Keats sings in peerless stanzasTo the lovely Nightingale—And Shelley tells of the SkylarkAbove the summer gale—But I to the Birds of BattleNeeds lift my numbers frail.
For far by the out-flung wires,Where the shell-torn tree stumps stand,And over the barren, hole-strewn tracksOf the wastes of No Man’s Land,In the morning light and the black of night,The Birds of Battle stand.
No shrieking shots may quell them—Nor gloom nor storm nor rain,As out of the crash or stillnessA wondrous, shrill refrainCuts clear and glad and lithesomeAbove the death-strewn plain.
The weary heavens welcome,And echo back the song,And weary soldiers linger,And pause to listen longTo the one glad cry in a war-torn sky,That holds so much of wrong.
The torturous hike up the hill road,Plowing through snow and mud;The poor weary arches breaking—The socks that are wet with our blood:The terrible, binding, burning strapThat’s cutting our shoulder through—And our parched lips stammer, “My Country,For you and only for you.”
The slight and the slur and the naggingWe must take from a rowdy or cad;And we simply salute and say “Yes sir,”And pretend that we never feel mad:Though our heart is a forest of hatred—And justice seems hidden from view—And we mutter, “For you, oh my Country—For you, yea, and only for you.”
When all evening long the guns’ reddened glaresTurn night into hellish day,Till in Berserker rage their silver bursts cutThe drab of the dawn’s growing gray:When over the top we are starting again—Full knowing the thing that we do—We murmur, “For you, oh my Country—For you, aye and only for you.”
Some people call ’em Totos—Some people call ’em Lice;Some people call ’em several thingsThat really aren’t nice;But the Soldier calls ’em “Cooties,”So “Cooties” must suffice.
We’ve met the dear Mosquito—We’ve met the festive Fly—It seems to me we’ve seen the FleaThat jumpeth far and high;Yea, we have known various bugs—Though not the reason why.
But when you’re in the trenchesAnd cannot take a bath,As one canteen of waterIs all one day one hath,You raise the comely Cooties—Who raise, in turn, your wrath.
You can’t escape the CootiesBy day nor yet by night.No G. I. Can alarms them,Nor other sound of fight.Not even Gas affects them—Which doesn’t seem just right.
You may not eat, you may not sleep,You may not bat an eye:You may not duck a six-inch shellThat’s singing gaily by,But that a Cootie, like the Poor,Is with you—very nigh.
They bite you singly and in squads,They have a whole parade;They form a skirmish line and sweepAcross each hill and glade;But seek their dugouts when you thinkYour grip is firmly laid.
It does no good to curse ’em—They cannot hear or talk.It does no good to chase ’em—To still-hunt or to stalk.The only thing is hand-grenades,At which, ’tis said, they balk.
Oh Cooties, little Cooties,You have no sense of shame;You are not fair, you are not square,You do not play the game—But east and west and south and northIs spread afar your fame.
(Rifle number 366915., Springfield model 1903.)
I really hate to leave you,Old Fusee—Where the land is scarred and peeled,And the broken battlefieldBears its red and deadly yield—Wearily.
I really hate to leave you,Old Fusee—To the wind and dew and rainOf a shorn and shotted plain,Till stranger hands againDiscover thee.
I really hate to leave you,Old Fusee—To the clinging, clogging dust—To the all-destroying crustOf a clawing, gnawing rust—Unmercifully.
I really hate to leave you,Old Fusee—But they’ve plugged me good and hard,So I quit you, trusty pard,As I creep back rather marred,To old Blightee.
I really hate to leave you,Old Fusee—With your bore a brilliant sheen,And your metals black and clean,Where your brown striped stock and leanGleams tigerishly.
I really hate to leave you,Old Fusee—For the wanton weather’s hate,And careless hands to desecrateBarrel, bolt and butt and plate,Unthinkingly.
I really hate to leave you,Old Fusee—And I bear a double painAs I pause to turn againWhere I left you on the plain,Unwillingly.
The shades of red an’ white an’ blueMean rather more to me an’ you,Than just parades an’ bands an’ suchAnd hollerin’ loud an’ talking much.
The wounds are dark and red—All jagged-red in Blighty:And untamed hearts are redWhere, stretching bed on bed,Lies lax each weary head,In Blighty.
The walls are blank and white—All fresh and white in Blighty:And cheeks are gaunt and white,Where through the endless nightThey fight the second fight,In Blighty.
Outside the skies are blue—Soft, cloud-flecked blue o’er BlightyBut clear, relentless blueOf purpose steeled anewLies there revealed to youIn every eye in Blighty.
The shades of red an’ white an’ blueMean rather more to me an’ you,Than just parades an’ bands an’ suchAnd hollerin’ loud an’ talking much.
(Convalescent stage.)
The stories sure are rich and rare,They’d strike you blind, they’d turn your hair,They’re dark as coal down in the bin—Till Nurse comes in.
The language is an awful hue,Astreak with crimson shades and blue;’Twould scorch a mammoth’s leather skin—Till Nurse comes in.
Words run the gamut of the trench—They beat old Mustard Gas for stench,They rise with oscillating din—Till Nurse comes in.
The cussin’s quaint and loud and strong,Imported stuff, that don’t belongIn dictionaries fat or thin—Till Nurse comes in.
And then you’d be surprised to hearThe change of pace, the shift o’ gear,The dainty tales that just begin—When Nurse comes in.
The mess-hall windows blanketedTo bar the western light—The tables cleaned and cleared away,And bench by bench in close arrayFive hundred convalescents swayTo catch the caption bright.
And there are men with helpless legs,And torn chest and back;And men with arms in sling and splint,And one poor eye that bears no glint,And muscles limp or turned to flint—And souls upon the rack.
They came from Chateau Thierry—From Fere-en-Tardenois—From Soissons, Oulchy-le-Chateau,From Rheims and Fismes, where blow by blow,’Cross Marne and Oureq and Vesle aflowThey hammered them afar.
And now upon the screen is thrownAn old familiar form:’Tis Charlie of the strong appeal,At skating-rink or riot meal,And every mirth-producing reelAwakes the farthest dorm.
The aching head, the splintered arm,The weary, dragging feet;The wound that took a month to drain—The everlasting, gnawing pain—Are all forgot and gone againWhen Charlie strikes the street.
Your esoteric shrug and sneerAnd call him crude and quaint;But we who’ve seen him “over here”—Who’ve heard the laugh that brings the tear—Who’ve heard the bellowing roar and cheer—Wecall him Charles the Saint.
Here in the Jardin des Plantes of NantesI sit in the nickering shade,Watching the scampering children play—And the way of a man and a maid—And the noble women of France in the blackOf a Nation unafraid.
The lace of the shadows across the pathsWhere the warm sun niters through,And the open vista between the trees,With the swan pond half in view,And the flowers and sloping lawns and the pines’Neath an arch of Brittany’s blue.
The air is soft as a day in June,The blossoms manifoldThrow streaks and patches of rainbow hueAcross the green and gold,And earth and sky in witcheryEntwine you in their hold.
And it comes to me, Can it really beBut two full moons have fled,Since I limped from a scarred and riven fieldWhere lay the newly dead,Bathed in the light of a splendid fight,And blotched with their blood’s own red.
A world of crimson slaughterWhere the grim locked legions sway—And the mad machine guns whistleTheir endless roundelay—And the sinister sound of the thundering poundOf the great guns night and day.
Night and day, night and day,With scarce a pause between,As out of the empty dark a voiceFrom the farthest hills unseen,Comes whirling, swirling, shrieking downWhere the helpless front lines lean.
. . . . . . . . . .
The air is soft as a morn in June—The filmy shadows sway;And only the joyous musicOf the prattle of children at play,And the gentle rustle of whispering leavesThat tell of the closing day.
If you’re a homebound soldierWho’s done his little best,And you are going ’board the boatAt St. Nazaire or Brest,Bordeaux or any other port,Steam-up and headed west:
If you are full o’ the joy o’ lifeAnd “pep” and all that stuff;And the ozone permeates your soulAnd makes you gay and bluff,Don’t turn and yell, “Who won the War?—The M Ps,”—Can that guff.
For the M Ps are a sacred casteThat boss the city streetA hundred miles behind the LinesWhere dangers never greet,Nor roaming shells come swirling by,Nor surging first waves meet.
So if the long, tense sessionOf soul-engulfing war,And “Prussian” discipline and rule,And heart-enslaving lawSay, “Open wide the throttleOf lung and throat and jaw”—
Repress that natural impulse,For you’re not human—yet:Sedately up the gangplank walk,Eyes front and lips tight set,Or you’ll come back and spend six weeksIn a mud-dump, nice and wet.
The wind is blowing ’cross the bow,The first smoke lags alee—The sun that’s broken through the cloudsIs dancing on the sea,So, homebound soldier, watch your step,And take advice from me.
Sing of the Venus de Milo,The lady without any arms;Sing of the Venus of this and of that,And tell of their marvelous charms:Rave of your wonderful statues,In divers lands here o’er the sea,In bushels and reams, but the Girl of our DreamsIs our godmother, Miss Liberty.
Its contour may not be perfection—Its technique we really don’t know—If you ever asked, “Who was the artist?”It would come as aterribleblow.But to us it is home, friends and Country,To us it means all that is best,’Tis the first that lifts out of the watersOf “Our little Gray Home in the West.”
’Tis the first on that endless horizonWhere the clouds meet the wind driven spume,And the scavenger gulls wing to greet usFrom out of the gathering gloom—’Tis the first that calls beckoning to usThrough the mist of the swaggering sea—“Oh lay down your guns my knight-errant sons,And come back to the bosom of me.”
The sea that kisses France’s shore,It beats on yours and mine.Her love and faith and chivalry,That sparkle as her wine,With all our faith and all our loveCommingling combine.
The colors of the flag of FranceAre ours by hue and hue:The blazing red of courage—The white of purpose true,And constancy and loyaltyAwoven in the blue.
The spirit and the soul of France,That shatter fetters free,They came to us in darkest daysTo weld our destiny;And so with sword in hand we comeTo pay our debt to Thee.
To pay our debt a hundredfold—Friend of our new-born years.To march with you and fight with you,Till rise the final cheers—And hand in hand, o’er a grave-strewn land,We blend our mingled tears.
Where blends our blood as once it didIn days of a long goneWhen the Bourbon lilies leapt and gleamedAmong the Stars on high—And the white and crimson bands of dawnRose in the eastern sky.
And the the white and crimson bands of dawn,And the Stars that glow and glance,Shall girdle them their armor on,With buckler, sword, and lance,And leap to the charge and sweep the fieldWith the Trois Couleurs of France,
. . . . . . . . . .
If right is might and Honor lives—Oh Sister? ’cross the seas—And Liberty and Justice stillHold high commune with these;A four-fold vengeans waits the Hun,And his iniquities.
Cowards and curs and traitors,Fatuous dreaming fools—Binding us, stripped, for the madmanNurtured of dastard schools,Where right of might and who springs firstAre the only known rules.
Well fed, well housed and sleek and smug,Full pursed and full of pride—Your fields are green, your lanes are fairWhere peaceful homes abide,And your children play by sunny streamsThat laughing seaward glide.
What Primal Power tells you eatTo the ends of your belly-greed—What holds your fields with harvests full,And answers every need—And bids your bairns play laughinglyWith never care or heed?
The answer, Fool, is written largeIn words of blazing light—They are rewards of dwelling inA Land of kingly might,That grants you surety and wealthAnd guards you, day and night.
And whence, Fool, came its splendid strength—And why, and how and when?In a World of strife and reddened knifeDid it rise by tongue and pen?No, Dolt, but by the strong right arms,The arms of its fighting men.
And Ye, Ye would sit with folded hands,Agaze into Heaven’s blue,With sanctimonious murmuringsOf what the Lord will do;While your neighbor and your neighbor’s sonGo forth and fight for you.
For you, you cur, and your belly-need—For your hearth and kith and kin:For your harvest and your banking-houseWhere you shovel the shekels in,Till the labor has hardened your hands and heart,And your soul is parchment skin.
Religion cannot coverA dog whose liver is white.Your Christ, with righteous anger,Smote hard to left and rightThe usurers. And never saidHe was too proud to fight.
When we are another BelgiumAnd the land with blood is dyed,And your homes are burned and your women raped,And ye know that ye have lied—Mayhap ye will say with your final gaspThat ye are satisfied.
On the entry, in 1917, of the United States into the World War.
Not with vain boasts and mouthings—Not with jesting light—But for Duty and Love of CountryCome we in armor dight.
Not for our own advantage—Not for Adventure’s lust—Not for the hope of honor—But a Cause that is high and just.
Not for the praise of our fellow-man,Or greed or gain or creed,But for the sight of the suffering eyesThat call us in their need.
(The withering, mad machine-gunsShall drop us one by one,Where the red, red streams of No Man’s LandGleam ’neath a blood-red sun.)
(The shriek of the spraying shrapnel—The roar and the blinding glare,And the gaping crater’s dripping fangsShall ope and find us there.)
Not in the strong man’s tyrannyOr the pride of worldly things,But guarding clean traditions,Unstained by the hands of kings.
Not with sudden yearning,But knowing the risks we dare,We board the waiting galleonsFor a Nation brave and fair.
(For a Nation bearing the battle’s brunt—The strength of the Vandals’ blast—With an even keel and a steady wheel,And her Colors nailed to the mast.)
Not with hectic fire,But weighing the thing we do,We cross to the coasts of the fighting hosts—To the France our Fathers knew.
Brothers in blood of old—and now—Together to hunt and slay,Till we drive the Beast to his bone-strewn lair—An eye for an eye—a hair for a hair—And we leave him broken and bleeding thereForever and a day.
. . . . . . . . . .
Not with vain boasts and mouthings—But in silent, grim parade—We come, Lord God of Battles,To the last and great Crusade.
I have a sapphire rich and fairAnd soft as a velvet sky,When only the stars are shining lowAnd the heavens hold a mystic glowAnd a hushed world stands agaze to knowThe wonderful Whence and Why.
I have a sapphire that I turnIn the dark of somber days:And the darting tongues of nickering blueFlash deep and rare in wondrous hue,Sharp as the lightning, pure as the dew,And true as m’lady’s gaze.
I have a sapphire that I holdBeneath the chandelier:And the phosphor of its azure gleamSweeps clear as the depths of the mountain streamWhere the Sun-god hurls his molten beamIn the morn of the golden year.
I have a sapphire I adore—Of varying whims and moods—Blue-black it lies with never a markAcross the dim unfathomed dark,Till there lifts the glow of a tiny spark—And again it sullen broods.
I have a sapphire that I bend’Neath the light of burning rays:And the flames spread forth a fairy fire,Seething and writhing and leaping higherTill they come to the land of my heart’s desire,In a glittering, blinding blaze.
I have a sapphire that I hold.When the goal seems far away:When the lee shore churns in saffron spume.And the fluctuant ocean’s plume on plumeBears down to a rock-ribbed hidden doom,And the sky is ashen gray.
I have a sapphire that I turn;And the clouds break, and the wineOf a glorious sun spreads east and westTo where the Islands of the BlestRaise verdant shores at my behest,And a golden world is mine.
Oh Sapphire from a distant valeWhere the white Himalayas tower:Where the Kashmir lakes are royal blue,And passions strong and hearts are true,All these are met and blent in you,A princely heir and dower.
Out of the wonderful nowhere,Into the lowly here;Laughing and loving and lithesome,And radiating cheer.
Twin rose-buds o’ Killarney hue—Fragrant and fresh and fair—And eyes of blue, wide-gazed and true,And tawny yellow hair.
And smiles as sweet as any meetIn pleasant paths above:And golden laughter that echoes after,To finger the chords of love.
Two wee buds o’ Killarney hueThat beckon and beguile—And ’neath your spell we’re learning wellThere is something still worth while.
Though drab days break and drab thoughts wakeO’er fields of sleet and snow,There’s sunshine rare justeverywhere—For you have taught us so.
“It’s a long lane that knows no turnings”—And the seas are wide indeed,But there are no barriers dividingThe Anglo-Saxon creed.Fair fighting when the skies are lowering—Fair peace when skies are clear—And the faith of fair intentions, unfaltering,And the heart that holds no fear.
“It’s a long lane that knows no turnings”—And Browning never said a thing more true,So I know you’ll know the spirit that impels meTo send this little messenger to you.
Matchless bard of all the ages—Lyric sounder of the lyre—Wake among your golden echoes—Rise amid your latent fire—Tell us, Master of the Muses—Sweetest singer ever sung—By what law of Earth or HeavenYe were called away so young?
By what law of God or Mammon—By what creed of land or sea—Was a weary World forsakenOf the mind that harbored thee?Ere that wondrous mind’s fruitionScarce had grown to the tree.
If the half-fledged sapling gave usMelodies past human praise—If such virgin buddings crowdedThose few sad and glorious days;If such flowers, barely opened,Swept us in a wild amaze—
What, Oh Lord and Prince of Poesy,Would your soul have given to men—What the marvelous meed and measureOf your pulsing, choral pen—Had your numbered days been lengthenedTo a three score years and ten?
As through mystic lands ye led usO’er the paths your feet had gone:Pipes of Pan—and fain we followed—Glad and willing slave and pawn,Till we reached the fields Elysian—Till we faced the gorgeous dawn:
Till the lanes seemed filled with roses—Roses lipped with opal dew:Till the vales seemed filled with incense—Incense slowly drifting through:Till the seas seemed filled with grottoes—Grottoes amber, gold and blue:
Till the songs of birds rang clearerAnd the sunshine shone more rare,And the moon above the meadowsGathered love, and left it there;And the swaying stars rose whiter—And the World was very fair:
As your thoughts’ eternal fountains,Shot with iridescent gleams,Floating down through glades enchanted,On the breast of faery streams,To a pearl-strewn bay of beryl—Reached the haven of our dreams.
Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one,Said Heaven was a hundred, million, billion miles away.So I couldn’t contradict them—it wouldn’t do at all—But they had never heard your laughter innocent and gay.
Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one,They said the Milky Way was fair beyond all human ken:But they had never seen your face, upturned, aquestioning—A dainty bit of rapture in a leaden world o’ men.
Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one,They told of gorgeous comets and their manes so bright and rare:But comet glow could never show the living threads of lightThat dance and gleam in th’ rippling stream and fragrance ofyour hair.
Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one,They said the azure ether stretched in miles of lapis hue;But they had never known eyes that gaze into your soulIn longing little wonder wells of limpid gray and blue.
Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one,They said no melody could match the singing of the spheres:But they had never heard your voice ring joyously at play—The music of a weary world of roil and toil and tears.
Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one.They’ve told the tale of the double stars, and their faith theeons through—But constant though they be, their hearts could never know the love,The yearning burning tender love, dear child, we bear for you.
They would give hands to Thee, head to Thee, feet to Thee—They who are blind:They would give form to Thee, fashion Thee manikin,After their kind.
They would give hate to Thee, spite to Thee, jealousy—Thou the adored:Only have fear in Thee, only repel Thee,Master and Lord.
They would bring shame to Thee, even in worship—Each empty rite:Bigotry, canting and sere superstition,Knowing no light.
Faiths esoteric, pedantic and recondite—Mystical creeds:False and insipid and brutal and selfish—And wrought to their needs.
They whom Ye nurtured from primal conceiving,And ne’er a flaw—They know Thee not, or in knowing, reject Thee,Thee and Thy law.
Saying, "We see Thee not, come to us, speak to us—Tangible stand.Come in the purple, crowned, robed and resplendent—Sceptre in hand.
"Even as kings have done, through all the ages,Brave to behold—Fanfare of trumpets, be jeweled and refulgentAnd girdled with gold:
"Or in a chariot welded of star-dust—Glittering white—Pause at the cloud-line ’mid crashing of thunderAnd blazing of light.
"Rolling Thy voice till the Pleiades tremble—The spheres are amoan;The Earth for a footstool—the outermost planetsGrouped for a throne.
“Thus would we see Thee, acclaim Thee; and worship Thee,Thou in Thy might—Concrete, conglomerate, human and splendid—Aflame in our sight.”
They who have drunk of the River of KnowledgeOnly a quaff,Pity them, Father that know not Thy meaning,Children who laugh.
Atoms that reck not the wherefore of atoms—Dust of the dust:Groping in darkness, recusant and doubting—And bearing no trust.
They would make mock of Thee, saying the life-spark,Came not of Thee:Function by function in wonderful unison—Each mystery.
Sunshine and rain-fall and food to their needing,Air, sea and land:Seed-time and fruit-time and harvest and gleaning—Made to their hand.
They would gainsay Thee by calling it Nature,Calling it Chance:And by their impotent wonder, Thy glory,Only enhance.
But when in mercy the last word is spoken—When the gates yawn;Father of Nations—take Thou Thy childrenInto the dawn.
Crowning Thy marvelous works with a crowning—Ultimate—vast—Showing compassion and loving they knew not,E’en to the last.
Have ye a day that bears the glareOf the flaming morning sun?Have ye a day the mind may search,Weighing what ye have done?
Have ye a day ye are satisfiedWill stand the acid test—From the first gray strand of the eastern skiesTo the last red glow in the west?
Have ye a day ye grappled withAnd hurled in mortal throes,When, ’bove the white horizon,The Great Occasion rose?
Mayhap the World bore witnessTo the things of your Golden Day:Mayhap it is locked from the gaze of men,And ye’ve thrown the key away.
Trenches
Lorraine is now French, but, of course, it was not so during the war.
The so-called German culture.
Barb-Wire Posts
Herein is described a common optical illusion or phenomenon seen by all soldiers, old and young, experienced or green, during the long night vigils looking through the wires, across No Man’s Land.
A German.
A German. The people of Germany take great exception to being called “Huns,” protesting that they are not of this stock. After the defeat of Attila and his Huns at Chalons, in 451 A. D., by the combined efforts of the Celts themselves, the indigenous people of France, the Romans, who were still masters of the country, the Franks, who had already become a power in the land, having advanced as far south as the Somme, and the Visigoths, who, early in the same century, had established their great empire in southern France and Spain; after this great battle the Huns retreated back into Germany, where many of their descendants must still be, but of course the majority of the German people are not, from an ethnological standpoint, Huns. The reason for this appelation being applied to them is simply that when a people have the attributes of a Hun, they must expect to be so designated. A man may very properly be called a pig without any misapprehension that he actually travels upon four hoofs. However, it is possible, though not probable, that the leopard may change his spots; and time, and contact with civilization, and a democratic form of government may eventually eradicate the present very marked idiosyncrasies of the German race.
Your Gas-Mask
The full-field pack, consisting of blankets, shelter-half, clothing, extra shoes, etc., weighing over 50 pounds, on the back of an infantryman, and guaranteed to increase 50 pounds in weight every five kilometers after the first ten kilometer mark has been passed.
The full-field pack as described above, plus rifle, cartridge-belt with a hundred rounds of ammunition, two bandoliers, each containing a hundred extra rounds, gas-mask, mess outfit and the steel helmet, commonly known as your tin hat.
Slum and Beef Stew
Josephus Daniels, Secretary of the Navy during the war.
Nickname for sailors.
Any order apparently wrong or ridiculous is generally provocative of the soldiers saying, “Brains of the Army.”
Of the Eighteenth Dynasty, who began his reign about 1500 B. C., Egypt’s greatest conqueror, and under whom the Egyptian Empire attained its largest extent. Rameses II (the Great) of the following Dynasty, is, however, the more generally known.
Refers to the passage of Cyrus and his great army through the Cilician Gates, on his way from his conquest of Lydia in Asia Minor, to his descent of the Euphrates Valley to Babylon, whose easy capitulation in 539 B. C. finally brought to an end the old glory of the Babylonian Empire, which, after a long period under Assyrian rule, had blossomed forth in a glorious recrudescence, in the latter part of the Seventh Century B. C, under Nebopolassar and his famous son Nebuchadnezzar—and then known as the Neo-Babylonian Empire, or, more commonly, as Chaldea. The reader will doubtless remember that it was through the same passage in the Taurus Mountains that Ashurbanapal, le Grand Monarque of Assyria when at the apogee of her power in the Seventh Century B. C, and also Alexander the Great, sweeping to his eastern conquests, both passed.
Doughboys is the popular present-day nickname for infantrymen.
When the situation is thoroughly agreeable and everything is “breaking” just right.
Well known soldier expression which, elegantly translated, means being totally and entirely out of luck, but not to be adopted for “polite conversation.” Remember this admonition.
Mr. Fly
Large high-explosive shells of about 6 inches diameter or over, and made of thick galvanized iron or what appeared to be such.
Are pleasant little neighbors in the trenches, due to the inadequacy of bathing facilities.
The Salvation Army With the A. E. F.
The designation of an American soldier, where no specific name is used, as, for example, to fill in the place for a name on a sample blank or application of any kind. Not used as a popular nickname for the American soldier as Tommy Atkins is used for the British soldier.
American Expeditionary Forces: the title of the American troops in France during the war.
Shell-Holes
Food
Song of the Volunteers of 1917
The great chivalric hero and warrior of France during the reign of Francis I. The Chevalier Bayard was killed in northern Italy in 1524, during the advance of Bourbon at the head of the Imperial forces.
The chief heroic figure of Spain, who lived in the Eleventh Century, fighting ably against the Moorish power until exiled by his king in the year 1075, after which he became a free lance, sometimes engaging in battle the Infidel and sometimes the Christian. He died in 1099, and, while a very able commander, it is generally understood that most of his great deeds are a gorgeous fabric of tradition rather than actual history.
The bursting of shrapnel over your trenches, by the enemy, in order to get the range for their shell-fire which is to follow.
Trucks
A nickname for a Cootie, qv.
The American soldier has a notoriously “sweet-tooth,” and big husky men positively gormandize on things saccharine, when obtainable.
The army man pronounces the word “mademoiselle” at full length, using the most punctilious care to enunciate each and every one of the four syllables. Whether this is due to the word being foreign to many of them, or whether it is due to their all-saving subtle sense of American humor, so that it seems rather delicious to call the little French ladies by so long and ponderous a title, I really do not know, but I strongly suspect that it is the latter.
Caesar had his Tenth Legion, Napoleon had his Old Guard, and the American Army during the World War had its First Division. It might therefore not seem entirely malapropos to quote the words of the great French general Mangin, who was the corps commander of the First Division of the American Army, the famous First Moroccans of the French Army and the Second Division of the American Army, at the Second Battle of the Marne, that began on July 18th, 1918, and was the turning point of the whole war. In this great door movement the First Division was given practically the post of honor at thehingeitself, i.e., directly at Soissons, only one division, the 153rd French Infantry Division, being on the inside of the First Division, and as it was in this engagement that a gentleman of Teutonic origin, operating a machine-gun from our extreme left flank, and apparently very much irritated about something, put a bullet in my side and out my back, it is only natural that the message of Gen. Mangin was of interest to me, and saved, and here quoted verbatim:—
Lauds Americans in Battle.General Mangin Thanks Pershing’s Men for BrilliantPart in Drive.(By Associated Press.)
With the French. Army in France, Aug. 7.—General Mangin, who was in direct command of the Allied forces in the drive against the German right flank south of Soissons, has issued the following order of the day thanking the American troops for their brilliant participation in the battle which caused the German retreat between the Marne and the Aisne:
"Officers, non-commissioned officers and soldiers of the Third American Army Corps:
"Shoulder to shoulder with your French comrades, you threw yourselves into the counter-offensive begun on July 18th. You ran to it like going to a feast. Your magnificent dash upset and surprised the enemy and your indomitable tenacity stopped counter-attacks by his fresh divisions. You have shown yourselves to be worthy sons of your great country and have gained the admiration of your brothers in arms.
"Ninety-one cannon, 7,200 prisoners, immense booty and ten kilometers (six and a quarter miles) of reconquered territory are your share of the trophies of this victory. Besides this, you have acquired a feeling of your superiority over the barbarian enemy against whom the children of liberty are fighting. To attack him is to vanquish him.
“American comrades, I am grateful to you for the blood you generously spilled on the soil of my country. I am proud of having commanded you during such splendid days, and to have fought with you for the deliverance of the world.”
“The Stars and Stripes,” the weekly paper of the A. E. F. in France, in giving a tabulated form of the record of the various divisions, and their insignia, which was worn on the shoulder of the left sleeve, said the following of the First Division:—
Division Insignia: Crimson figure “1” on khaki background, chosen because the numeral “1” represents the number of the division and many of its subsidiary organizations. Also, as proudly claimed, because it was the “First Division in France; first in sector; first to fire a shot at the Germans; first to attack; first to conduct a raid; first to be raided; first to capture prisoners; first to inflict casualties; first to suffer casualties; first to be cited singly in General Orders; first in the number of Division, Corps and Army Commanders and General Staff Officers produced from its personnel.”
To this might have been added that the First Division, which was a Regular Army division, and originally comprised about twenty or thirty per cent “old soldiers,” and the rest of us “war volunteers,” but proud of being “Regulars,” the First Division, which consisted of the 16th, 18th, 26th and 28th Infantry Regiments, the 5th, 6th and 7th Field Artillery Regiments, the 1st Engineer Regiment, and a complement of Cavalry, etc., was the division that General Pershing, the commander-in-chief, picked out to fill the most vital positions on important occasions, as, for example, when, from the whole army, he chose the First Division to go into the front line just west of Montdidier, at the Battle of Picardy, to help hold the very apex of the huge German bulge that had swept southwestward from St. Quentin to Montdidier, in the great series of Hun drives which started on March 21st. 1918. Again, it was the First Division that Pershing placed at Soissons at virtually the hinge of the great door movement in the turning point of the whole war, the Second Battle of the Marne, as heretofore described; and it was the First Division to which Pershing again gave the post of honor when the St. Mihiel salient was closed, as it was this Division that was placed on the inside position of the great southern jaw, just east of Xivray and dangerous Mont Sec.
Casualties and kilometers make very interesting reading, but when a Commander-in-chief consistently and persistently picks out one certain division for the most difficult and all-important positions, there is not much room for argumentation.
Mr. Page, in his article inThe World’s Work, for May. 1919. in describing the Second Battle of the Marne, tells how the First Division went over the top with the 153rd French Infantry Division on its left, and the famous First Moroccan Division and the Second Division of the American Army on its right, and how, in this gruelling engagement, the First Division outlasted both the Second Division and the First Moroccans, and really also the 153rd French Division on its left, as this latter was obliged to get reinforcements, Mr. Page recapitulating the situation with the following paragraph:—
“When the division (the First Division) finally came out of the line it had lost more than 7,200 men, mostly in the infantry. The full complement of infantry in a division is 12.000. Five days’ constant and successful attack after a long march: an advance of more than six and a quarter miles (ten kilometers); losses of at least 50 per cent, of the infantry engaged: keeping pace with the famous Moroccan Division and staving longer in the fight—all this had demonstrated that the 1st Division could stand in any company.” In mentioning these facts there is no desire on my part to pretend that this outfit single-handed won the war, because, if I said that, I would be talking sheer nonsense. The consensus of opinion both at home and abroad, seems to be that the whole American Army lived entirely up to expectations, so that any man who was in a combat division, has good reason to feel proud of his own division, irrespective of what one that may have been. With this little word of explanation I feel at liberty to quote the following which appeared in the Paris edition of The New York Herald:—
Prowess of Yanks Compels Praise Even from Hun,(Special telegram to the Herald.)From Burr Price.With the American Armies.Friday
From a captured officer of the German army comes a remarkable tribute to the fighting prowess of the First Division of the American troops, whose work will go down in history as among the most remarkable of the present war.
He declared the Germans did not believe the Americans could produce, within five years, a division such as they had found the First Division to be. The German, when taken, had seen four years of severe fighting. This is what he had to say yesterday:—
"I received orders to hold the ground at all costs. The American barrage advanced toward my position and the work of your artillery was marvelous. The barrage was so dense that it was impossible for us to move out of our dugouts.
"Following the barrage closely were the troops of the First Division. I saw them forge ahead and knew that all was lost. All night I remained in my dugout, hoping vainly that something would happen that would permit me to rejoin my army. This morning your troops found me and here I am, after four years of fighting, a prisoner.
"Yesterday, I knew that the First Division was opposite us, and I knew we would have to put up the hardest fight of the war. The First Division is wonderful and the German army knows it.
“We did not believe that within five years the Americans could develop a division such as this First Division. The work of its infantry and artillery is worthy of the best armies of the world.”
The gold chevrons, called “stripes,” worn on the cuffs of “overseas” soldiers, during the World War, each one on the left cuff standing for six months’ “overseas” service, and each chevron on the right cuff standing for a wound. One wound chevron meant a wound or wounds severe enough to take a man back to the hospital, irrespective of whether he had one or a dozen bullets or pieces of shell in him on that occasion.
The patrol herein described was what was called a “reconnoitering patrol,” sent out solely for the purpose of gathering information, keeping itself unknown to the enemy, and not fighting unless actually attacked. “Combat patrols” were sent out for this latter purpose.
Interrupted Chow
The carts that were sent from the company kitchens, which were usually from six to ten kilometers back of the first line trenches, up to within about two to four kilometers of the front line, where they would stop at designated points until chow details from the second line came back to them, to carry the cans of slum, coffee, and the bread or hardtack, up to the men in the first and second line. All this, of course, was done under cover of darkness, but as the Germans had the range of all the roads, etc., and knew at about what time the food had to be gone after, it meant that almost every night at least one detail was shot to pieces.
Small, round metal disc, suspended from the neck by a cord, and with the soldier’s name, rank and organization stamped thereon, and forming an identification tag.
The Gas-Proof Mule
Infantry of the World War
A First-Class Private
Abbreviation for lieutenant.
Soldier sarcasm, because he scarcely ever saw any sun while in France, and, of course, the majority had never visited the Riviera, nor known Paris in summer raiment, during normal peace times.
Means the same thing as “Sitting on the World,” i.e., everything salubrious and “breaking” just right.
Note
While realizing that my personal affairs are of no possible interest to the reader, it would seem, however, almost obligatory for me to do myself justice, and explain that I was quite willing to shoulder responsibility, which this poem might make it appear I was not. Hence the following little anecdote:—During a rest period back from the trenches, which was the only occasion when you had time to bother your head about smaller things, several men had applied for officers’ commissions, so I got some civilian letters of recommendation, and put in an application to be permitted to go up for examination for a commission. This application was forwarded “approved” by my company commander, together with personal recommendations from my three previous company commanders. As this officer is the one who sees you daily, his recommendation is, from a military standpoint, of more value than that of a major-general. But in spite of my application being forwarded with the approval of all four of the company commanders that I had had up to that time, it was disapproved higher up by someone who very seldom could ever have even seen me. But having had no thought or intention of getting a commission, when I entered the Army, and having crossed over to Europe as a civilian, at my own expense, in August, 1917, to enlist in the American Army in France, which I did on September 1st, 1917, in Paris, so as to absolutely insure getting into the trenches, and as at the time of my application I had already accomplished my purpose, it may readily be discerned that the return of my application did not perturb the habitual equanimity of my soul, nor cause me to lose any of my natural sleep or youthful charm.
Only for You
While very often some junior, or even senior, officer would fall under this category, and even worse, the majority of them really tried to give their men a square deal. If an officer were a rough-neck, snob, or as the men in the ranks would usually express it, a ribbon-counter clerk, it was only quite natural that he would take cowardly advantage of his shoulder straps to make it as miserable as possible for the men under him, but if an officer were a gentleman in civilian life, the man in the ranks was sure to be handled as a man and treated fairly, so long as he did his military duty and conducted himself as a soldier. Of this latter type, I can look back with pleasure on all my company commanders, remembering especially men like Lt. Victor Parks, Jr., and Capt. Allen F. Kingman, “officers and gentlemen” in the highest sense of the word. Upon the one or two officers of the other type it is quite unnecessary to dwell. When once free from contact with a skunk, one simply bathes, changes one’s clothes, and promptly allows the odoriferous memory to be wafted away and disseminated in the ambient atmosphere of oblivion.
Artillery flares at night show red, but in the early dawn they appear against the dark hillsides like bursts of silver.
Old Fusee
Soldier term for his rifle, the French word “fusil” meaning that weapon.
Because of its brevity, succinctness and expressiveness, I have used the word Blighty to designate a military hospital, though it was never in really popular use by the American soldier for this purpose, and to the British soldier it simply meant going back to England, but as so often Tommy Atkins went back to his Tight Little Island because he was wounded, Blighty frequently meant “hospital.”
The phraseology and repertoire of the army man must not be taken too seriously, as nine-tenths of the time it is simply a safety valve for ebullient spirits or dread monotony, and with little or no real harm back of it.
The famous “movie” comedian of the cinema.
Embarkation Home
THE END