Trench Ballads and Other Verses Part 2

You didn't stick to cast-iron rules Of business most punctilious, And you never treated Private Doe With manner supercilious.

You had no boundless backing- But just inside your doors It seemed like, "Feel to home, Bill- Sit down, the place is yours."

Some things we fain remember- Some things we fain forget- But you, oh kindly people, Live in our memory yet.

Sh.e.l.l-HOLES.

They're ugly, jagged, cone-shaped holes That litter up the ground, That ruin all the landscape For miles and miles around.

That pock-mark fertile fields of green- That rip the hard French roads, And catch the lumbering trucks at night Agroan beneath their loads.

And some of them are little uns The shrill one-pounders plow- About a meter-edge to edge- But large enough, I trow.

And some of them nigh twice as broad, And rather more straight down, The "77" Boches' gift, Of dubious renown.

And some of them a dozen feet From rim to ragged rim, And deep enough to hide a horse- A crater, gaunt and grim.

And some of them are yellow-black, Where clings the reek of gas, (But here we do not pause to gaze, Nor linger as we pa.s.s).

And some of them are water-fouled- Or dried and parched and dun; And some of them are newly turned- Fresh blotches 'neath the sun.

But all spell red destruction, Blind rage and blinding hate, To them who charge the sh.e.l.l-swept zone Or in the trenches wait.

Should we say "all," or modify Our statement? Any fool Knows that exceptions always rise To prove an iron-clad rule.

And so in this case we can name _Some_ sh.e.l.l-holes we have met, The thought of whose engulfing sides Clings in our memory yet.

They were the holes we rolled into- When iron or bullet struck- Cursing the cursed Prussian, And blessing our blessed luck.

Oh lovely, beauteous sh.e.l.l-hole, Wherein we helpless lay, A wondrous couch of velvet Ye seemed to us that day.

Our blood it stained your cus.h.i.+ons A deep and richer red, As shrieking messengers of death Sped harmless overhead.

Swept whining in their blood-l.u.s.t, h.e.l.l's music, bleak and grim, Splitting in rage the edges Of your all-protecting rim.

Oh sh.e.l.l-holes, murderous sh.e.l.l-holes, In vales of gra.s.s and wheat- On hillside and in forest, In road and village street-

Your toll of suffering and death Is flashed to East and West- But tell they of the wounded Ye've sheltered in your breast?

FOOD.

We've eaten at the Plaza, at Sherry's and the Ritz- The Bellevue and the Willard and the Ponce de Leon too.

We've sampled all the cooking of the Savoy and Meurice, Through a palate-tickling riot that Lucullus never knew.

From tables where the Northern Fires greet the coming night- To Raffles out in Singapore and the Palace in Bombay; From Shepheard's (which means Cairo) to that little hostelry Way down in Trinchinopoly where purring punkahs sway.

We've traveled north, we've traveled south by all routes known to man- We've traveled east, we 've traveled west by some they scarcely came: From canvasback and terrapin to Russian caviar, From venison to bird-nest soup and curried things and game.

We've put them all beneath our belt with consummate address: We've risen from the laden board and smacked our jowl in glee.

With organs sound and healthy we have murdered each menu And left the wreck of good things with a gourmet's ecstasy.

But do you wish to know the feasts that permeated deep- That stirred the very bottom of my stomach to the core?

Quisine that brought such wondrous bliss, but satiated not, That saturating satisfied, but still left room for more?

The place-a little half deserted town in northern France: The time-a time of carnage, of wanton strife and hate: And I and my battalion on reserve a week or two Till they call us to the Front again to force the hands of Fate.

Just from the Commissary, the Salvation or the Y, I've got a bar of chocolate, some b.u.t.ter and some cake; A canteen full of milk, and eggs, from the old farmhouse near by, And with this _tout ensemble_ you can see I'm sitting jake.

I've entered now a peasant's house-an ancient, kindly dame- Who's seen me several times before, and knows just what I wish: So the frying-pan is gotten out-the pewter fork and knife- A big bowl and the skillet and a large, substantial dish.

And I'm breaking up the bar of chocolate in a mighty bowl (The while the eggs are frying, "Sur le plat, oui, s'il vous plait"), And pouring from my canteen's gurgling mouth a draught of milk, To expedite proceedings in a purely tactful way.

And now the spluttering eggs are done, the chocolate's hot and rich; I have my feet beneath the board, the pewter weapons near: A hunger from a front-line trench-the stomach of a goat- And a battle-line that's very far, though still the guns ring clear.

And thus, too full for utterance, I gently draw the veil- So leave me, kindly reader, in my joy- And maybe you will understand why other dinners pale, And in comparison with this, appear to clog and cloy.

OVER THE TOP.

We've soldiered many, many moons In this old plugging war, And all the ills and all the thrills, We've had 'em o'er and o'er.

Sh.e.l.l-fire, G. I. Cans and Gas- Night work in No Man's Land- And everything that calls for nerve, Endurance, guts and sand.

We've argued which we liked the _worst_- Machine-guns, gas or sh.e.l.l.

We've ruminated carefully- And done it rather well.

And after all our resume And cogitating bull, We've reached a clear decision, Most amplified and full:-

The greatest time in all the life Of any living man- The mightiest moment of the Game- The proudest, high elan;

The thing we came three thousand miles Across the seas to do- "The Day," the splendid hour That waits for me and you,

Arrives-We spring into the wastes Of land, ripped, roweled and barred- The battle-l.u.s.t in brain and eye- The weary jaw set hard;