THE MULE SKINNERS
A wet and slippery road,And dusky figures passing in the night,The smell of steaming hide and soaking leather,The muttered oath,The sharp command as troops give way to right,Then clatter on through mud and streaming weather.The creak and groan of wheels,And batteries that rumble down the roadWith pound and splash of hoof and chains a-rattle,The driver’s spurring chirp,The tugging as the mules take up the load,And ’bove it all the roar of distant battle.All night we do our job,Hauling the supplies up from the rear,Past streams of troops and shell-shot habitation,Through rut-worn road,By blackened walls without a light to cheer,On through the night and storm and desolation.This the life we know,The seeming endless driving and the strain,The ever pushing toil, without cessation,Necessity to do,Through biting wind and cold and chilling rain,And sleepless nights and lack of rest, privation.This the life we lead,Reckless of screaming shell, and trusting chance,A soldier’s humble task, a soldier’s ration.But who of us would tradeHis soldier’s lot nor want to be in France?Who would not live his life in soldier fashion?William Bradford, 2nd Lt., A.G.D.
A wet and slippery road,And dusky figures passing in the night,The smell of steaming hide and soaking leather,The muttered oath,The sharp command as troops give way to right,Then clatter on through mud and streaming weather.The creak and groan of wheels,And batteries that rumble down the roadWith pound and splash of hoof and chains a-rattle,The driver’s spurring chirp,The tugging as the mules take up the load,And ’bove it all the roar of distant battle.All night we do our job,Hauling the supplies up from the rear,Past streams of troops and shell-shot habitation,Through rut-worn road,By blackened walls without a light to cheer,On through the night and storm and desolation.This the life we know,The seeming endless driving and the strain,The ever pushing toil, without cessation,Necessity to do,Through biting wind and cold and chilling rain,And sleepless nights and lack of rest, privation.This the life we lead,Reckless of screaming shell, and trusting chance,A soldier’s humble task, a soldier’s ration.But who of us would tradeHis soldier’s lot nor want to be in France?Who would not live his life in soldier fashion?William Bradford, 2nd Lt., A.G.D.
A wet and slippery road,And dusky figures passing in the night,The smell of steaming hide and soaking leather,The muttered oath,The sharp command as troops give way to right,Then clatter on through mud and streaming weather.
A wet and slippery road,
And dusky figures passing in the night,
The smell of steaming hide and soaking leather,
The muttered oath,
The sharp command as troops give way to right,
Then clatter on through mud and streaming weather.
The creak and groan of wheels,And batteries that rumble down the roadWith pound and splash of hoof and chains a-rattle,The driver’s spurring chirp,The tugging as the mules take up the load,And ’bove it all the roar of distant battle.
The creak and groan of wheels,
And batteries that rumble down the road
With pound and splash of hoof and chains a-rattle,
The driver’s spurring chirp,
The tugging as the mules take up the load,
And ’bove it all the roar of distant battle.
All night we do our job,Hauling the supplies up from the rear,Past streams of troops and shell-shot habitation,Through rut-worn road,By blackened walls without a light to cheer,On through the night and storm and desolation.
All night we do our job,
Hauling the supplies up from the rear,
Past streams of troops and shell-shot habitation,
Through rut-worn road,
By blackened walls without a light to cheer,
On through the night and storm and desolation.
This the life we know,The seeming endless driving and the strain,The ever pushing toil, without cessation,Necessity to do,Through biting wind and cold and chilling rain,And sleepless nights and lack of rest, privation.
This the life we know,
The seeming endless driving and the strain,
The ever pushing toil, without cessation,
Necessity to do,
Through biting wind and cold and chilling rain,
And sleepless nights and lack of rest, privation.
This the life we lead,Reckless of screaming shell, and trusting chance,A soldier’s humble task, a soldier’s ration.But who of us would tradeHis soldier’s lot nor want to be in France?Who would not live his life in soldier fashion?William Bradford, 2nd Lt., A.G.D.
This the life we lead,
Reckless of screaming shell, and trusting chance,
A soldier’s humble task, a soldier’s ration.
But who of us would trade
His soldier’s lot nor want to be in France?
Who would not live his life in soldier fashion?
William Bradford, 2nd Lt., A.G.D.