disks To blast an army corps; Crackling, spitting, demon-like, Heat-riven through and through, Fussy, mussy Lewis gun, Three heroes for a crew!

Advocate of peace am I, Which same some won’t admit; Say! I’d like to see that crowd Come out and do their bit! Out to where the boys have died, That peace on earth might come Sooner than if He above Had based His hopes on some! Whimper not, my friends, when men Have holy work to do, Tuning up the Vickers gun, Three heroes for a crew!

Anywhere and everywhere, From Loos to Ispahan, Yankee, Poilu, Tommy’s Been with me to a man; Pacifist and fighter, too, I care not where I go, Crashing, smashing at the lines That shield the common foe. Anywhere and everywhere, Heat-riven through and through, Fussy, mussy Browning gun, Three heroes for a crew! ALBERT JAY COOK, Corp., M.G. Bn.

OUR DEAD

They lie entombed in serried ranks, A cross atop each lonely grave. They rest beneath the peaceful banks They fought so valiantly to save.

This ground made sacred by their tears, Our starry flag above each head, For upwards of a thousand years A shrine shall be unto our dead.

EVERYBODY’S FRIEND

At first we wuz gay as the ship slipped away From the land where we’d lived all our lives, An’ we laughed an’ we sang till the whole harbor rang, An’ threw kisses to mothers and wives.

But after a while as we stood there in file, An’ the people wuz only a blur, Things sort o’ calmed down, an’ we jus’ watched the town Till we couldn’t see nothin’ o’ her.

Say, then we felt blue, an’ you couldn’t tell who Felt the worst, fer we all darn near cried; ’Twas jus’ like when night is a-comin’ in sight, An’ you’ve been where somebody’s died.

First thing we knew came a roar, an’ it grew Till I’ll bet that the Kaiser could hear; Fer there off one side, lookin’ at us with pride, Wuz Liberty! Who wouldn’t cheer?

I s’pose she’s still there with the crown in her hair An’ her lamp givin’ light to the land; That may all be so, but there’s lots of us know How we still feel the touch of her hand.

Sometimes in the night when there ain’t any fight, An’ we’re standin’ on guard all alone, Like an angel o’ grace she comes near, an’ her face Cheers our hearts which wuz colder’n a stone.

In the thick of a scrap, with sweat oozin’ like sap, She puts her cool hand into ours; An’ like that everywhere, we c’n feel that she’s there, With her help, and her smile like the flowers. FREDERICK W. KURTH, Sgt., M.T.D.

THE STEVEDORE

We don’t pack no gat or rifle, we don’t juggle pick or spade, Nor go stunnin’ peevish Germans in no dashin’ midnight raid; But we hit the warehouse early and we quit the warehouse late, And there ain’t no G.O. limits on the speed we truck the freight. We don’t hike along the roadway in them iron derby hats While the shrapnel punctuates the breeze and gas floats o’er the flats; We just dodge the fallin’ cases and we slap them back on high, For it’s just a pile o’ pilin’ in the Service of Supply.

No, we ain’t no snappy soldiers, and our daily round of drills Includes a lot of movements minus military thrills; But we drill them bloomin’ box cars, double timin’ on the bends, And we slam them full of boxes till they’re bulgin’ at the ends. We ain’t sniped no Fritzie snipers, and we ain’t wrecked no tanks, And we don’t go dashin’ forward with the ever-thinnin’ ranks; But some nights we gets an order for a shipment on the fly, Then we plug right through till mornin’, in the Service of Supply.

We ain’t got no dugout movies, nor a Charlie Chaplin laugh; We ain’t got no handsome colonel with his neat and nifty staff, Nor a brave and fearless captain with a flashing sword and gun To yell, “Now up and at ’em, boys! We’ve got ’em on the run!” We ain’t soaring round in biplanes, punching holes in Boche balloons, Nor corralling frightened Fritzies by battalions and platoons, But when they yell, “Rush order!” then we get around right spry, For the boys are up there waitin’—on the Service of Supply. C. C. SHANFELTER, Sgt., S.C.

BLACK AND WHITE

I was like the child Who believed there was A Santa Claus But had never seen him, Only I have seen another world And know it exists.

I used to think that There was only one world— A world of Mud And bursting shells Which killed and wounded Me and my pals; A world of Hizzing bullets And mustard gas, And cold, sleepless nights, And no food for days, And Huns who cried “Kamerad!” (When their ammunition was gone), And filthy clothes, And cooties And cooties And cooties.

But now I know that there is also A world of— Clean sheets and pajamas, And good food And plenty of it, And kind, gentle women In white Who give you cocoa and soup, And doctors who give you more than “C.C.” pills, And peaceful days Without a single shell, And peaceful nights, And officers who wear white collars And have only heard of cooties, And visitors who sit on your bed And murmur “How thrilling,” And street cars and taxis, And buildings without A single shell hole in them, And everything I only dreamed of before. Gosh! but it’s a wonderful war— BACK HERE. HARV.

THE OL’ CAMPAIGN HAT

No more against a battle sky with swooping pilots lined, No more where charging heroes die my peakéd top you’ll find. In training camps and peaceful climes the war is not for me, Yet still I dream of other times and what I used to be. The Mauser crackles once again—the smoky Springfield roar Avenges those who manned the _Maine_ upon the Cuban shore. Fedora-style I did my bit in jungle sun and dirt, And now I’ve got a mortal hit, just like the old blue shirt!

I hear the tingling ’Frisco cheers, the squat “Kilpatrick” sway, As boldly swung we from the piers, Manila months away. Luzon, Panay—I saw them all, Pekin was not the least— O I have felt the siren call that sweeps from out the East. Below the line of Capricorn in divers times and places I’ve heard retreating yowls of scorn from herds of Spiggot races. The Rio Grande and Vera Cruz—I knew them like a map, And now it looks as though I lose—the jackpot to a cap!

No more against a blazing sky where hard-pressed Fokkers flee, No more where charging heroes die, my peakéd top you’ll see. The trade mark of the Johnnie’s gone, but, just between us two, I’ll bet you I come back again when this damn war is through!

WHEN THE GENERAL CAME TO TOWN

We wuz workin’ in th’ offus— That is, all exceptin’ me— An’ I wuz jest a-settin’, As a orderly should be,

When a feller wearin’ eagles Perchin’ on his shoulder straps, Poked his head right in th’ winder, An’ he talks right out an’ snaps,

“Who’s th’ officer commandin’ Over this detachment here?” An’ th’ looey he salutes him, While us rest wuz feelin’ queer.

“I am, sir,” th’ looey tells him, Wonderin’ what th’ row’s about. “Pershing’s comin’ in five minits,” Says th’ kernel. “All troops out.”

Gosh, how we did hurry, For we looked a doggone fright— Some had hats a-missin’, An’ they warn’t a coat in sight.

First we cleaned up in th’ offus, Then we swept up in th’ street, An’ it wasn’t many seconds Till th’ place wuz hard t’ beat.

Next we hunted up our clothin’, Borried some an’ swiped some more, Then th’ looey got us standin’ In a line afore th’ door.

Mighty soon around th’ corner Come two scrumptious lookin’ cars, An’ they wasn’t any licence On th’ first one—’cept four stars.

When the car had stopped right sudden, Then th’ gineral he stepped out, An’ without much parley-vooin’ He begin t’ look about.

They wuz lots o’ darkey soldiers What wuz lined up in a row, An’ he shore looked at ’em careful, Walkin’ past ’em mighty slow.

An’ th’ Frenchmen come a-flockin’, An’ they couldn’t understand Why he warn’t a-wearin’ medals, An’ gold braid t’ beat th’ band.

Then he made a little lectur, Givin’ all them Frenchmen thanks, Since they’d acted mighty kind-like In a-dealin’ with his Yanks.

All th’ peepul started clappin’ When his talk kum to a close, An’ a purty little lassie Offered him a dandy rose.

Shore he tuk it, smilin’ pleasant, Like a gift he couldn’t miss— An’ th’ little maid wuz happy When he paid her with a kiss.

Then he stepped into his auto, An’ he hurried on his way— While us guys went back t’ workin’, Feelin’ we had had SOME day. VANCE C. CRISS, Corp., Engrs.

SEICHEPREY

A handful came to Seicheprey When winter woods were bare, When ice was in the trenches And snow was in the air. The foe looked down on Seicheprey And laughed to see them there.

The months crept by at Seicheprey The growing handful stayed, With growling guns at midnight, At dawn, the lightning raid, And learned, in Seicheprey trenches, How war’s red game is played.

September came to Seicheprey; A slow-wrought host arose And rolled across the trenches And whelmed its sneering foes, And left to shattered Seicheprey Unending, sweet repose. J. M. H.

BEFORE A DRIVE

Loud spitting motor truck and wagon trains, And caissons and guns and Infantry, All jammed together in the dark And mud and rain of northern France, Moving toward the Front.

Night after night it had been thus, With days of hard, relentless drudgery Spent over maps of war and battle plans, With one or two or three, perhaps, Short hours of sleep in every twenty-four, Only what chance afforded, Till I had lost all trace of time. Day meant but heavy toil, And night dull tramping onward in the mud, Buffeted about by caissons and guns and motor trucks; Life was but mud and rain and weary men.

And then—one evening ere the march began, I chanced to pause and gaze into the West, And there was all the beauty of the world Lying a-top the rain-bejewelled trees In stripes of crimson, lavender, and blue, And all the other colors known to man!

Then darkness came, and I was tramping northward once again, Buffeted about by caissons and guns and motor trucks. But lo! the road that night was smooth; My feet were steady and my heart was gay, For I had looked into the West I love And there had seen the magic of your smile. CHARLES LYN FOX, Inf.

PRIVATE JONES, A. E. F.

“Who is the boy and what does he do, and what do the gold stripes mean? And why is his mouth so grim and hard while those eyes of his are a-dream? Only a private soldier, eh, and he holds his head that high? Putting on airs a bit, I’d say; nothing about him that’s shy.

“He’s been through hell three times, you say, and turned up with a grin? He’s faced the great unknown so much it holds no fear for him? He’s seen the highest lights of life and deepest shadows, too? He knows what glory means when mixed with mud, red blood and blue?

“He’s slept in the slush and rain and hummed a tune as the big guns barked? He’s eaten a single meal a day, and kept ragtime in his heart? He’s fallen three times, you say, in the dark, with limp, still things around, And he called the nurse ‘kid’ and asked her to help him get back to that ground?