Yanks : $b A.E.F. verse

“No wonder the mouth is grim and set, no wonder the eyes a-dream; The best and worst in life and death the plain buck private has seen. Ah, well, I suppose he’d like to quit and get an easier job. No? Not he? He told you, you say, he wouldn’t trade bunks with God?” WILLIAM I. ENGLE, Pvt., Inf.

“HOMMES 40, CHEVAUX 8”

Roll, roll, roll, over the rails of France, See the world and its map unfurled, five centimes in your pants. What a noble trip, jolt and jog and jar, Forty we, with Equipment C in one flat-wheeled box-car.

We are packed by hand, Shoved aboard in ’teens, Pour a little oil on us And we would be sardines.

Rations? Oo-la-la! and how we love the man Who learned how to intern our chow in a cold and clammy can. Beans and beef and beans, beef and beans and beef, Willie raw, he will win the war, take in your belt a reef.

Mess kits flown the coop, Cups gone up the spout; Use your thumbs for issue forks, And pass the bull about.

Hit the floor for bunk, six hommes to one homme’s place; It’s no fair to the bottom layer to kick ’em in the face. Move the corp’ral’s feet out of my left ear; Lay off, sarge, you are much too large, I’m not a bedsack, dear.

Lift my head up, please, From this bag of bread; Put it on somebody’s chest, Then I’ll sleep like the dead.

Roll, roll, roll, yammer and snore and fight, Travelling zoo the whole day through and bedlam all the night. Four days in the cage, going from hither hence; Ain’t it great to ride by freight at good old Unc’s expense?

THE BUGLER

(A patient in Base Hospital 48)

“I can’t blow taps no more,” He says to me. (They’d kidded him outside the barracks door.) “I used to do it pretty well before— Before I played my buddy off. It’s war, But don’t you see?

“The moon was full and white, And shinin’ free, About the way it’s shinin’ there tonight. We started up, and Buddy got it right— A piece of shrap; it dropped him out the fight Alongside me.

“We laid him in the clay; And it was me That sounded taps; there was no other way ... I can’t blow taps no more ... but say! I tapped a German skull the other day. And that squares me!” LIN DAVIES, Pvt.

THE RETURN OF THE REFUGEES

They pick their way o’er the shell-pocked road As the evening shadows fall, A man and woman, their eyes a-gleam With awe at war’s black pall.

The straggling strands of her snowy hair Are tossed in the wind’s rude breath; His frail form shakes as the whistling gusts Sweep o’er the field of death.

With straining eyes, hearts beating fast, They seek to gaze ahead To where they left their little home When from the Hun they fled.

’Neath the heights of a hill o’erlooking the vale, Half hid in a purple shade, The dim outline of the town comes to view, And they hasten down the glade.

At last the town, the street, and home! But God! Can it be this?— This pile of stones, this hideous hulk, This gaping orifice?

The sun has set. The evening star Sends down its soothing light. Gone are the tears; their hearts are strong— “For God, for France, and Right!” FREDERICK W. KURTH, Sgt., M.T.D.

AS THE TRUCKS GO ROLLIN’ BY

There’s a rumble an’ a jumble an’ a bumpin’ an’ a thud, As I wakens from my restless sleep here in my bed o’ mud, ’N’ I pull my blankets tighter underneath my shelter fly, An’ I listen to the thunder o’ the trucks a-rollin’ by.

They’re jumpin’ an’ they’re humpin’ through the inky gloom o’ night, ’N’ I wonder how them drivers see without a glim o’ light; I c’n hear the clutches roarin’ as they throw the gears in high, An’ the radiators boilin’ as the trucks go rollin’ by.

There’s some a-draggin’ cannons, you c’n spot the sound all right— The rumblin’ ones is heavies, an’ the rattly ones is light; The clinkin’ shells is pointin’ up their noses at the sky— Oh, you c’n tell what’s passin’ as the trucks go rollin’ by.

But most of ’em is packin’ loads o’ human Yankee freight That’ll slam the ol’ soft pedal ontuh Heinie’s hymn o’ hate; You c’n hear ’em singin’ “Dixie,” and the “Sweet Bye ’N’ Bye,” ’N’ “Where Do We Go from Here, Boys?” as the trucks go rollin’ by.

Some’s singin’ songs as, when I left, they wasn’t even ripe (A-showin’ ’at they’s rookies wot ain’t got a service stripe), But jus’ the same they’re good ole Yanks, and that’s the reason why I likes the jazz ’n’ barber shop o’ the trucks a-rollin’ by.

Jus’ God and Gen’rul Pershing knows where these here birds’ll light, Where them bumpin’ trucks is bound for under camouflage o’ night, When they can’t take aero pitchers with their Fokkers in the sky Of our changes o’ location by the trucks a-rollin’ by.

So altho’ my bed is puddles an’ I’m soaked through to the hide, My heart’s out with them doughboys on their bouncin’, singin’ ride, They’re bound for paths o’ glory, or, p’raps, to fight ’n’ die— God bless that Yankee cargo in the trucks a-rollin’ by. L. W. SUCKERT, 1st Lt., A.S.

GETTIN’ LETTERS

When you’re far away from home an’ you’re feelin’ kind o’ blue, When the world is topsy turvy, nothin’ sets jest right fer you, Yuh can sneer at all yer troubles, an’ yer cares yuh never mind, When you’ve really had a letter from the Girl yuh left behind.

When the cook is downright nutty, an’ his biskits never raise, When he feeds yuh canned tomatoes fer jes’ seventeen straight days, Yuh can quite fergit he’s nutty, yuh can treat him fairly kind, If you’ve really had a letter from the Girl yuh left behind.

When the Captain’s got a grouch on, an’ has bawled yuh out fer fair, When some pesky Lieut has sassed yuh which to home he wouldn’t dare, Yuh can lift yer chin an’ whistle, an’ that’s easy, yuh will find, If you’ve really had a letter from the Girl yuh left behind.

When a letter comes yuh grab it right before the other guys, An’ yuh git a little vision of the light that’s in Her eyes; Yuh can see Her smiles an’ dimples, an’ fer other girls you’re blind When you’ve really had a letter from the Girl yuh left behind.

Jest a sheet or two of paper with a purple stamp or two, But it means the whole creation to the heart an’ soul o’ you, An’ yuh git to feelin’ pious, an’ yuh pray a bit, yuh mind, For the great Almighty’s blessin’ on the Girl yuh left behind. E. C. D., Field Hospital.

TO THE CHILDREN OF FRANCE

I wish you, children, playing round On this too-rudely trampled ground, Only the good things I would send To all the children I befriend.

But one wish circles all: To know Little of what your elders do, And somehow into the sunlight grow Out of the mists they stumble through. R. R. KIRK, Pvt., G2, S.O.S.

THEN WE’LL COME BACK TO YOU

Some day, when screaming shells are but a dream That vanished with the dawn of better days, When Love and Faith are really what they seem, And Treachery is lost in fleeting haze; When each sweet day recalls a noble deed, Wherein a blinding flash plays not a part, And Truth at last has sown the godly seed That springs to Trust and Joy in every heart; Some day, though it be farther down the years Than ever mortal gazed or planned ahead, When we have made them pay for all your tears, And squared accounts for comrades who have bled; When we can feel that storms of Greed and Lust Will nevermore engulf our skies of blue; When you can live and know each sacred trust— And not till then—will we come back to you. Corp. HOWARD H. HERTY, 1st Army Hq. Reg.

TO A DOUGHBOY

I watched you slog down a dusty pike, One of many so much alike, With a spirit keen as a breath of flame, Ready to rise and ready to strike Whenever the fitting moment came; Just a kid with a boyish grin, Waiting the order to hustle in And lend your soul to the battle thrill, Unafraid of the battle din Or the guns that crashed from a hidden hill.

I watched you leap to the big advance, With a smile for Fate and its fighting chance, Sweeping on till the charge was done; I saw your grave on a slope of France Where you fell asleep when the fight was won. Just a kid who had earned his rest With a rifle and helmet above his breast, Who proved, in answer to German jeers, That a kid can charge a machine gun nest Without the training of forty years.

I watched the shadows drifting by As gray dusk came from a summer’s sky, And lost winds came from beyond the fight, And I seemed to hear them croon and sigh: “Sleep, little dreamer, sleep tonight; Sleep tonight, for I’m bringing you A prayer and a dream from the home you knew; And I’ll take them word of the big advance, And how you fought till the game was through, And you fell asleep in the dust of France.”

LIL’ PAL O’ MINE

Just a wee remembrance Of a little child so fair, From Dad, who coaxed himself away To leave you over there.

Just a little thought or two, A dream, a wish, a prayer, For you, my little smiler Girl, Across the sea back there.

Just a bit of Daddy love, To you I send it all, Your eyes, your smile, your golden hair, Your love for “raggy doll.”

Just a little tear sometimes, Yes, men they weaken too, War is hard, but harder still Is bein’ ’way from you. E. S. E.

PERFECT CONTRITION

“Send for a priest,” the small disc read That clasped his neck around; But he, brave soul, was long since dead When found upon the ground.

A crucifix was in his hand, Stained by his bloody kiss, This newest of the martyr band To taste of Heaven’s bliss. THOMAS F. COAKLEY, Lt., Chaplain.

WHEN PRIVATE MUGRUMS PARLAY VOOS

I can count my francs an’ santeems— If I’ve got a basket near— An’ I speak a wicked “bon jour,” But the verbs are awful queer, An’ I lose a lot o’ pronouns When I try to talk to you, For your eyes are so bewitchin’ I forget to parlay voo.

In your pretty little garden, With the bench beside the wall, An’ the sunshine on the asters, An’ the purple phlox so tall, I should like to whisper secrets, But my language goes askew With the second person plural For the more familiar “too.”

In your pretty little garden I could always say “juh tame,” But it ain’t so very subtle, An’ it ain’t not quite the same As “You’ve got some dandy earrings,” Or “Your eyes are nice an’ brown”— But my adjectives get manly Right before a lady noun

Those infinitives perplex me, I can say you’re “tray jolee,” But beyond that simple statement All my tenses don’t agree. I can make the Boche “comprenney” When I meet ’em in a trench, But the softer things escape me When I try to yap in French.

In your pretty little garden Darn the idioms that dance On your tongue so sweet and rapid, Ah, they hold me in a trance! Though I stutter an’ I stammer, In your garden, on the bench, Yet my heart is writin’ poems When I talk to you in French. CHARLES DIVINE, Pvt.

IF I WERE A COOTIE

If I were a cootie (pro-Ally, of course), I’d hie me away on a Potsdam-bound horse, And I’d seek out the Kaiser (the war-maddened cuss), And I’d be a bum cootie if I didn’t muss His Imperial hide from his head to his toe! He might hide from the bombs, but I’d give him no show! If I were a cootie, I’d deem it my duty To thus treat the Kaiser, Ah, oui.

And after I’d thoroughly covered Bill’s area, I’d hasten away to the Prince of Bavaria, And chew him a round or two—under the Linden— Then pack up my things and set out for old Hinden— (Old Hindy’s the guy always talking ’bout strafing)— To think what I’d do to that bird sets me laughing! If I were a cootie, I’d deem it my duty To thus threat the Prince and old Hindy, Ah, oui!

I’d ne’er get fed up on Imperial gore— I might rest for a while, but I’d go back for more. I’d spend a few days with that Austrian crew, And young Carl himself I’d put down for a chew; There’d be no meatless days for this cootie, I know, They’d all get one jolly good strafing or so. For if I were a cootie, I’d deem it my duty To thus treat their damnships, Ah, oui! A. P. BOWEN, Sgt., R.T.O.

THE LILY

The lily sadly drooped her head; “My France is bowed in grief!” she said. “Must I live on to satisfy The conquering Teuton’s lustful eye? Lord, let me wither! Let me die!”

The lily proudly raised her head; “My France is free once more!” she said. “Free from dark and blood-smirched gloom! The ruthless Hun has met his doom. Lord, let me gladden! Let me bloom!” HOWARD J. GREEN, Corp., Inf.

ME,—AN’ WAR GOIN’ ON!

Me!—a-leadin’ a column! Me!—that women have loved— Me, a-leadin’ a column o’ Yanks, an’ tracin’ Her name in the Stars! Me, that ain’t seen the purple hills before all mixed in the skies With the gray dawn meltin’ to azure there; Me, that ain’t a poet, growin’ poetic; An’ the flash o’ the guns on the skyline, An’ red wine—an’ France! An’ me laughin’—and War! An’ Slim Jim singin’ a song; An’ a lop-eared mule a-kickin’ a limber An’ axles ’thout no grease hollerin’ Maggie at me! Me, that women have loved— An’ War goin’ on!

Mornin’ comin’, An’ me—a-leadin’ a column Along o’ them from the College, Along o’ them from the Streets, An’ them as had mothers that spiled them, and them as hadn’t,— Lovin’ names in the Stars, An’ Slim Jim singin’ a song, An’ Folks to Home watchin’ them, too, An’ Maggie that never had loved me, lovin’ me now, An’ thinkin’ an’ cryin’ for me!— For me that loved Maggie that never loved me till now.

Mornin’ comin’, An’ me—a-leadin’ a column, An’ a town in the valley Round the bend in the road, An’ Ginger strainin’ his neck An’ thinkin’ o’ Picket Lines— An’ me an’ the rest o’ them thinkin’ o’ home and eggs down there in the village, An’ Coney startin’ to close at Home An’ Maggie mashed in the crowd— An’ me a-leadin’ a column— An’ War goin’ on!

Me that hollered for water, With a splinter o’ hell in my side; Me that have laid in the sun a-cursin’ the beggars and stretchers As looked like they’d never a-come; Me that found God with the gas at my throat An’ raved like a madman for Maggie, An’ wanted a wooden cross over me! Me—an’ Slim Jim back o’ me singin’, An’ tracin’ a name in the fade o’ the Stars!

Me—knowin’ that some’ll be ridin’ that’s walkin’ tonight— Knowin’ that some’ll never see Broadway again, An’ red wine, An’ Little Italy, An’ Maggies like Mine,— Me!—a-murmurin’ a prayer for Maggie An’ stoppin’ to laugh at Slim, An’ shoutin’ “To the right o’ the road for the Swoi-zant-canze!” Them babies that raise such hell up the line, An’ marchin’, An’ marchin’ by night, An’ sleepin’ by day, An’ France, An’ red wine, An’ me thinkin’ o’ Home, Me—a-leadin’ a column,— An’ War goin’ on! JOHN PALMER CUMMING, Inf.

THE ROAD TO MONTFAUCON

“M. P., the road from Avocourt That leads to Montfaucon?” “The road, sir, black with mules and carts And brown with men a-marching on— The Romagne woods that lie beyond The ruined heights of Montfaucon—

“North over reclaimed No Man’s Land The martyred roadway leads, Quick with forward moving hosts And quick with valiant deeds Avenging Rheims, Liége, and Lille, And outraged gods and creeds.

“There lies the road from Avocourt That leads to Montfaucon, Past sniper and machine gun nest, By steel and thermite cleansed. They’ve gone— And there in thund’rous echelon The ruined heights of Montfaucon.” HAROLD RIEZELMAN, 1st Lt., C.W.S.

VESTAL STAR

The long, long march is o’er, the weary roaming; We bivouac, yearning for a peaceful night; I lie and dream amid the purple gloaming, And scan the heavens for a beacon light.