TRANSITION
Itrained like cats and dogs that night—The kid—he rambled on;We sat, we two, by candle-lightIn a tavern in Ballon.“The first I killed—that hand-made dirk,Well that’s a souvenir!I got it cheap—though that poor Turk,It cost him pretty dear.“He’d jumped our trench—the fog was thick—Thinks I—‘one of our men’Still I yelled ‘Halt!’—he beat it quick,And then I yelled again.And on he went—I watched him tillHe scrambled to the top—Says I—‘Not if I know it, Bill!’And then I saw him drop.“Our First Lieutenant heard me blazeAnd soon he came along,I stood there in a kind of dazeAnd then he said ‘What’s wrong?’I told him and he said ‘Good work,Suppose we have a look’—He yanked a button from the Turk,I showed you what I took.“That night I tried and tried to pray,But something, it beganTo pound away inside and say‘Hey boy—you’ve killed a man!’I just could see his clotted headIn mud—the blood it ran—Oh God—all night! while something said‘Hey boy—you’ve killed a man!’“You’ll go to Hell—that’s where you’ll go”—For once the kid was still—“It’s funny how it gets you so,The first man that you kill.And yet—it’s just as funny too,How killin’ seems all rightWhen hate gets jazzin’ ’round in you,Once when you’re in the fight.“That’s how it was the day our squadGot blowed to Kingdom ComeWhen Fritzie’s steel plowed up the sodDown there along the Somme.My first machine-gun man stood there,As near as me to you—It tore his head off clean and bareAnd ripped his chest all through.“You don’t stop much for scruples whenYou’ve seen a sight like that,The rest of us advanced again,Their pills came pit-a-pat.Another fell—I grabbed his gunAnd left him my canteen,And then I started in to runUp toward a Boche machine.“I ducked around—for two more menThat Jerry there had picked,Got in behind—and leveled whenThe damned thing only clicked!Down went his hand, I saw his game,He grabbed his Luger, butI swung my stock and down it cameUpon his bloomin’ nut.“That there’s the souvenir I copped,Some pretty watch—eh what!From that there time she’s never stopped—She’s Fritzie on the spot!You can’t have scruples when you’ve seenYour poor old pal go West,With blood a-tricklin’ in the mudAnd oozin’ from his chest.“You carry on, you just don’t care,For somethin’ seems to tellHe’s callin’ to you from somewhere—‘Go on—and give ’em Hell!’”Le Mans, France,January, 1919.
Itrained like cats and dogs that night—The kid—he rambled on;We sat, we two, by candle-lightIn a tavern in Ballon.“The first I killed—that hand-made dirk,Well that’s a souvenir!I got it cheap—though that poor Turk,It cost him pretty dear.“He’d jumped our trench—the fog was thick—Thinks I—‘one of our men’Still I yelled ‘Halt!’—he beat it quick,And then I yelled again.And on he went—I watched him tillHe scrambled to the top—Says I—‘Not if I know it, Bill!’And then I saw him drop.“Our First Lieutenant heard me blazeAnd soon he came along,I stood there in a kind of dazeAnd then he said ‘What’s wrong?’I told him and he said ‘Good work,Suppose we have a look’—He yanked a button from the Turk,I showed you what I took.“That night I tried and tried to pray,But something, it beganTo pound away inside and say‘Hey boy—you’ve killed a man!’I just could see his clotted headIn mud—the blood it ran—Oh God—all night! while something said‘Hey boy—you’ve killed a man!’“You’ll go to Hell—that’s where you’ll go”—For once the kid was still—“It’s funny how it gets you so,The first man that you kill.And yet—it’s just as funny too,How killin’ seems all rightWhen hate gets jazzin’ ’round in you,Once when you’re in the fight.“That’s how it was the day our squadGot blowed to Kingdom ComeWhen Fritzie’s steel plowed up the sodDown there along the Somme.My first machine-gun man stood there,As near as me to you—It tore his head off clean and bareAnd ripped his chest all through.“You don’t stop much for scruples whenYou’ve seen a sight like that,The rest of us advanced again,Their pills came pit-a-pat.Another fell—I grabbed his gunAnd left him my canteen,And then I started in to runUp toward a Boche machine.“I ducked around—for two more menThat Jerry there had picked,Got in behind—and leveled whenThe damned thing only clicked!Down went his hand, I saw his game,He grabbed his Luger, butI swung my stock and down it cameUpon his bloomin’ nut.“That there’s the souvenir I copped,Some pretty watch—eh what!From that there time she’s never stopped—She’s Fritzie on the spot!You can’t have scruples when you’ve seenYour poor old pal go West,With blood a-tricklin’ in the mudAnd oozin’ from his chest.“You carry on, you just don’t care,For somethin’ seems to tellHe’s callin’ to you from somewhere—‘Go on—and give ’em Hell!’”Le Mans, France,January, 1919.
Itrained like cats and dogs that night—The kid—he rambled on;We sat, we two, by candle-lightIn a tavern in Ballon.“The first I killed—that hand-made dirk,Well that’s a souvenir!I got it cheap—though that poor Turk,It cost him pretty dear.
“He’d jumped our trench—the fog was thick—Thinks I—‘one of our men’Still I yelled ‘Halt!’—he beat it quick,And then I yelled again.And on he went—I watched him tillHe scrambled to the top—Says I—‘Not if I know it, Bill!’And then I saw him drop.
“Our First Lieutenant heard me blazeAnd soon he came along,I stood there in a kind of dazeAnd then he said ‘What’s wrong?’
I told him and he said ‘Good work,Suppose we have a look’—He yanked a button from the Turk,I showed you what I took.
“That night I tried and tried to pray,But something, it beganTo pound away inside and say‘Hey boy—you’ve killed a man!’I just could see his clotted headIn mud—the blood it ran—Oh God—all night! while something said‘Hey boy—you’ve killed a man!’
“You’ll go to Hell—that’s where you’ll go”—For once the kid was still—“It’s funny how it gets you so,The first man that you kill.And yet—it’s just as funny too,How killin’ seems all rightWhen hate gets jazzin’ ’round in you,Once when you’re in the fight.
“That’s how it was the day our squadGot blowed to Kingdom ComeWhen Fritzie’s steel plowed up the sodDown there along the Somme.
My first machine-gun man stood there,As near as me to you—It tore his head off clean and bareAnd ripped his chest all through.
“You don’t stop much for scruples whenYou’ve seen a sight like that,The rest of us advanced again,Their pills came pit-a-pat.Another fell—I grabbed his gunAnd left him my canteen,And then I started in to runUp toward a Boche machine.
“I ducked around—for two more menThat Jerry there had picked,Got in behind—and leveled whenThe damned thing only clicked!Down went his hand, I saw his game,He grabbed his Luger, butI swung my stock and down it cameUpon his bloomin’ nut.
“That there’s the souvenir I copped,Some pretty watch—eh what!From that there time she’s never stopped—She’s Fritzie on the spot!
You can’t have scruples when you’ve seenYour poor old pal go West,With blood a-tricklin’ in the mudAnd oozin’ from his chest.
“You carry on, you just don’t care,For somethin’ seems to tellHe’s callin’ to you from somewhere—‘Go on—and give ’em Hell!’”
Le Mans, France,January, 1919.