I was sleeping in the barracks,A week or so ago.And in the midst of pleasant dreamsI heard the whistle blow.Lord, how I hate those whistles!Well, it was time to "rouse,"So we marched down 'mongst the thistlesBeside the old ice house.I looked around in misery,At last I took a seat,With nothing to lean up againstAnd no place for my feet.As I sat there in the drizzleOf a good old Plattsburg rain,I wondered if I'd fizzleThe lesson once again.The captain, who, like NeroObserving Rome in flames,Was seated on a packing-boxPerusing all the names."Mr. Whitney, won't you tell usOf patrols both front and rear?Speak up, Mr. Whitney,So the men in back can hear.""And please now, Mr. Warnock,Just tell us if you willWhat you'd do with this problemIf you were Sergeant Hill?""No! I'll ask you if I want you;Never mind the hands.Warnock,youare Sergeant Hill,Just call out your commands.""Whitney! Warnock! Gee, what luck!"I chortled in my glee.My name is Brown, t'was very plainHe'd never get to me.So I listened to the questionsAnd the answers one by one,And wondered if that 3rd degreeWas ever to be done.I thought of cups with handles on,Of napkins and clean hands;I thought of all the pretty girlsThat live inChristianlands.I thought of cakes, and pies, and things,I thought of home in pain,And wondered if I'd ever sleepTill 9 o'clock again.I wished I had some lager beerOr a nice silver fizz;When, "Mr. Brown, you tell usWhat a special order is."I rose, saluted, brushed my pantsThen mutely gazed around.I stood transfixed; the Captain said"Sit down, Mr. Brown!"
Little silencesSit in the cornersMunching their finger tips.I lie stretched flat upon my bunk. . . .I count the cracks in the pine-boards above me.I am alone.These others who fill the air with talkAbout right and wrong . . . life and death . . .With heavy-nailed footstepsAnd sometimes heavier profanity . . .What becomes of them on Sunday?Dinners . . . the beauty of women . . .Pretty talk.Camaraderie beside the lake . . . fellow for fellow,What does it matter?My little silences slide along the floor . . .Clamber up my bunkTo grin at me in my loneliness.Then I think of the millionsWho have none for whom to be lonely,French, English, German, Russ. . . .What does it matter the language?We are all one,Levelled in solitude.And I laugh at the silences,And laugh to see them scurrying back to their corners,Gibbering.
I
Since we came to Plattsburg Training CampUpon the 12th of May,A lot of clever candidatesHave fallen by the way;But the strangest fall among them allWas Montmorency Gray.
II
Monty was a clever lad,As bright as bright could be;He came up days ahead of time—Ahead of you and me—And got in strong right from the start.O a clever lad was he!
III
For Monty was an OfficerOf Uncle Sam's Reserve;His uniform was spic and spanIn every line and curve;And what he lacked in other things,He made up for in nerve.
IV
He learned the I.D.R. by heartBefore the 1st of June;He used to study late at night,And in the morning soon;No wonder that the Captain let himLead the 1st Platoon.
V
He asked the cutest questionsIn the study hall at night;He knew the difference betweenA Cut and Fill at sight.And when it said: "What do you do?"He always did just right.
VI
He memorized the map fromChestnut Hill to Steven's Run;He didn't have to draw a scale,As we have always done;Heknewthat you could see Five-Six—Ty-Six from Six-O-One.
VII
And then this tragic episodeOf which I write occurred.It happened sometime in the nightOf June the 23rdThat Montmorency stole away,And left no sign or word.
VIII
We found at dawn that he had goneAnd left us in the lurch.The Colonel sent detachments outFor miles around to search;A strong patrol to every knoll,To every house, and church.
IX
They found no trace in any place;It caused a lot of talk;They wired down to every townFrom Plattsburg to New York.As it was plain he took no trainHe must have had to walk.
X
'Twas well into the Fall beforeThe mystery was cleared.(They'd never heard a single wordSince Monty disappeared),When the Colonel had a caller,An old farmer, with a beard.
XI
He said his name was Topper,And he lived in Table Rock,And what he told the ColonelGave the Old Man quite a shock;They were closeted togetherUntil after ten o'clock.
XII
From Gettysburg to PlattsburgMr. Topper came to sayHow he'd found a man in uniformDown near his home one day,Who, judging from his clothing, mustHave walked a long, long way.
XIII
He told the sad and tragic taleOf how he came to find,While on his way to Hershey's MillWith a load of corn to grind,The young man wandering on a hill,And wandering in his mind.
XIV
He took him to his farmhouse, whereFor seven weeks he layAnd talked and muttered to himselfIn a most peculiar way.He gave his name before he diedAs Montmorency Gray.
XV
He seemed more sick than lunatic,Mr. Topper had to grant;As meek and mild as a little child,He did not rave or rant,He only cried, until he died:"You ought to,but you can't!"
ALWAYS WITH ANOTHER FELLOWALWAYS WITH ANOTHER FELLOW
They wander everywhere aboutThe dears in pink, the dreams in yellow,With fetching smile, with pretty pout,And always with another fellow.They spend their mornings baking cakes,Their afternoons in making cookies;And, oh! the soul within me aches—Their sweets are all for other rookies.Often, when 'neath their eyes we pass,I hear some maiden sigh divinely,And murmur to another lass,"Dear, isn'tJackiemarching finely?"Ah, girls, a sorry lot is his—Dull are his days, his nights are dreary—Who knows no maiden where he is,Who has no dame to call him "Dearie."
(After C. Lamb)
All, all are gone, the old familiar glassesThat used to range along the fragrant bar;Gone, all are gone, and in their placesMilk, Pop and Dietade its beauty mar.The Big Four now has turned to Prohibition,Anhäuser Busch no longer sells at par,Bar-maids have joined the Army of Salvation,The voice of Bryan governs from afar;All, all are gone, the old familiar glasses,Where once they glistened on the fragrant bar.
Did you ever run into the butt of your gun,Or dig the front sight with your nose?Did your stomach turn over and stand up on end,When you dropped the damn thing on your toes?When coming to Port did the rifle fall short,And the swivel ram into your fist?When the rest did present did you so intentFind a count that the others had missed?And when at "Inspection" you clutched to perfection,Then shot up the piece with a thrust,Was there some dirty pup who pushed your cut-off upSo your bolt dug a cave in the dust?Then when on the range your windage you'd changeFor the flag that the Anarchists wave,And the old cocking piece smeared your nose with red "grease,"Did you learn what it meant to be brave?How your old back did ache when you got the bad breaksWith the rifle that now has such charms,And I'll make a good bet that you'll never forgetThat exhausting old Manual of Arms.
I
To put the pay in patriotIs the order of the day.And some delight to sing of fightFor royalties that pay.The louder that the eagle screamsThe more the dollars shout,And, if you please, atrocitiesLike this are handed out:—(Chorus)I love you, dear America,I love the starry flag,We're proud to fight for you-oo-oo;We never boast or brag.We always will remember you,We always will be true;Maryland, my Maryland! hurrah, boys, hurrah!As we go marching on to victory.
II
That some are actuatedBy intentions of the best,Is surely clear, and so we fearTo class them with the rest.And yet conceive some long-haired chap,Or sentimental miss,Who takes the time to fit a rhymeTo music, say, like this:—(Chorus)I love you, yes, I love you,And when I'm across the sea,I'll take your picture to the front,'Twill always be with me.I shall not mind the bulletsWhen I am far away,You'll be a soldier's sweetheart,My girl in U. S. A.
II
To make the war more horribleSome chap will surely tryTo set to rag the starry flag,And dance the battle cry.We only hope we may be spared;It did not fail to come,A dashing trot of shell and shot,Of bugle call and drum.(Chorus)That khaki glide! O! that army slide,It seems to say:"March away, march away!"I feel so queer each time I hearThe music of that military band.It's just too grand!Fills me full of joy and pride,See them marching side by side,That's just the good old khaki glide!
Fainting rookie getting a shot
I
When you've had a shave and a shower,And have picked up all the news;When you've donned your Sunday StetsonAnd your shiny pair of shoes;When your work for the week is over,You think that you are through.You're wrong, my son, you're wrong, my sonThere's something more for you.It's the needle, the needle,The prophylactic needle.There's a hungry surgeon waitingAnd he's waiting just for you.
II
Tho' you lasted through the horrorsOf a test in skirmish drill,And proved yourself a captainWhen you bellowed "Fire at will!"You are very much mistakenIf you think you've finished then;There is something after luncheonFor all the Plattsburg men.It's the needle, the needle, etc.
III
Tho' you stood a strict inspectionAnd your dirty gun got by;Tho' you'd grease spots on your breeches,And the Captain winked his eye;Tho' you ate your fill at dinner,And enjoyed a Lucky Strike;There is something at one-thirtyThat I know you will not like.It's the needle, the needle, etc.
IV
Tho' you proved yourself a heroAfter three hours in the line,And when the doctor jabbed youJust said, "Let's have a shine!"And smoked a large-sized stogieAnd thought that it was fun,My noble-hearted candidate,You'd only half begun.It's the needle, the needle, etc.
V
When you woke up at twelve-thirtyIn a state of some alarm,To feel a tortured muscleIn the region of your arm;When you heard the groaning barracks,You wiped your brow and said:"Two million more next week-end,And I guess that I'll be dead."The needle, the needle,The prophylactic needle.You softly damn the surgeon,And his needle tinged with red.
When first I landed in this campI used to write most every dayTo all my friends I left behind,And ask them what they had to sayAbout the old town and the girls,Or what they thought about the war;And in return the daily mailIt brought me letters by the score.But now my friends write me and askWhat keeps me from replying,And when I answer, "It's the work,"Why, they just think I'm lying.So now the letters I receiveAre few and very far between;They're mostly from my familyAnd never any from a queen.
Charging a dummy
No man would doubt a woman's nerve,We know you're brave enough;You put a man to shame at times,You're tender—and you're tough.And yet I feel, with all your gritAnd talk of cave-men stuff,That you're sorter out of placeWhen I'm twistin' up my face,A-thrustin' and a-jabbin' with my gun-knife.There's some things in this queer old worldThat's awkward things to see,They can't be tied with ribbonAnd they can't be served with tea.They're not the least bit sociableAnd women—as for me,I wish you'd stay away,While I'm training for the dayThat I'm goin' to get in action with a gun-knife.This ain't no country club affairOf smiles and clever skill;There ain't no silver cups aroundWhen doughboys train to kill.It's you or me—and do it quick,A simple murder drill.So I want no women 'round,When I'm tearin' up the ground,A shadow-pointin' Boches with my gun-knife.
Bayonetting a dummy
If, in spite of hopes and promises, your pay day doesn't come,If the sergeant antedates the call, or Friday's fish is bum,Or the waiter empties soup on you—don't let 'em see you glum.You're out o' luck, that's all. You're out o' luck.If you must deploy your skirmish line with nothing in your dome,Or send supporting picket-lines to countermarch the Somme,The chances are you've guessed it wrong and "may as well go home."You're out o' luck, that's all. You're out o' luck.If you drop between the battle-lines and no one finds the place,Or jump into a pit and drive a bay'nit through your face,Or try to stop a ten-inch shell and leave an empty space.You're out o' luck, that's all. You're out o' luck.
S.O.S.
You may talk about your marchingAnd your stiff, close-order drill;You may cuss out recitations,And of skirmish have your fill;The difficult manoeuversWhich you do most every dayMay get your goat like everything,And spoil your Plattsburg stay.But for me it's far, far harderMakes me feel more like a prune,To march at strict attentionPast the Hostess House at noon.
The sea is green as green-pea soupAnd half-way down the green-o,A U-boat's lying snug and tightAll bellied out with dynamite,And twenty guns between-o!And twenty guns between-o!So scrape yer hatchways clear of brine,And bawl yer jolly song-o.For if she "blows," my lads, why, thenWe'll blow her back to Hell again,With compliments along-o!With compliments along-o!
He sauntered inWith a knowing grin,The news he'd been to hear;We knew right wellHe'd come to tellThe latest from the rear."A hundred went," he said, "to-day,"Five hundred more must go they say;"Looks bad, Bill, guess you're on your way;"Darn few of us can hope to stay."I got this straight from a friend of mine,"A friend of his in Company 9,"Heard from a friend in Company 10,"That Company 5 lost fifty men."With this you'd thinkOur hopes would sink,It ought to change our humor.We knew the source,So smiled of course,It was an L. T. rumor.
I hate to talk of a RegularWithout the proper respect;But given a chance to criticize,There's a bunch that I'd select.And they are those musical miscreants,Those malefactors of noise,Those rookie Second Cavalrymen,The amateur bugle boys.They blow retreat,And from head to feetCoagulate your spine;Or at company drillThey send a chillA-shivering down the line.Just try to saluteTo their twittering toot,Their yodeling, rasping groan,Their blithering bleat,And you'll swear that they beatThe Hindu quarter-tone,By Gad!The Hindu quarter-tone.
Spring to arms, ye sons of freedom,Lift your country's ensign high;Join her undefeated Army,Succor France, her old ally.Stand for freedom, truth and justice,Crush the Prussian tyrant's power;Emulate your worthy forebearsIn their Homeland's crucial hour.Britain, mother of your nation;France, her hope in ages past;Belgium, home of peaceful people,Seared by foul oppression's blast;Russia, newly born to freedom;Seeking honor, God and right,Call on you to aid in crushing,Prussianism's cursed blight.Are ye men? Then meet the challengeAs your fathers did of old;Help the cause of all the races,With your muscle, brain, and gold.
On the firing Line "A Miss At 5 O'clock"
Consider then the Army beanSo various and quaint.Sometimes we find they're just plain beans,And then again they ain't.They're funny shades of yellow,Brown, green, and red, and white;While striped and spotted, polka dottedBeans our taste delight.But nix on beans Manchurian,And beans of age Silurian,Which same could stand a buryin',When they come on—Good Night!
On the parade,Soft and low,Rookie hiccoughed,"Forward, Ho!"Another youngsterFeeling smart,Tried to shout,"Forward, Hart!"One requested,"Forward, How!"From somewhere else,There came a "Yow!"* * * * * *Perhaps a mile or so awayWe heard not "Harp!" nor "Harch!"But stalwart Major Koehler's voiceThunder, "Forward, March!"
Sad is my song, mates, for I've got the axe,I've got to go, I've got to go;Farewell to Plattsburg and life in the shacks,Home I must go, I must go.Told not to let such a small matter grieve me,Sent to the parents who hate to receive me,Hearing my story, they'll never believe me,I've got to go, got to go.No more to sleep in a two-story bunk,Back I must go, I must go;No more to sag 'neath a pack full of junk,Home I must go, I must go.Leaving the books I could never have learned,Buying a straw hat—the old one was burned—Even the wrist watch must now be interned,Back I must go, I must go.Here is the moral of this plaintive cough,Sung as I go, moaned as I go;Here is the reason for my sounding off,Now as I go, as I go:Comrades in arms, oh! be prompt at formations,Neat in your dress, and observe regulations,Else, you, like me, will rejoin your relations,Home you must go, you must go.
MESS? YES!!MESS? YES!!
The captain stops and yells to me,"Wake up there, rear rank number three!"And then, perchance, he makes some mentionOf how I do not pay attention.But is itmyfault? No, it's you,With your persistent eyes of blue,That halt the flow of reason's streamAnd make me dream and dream and dream,Until the captain comes and—well,To put it plain—he gives meHell.
My blood the surgeons fortifyWith antiseptic serum;The dread bacilli I defy,What cause have I to fear 'em?We form outside the pest-house doorAt one o'clock precisely,But if we get our dose at fourWe think we're doing nicely.And in our arm the surgeon stabsA hypodermic squirter,E'en as the hungry hobo jabsHis fork in a frankfurter.I'm full of dope for smallpox germs,For typhus and such evils,For broken heart and army worms,For chestnut blight and weevils.I'm doped against the bayonetWielded by German demons;But no one seems to think I'll getDear old delirium tremens.
When you feel on the bum and the outlook is glum,And you're wonderin' what's comin' next;When most every thing's drear and life loses its cheer,And the Skip and Reverses are vexed;If this Plattsburgish heat knocks you clean off your feet,Or your bunkies they ain't even speakin';Keep your shirt on your back, don't knock over the stack,It's a great life, if you don't weaken.When they launder your sock till it ain't fit to hock,When they shrink up your shirt like a rag;If you blister your toes and then sunburn your noseAnd then can't even go on a jag;Why, you're sure out of luck, but just pass the old buck,Keep a stiff upper lip like a deacon;Though you shoot ten straight blanks do not kick with the cranks,Summon a grin and don't weaken.If you're late for retreat and must police the street,If at reveille you're still in your bed;If your girl sends you flags which some other cuss bags,Or they clip all the hair off your head;If the mess comes out burned,So your stomach gets turned,Or the "upper man" keeps you from sleepin';Don't you growl, that won't help,For they'll dub you a whelp;Can the grouch—but don't weaken.
Three dead men rose on nimble toesAbove the frozen clay;And as they sped, each of the DeadTold how he died that day.Said one, "I sent the RegimentTo safety as I fell."The Second cried, "Before I diedI hurled the foe to Hell."As for the Third, he spoke no wordBut hastened on his way,Until at last a whisper passed:"How didyoudie today?""There was a maid slept unafraidWithin a hut," he said."I searched the place and for a spaceI thought that all had fled."But her breast glowed white in the morning lightAs the early dawn grew red;Tiptoe I came in lust and shameAnd stood beside her bed."And there I fought an evil thoughtAnd won—and turned to go;Then as I went into my tentA bullet struck me low."The others heard and spoke no word(For dead men understand),But 'round they turned and their deep eyes burnedAs they gripped his leaden hand.
We see you in the morningWhen Reveille implores;We meet you in the eveningAt end of daily chores.On march, fatigue, or drillingOur friend we find you still,With kindly, pleasant bearingAnd independent will.You're small, you're thin, you're homely,You're battered, scratched, and lame;But in our tasks before usPray God we be as game!
Man with chart in wind
See that man in khaki clothes,Squirming in the dust;Toying with a sketching board,Uniform all mussed.Squinting 'long a little stick,Grunting fit to bust—Turning out a road sketchFor his Captain.First he drills a "starting point."Then he takes a "shot;"Someone's scare-crow gets a line,Closes Jones's lot.Paces stiffly down the road,Worried—tense—and hot—Turning out a road sketchFor his Captain.Now an "intersection point;"Watch the compass turn.Think to see him finger itBloomin' thing would burn.Missed an inch by motor truck;Eyes it proud and stern—Turning out a road sketchFor his Captain.Plants an orchard in the road;Leaves a forest bare.Runs a railroad through a house;Fakes a village square.Twenty contours in a swamp,Thirteen in the air—Calls the thing a road sketchFor his Captain.
I love you when the bugleCalls, "Awake, the day's begun!"I love you as we work andSweat and drill beneath the sun.I love you at retreat, andWhen the sun sinks out of view;Sweetheart of mine! quite all the time,I—love—you.
When everything goes wrongAnd it's hard to force a song,The proper stunt we claim,Is to grin, and play the game.If things break worse than fair,Say the Frenchmen, "C'est la Guerre."Which to them is just the same,As to grin, and play the game.If you find the mess is punk—Kidney beans and other junk—Try to eat it just the same;Stretch a grin, and play the game.When for nothing you've been bawled,Though you've done your best get called,And you know you're not to blame;Force a grin, and play the game.When we're hit by some big shell,And almost catch a glimpse of hell;When we think how close we came,We'll just grin, and play the game.While our work is being doneWe will show the mighty Hun,In the land from whence we came,How we grin, and play the game.When the last long line is passed,And the victory's ours at last,Greater far will be the fame,If we've grinned, and played the game.
I hear the mighty song of singing menCrashing among the pine-trees through the night,And thund'ring, trumpet-wise, down every glen,A song to France, whose soul is bleeding white.But hark!—out rings a deeper, stronger cry.A Nation, which has newly learned to give,Is singing as its sons go forth to die,Because, God knows, they're going forth—to live!* * * * * *O little Maid of France, who rests in Heaven,Crowned with the Lilies Three (and Lilies Seven),Send us the clear-eyed Faith that came to thee,Praying beneath the pines, in Domremy.
Awake! 'tis morning, though it should not be—Come, can the yawns, it's speed they want to see—And stagger forth upon a hostile world,In flannel shirt and cotton pants O. D.Before the phantoms of the night were done,Methought I idled somewhere in the sun,Debating whether beauty to pursue,Or touch a bell, and cultivate a bun.And lovely maids in garments pale did seemTo shimmer round me in continuous stream,Each with a glass of something in her hand,And then I turned—and lo! it was a dream!And ere the cock crew he that stood beforeThe barracks, shouted "Half a minute more!Belts, bayonets, and pieces—on the jump—And signal-flags and alidades," O Lor'!I sometimes think that never battles dinWere so unwelcome as the words "Fall in!"Nor any victory could taste so sweetAs French vermouth with ice and Gordon gin.Yesterday's problem 'twixt the Red and BlueInvolved our journey down the Road Peru;The day before we took the Peru Road—I'll bet a hat we're there to-morrow, too.Myself when fresh and full of zeal and spunk,Hung on the words whence wisdom should be drunk;But this was all the harvest that I reaped—To say "as fast as possible" is punk.Platoon commanders, captains by the score,Each takes his turn—and then is seen no more;But no one ever thinks of him againOne half so kindly as they thought before.To-day's commander, with commands profuse,To-morrow to the rear rank will reduce.Think, and you know not what he meant to say—He knows not neither, so—ah, what's the use?Waste not your hour to criticize or blame,You would have done it worse, or just the same.Better to pack your troubles with your kit,To keep your shirt on, and to play the game.Some for the shriek of shot and shell, and someSigh for the bottle of New England rum.Oh, face the facts, and let the fiction go—I'll bet "la vie des tranchèes" will be bum.One moment's rest, then back into the millWith butt and point to lacerate and kill.I often wonder what the Germans teachOne half so cultured as our "Bay'net Drill."For war is hell, and Plattsburg not a jest,And yet, by gravy, we will do our best,Till submarine and Kaiser are forgot,Or Angel Gabriel hollers out, "At rest!"