Trench Ballads and Other Verses Part 6

(The reason being that the Boche, On selfsame errand set, Were creeping hitherward unseen- And likewise mad and wet.)

'Twas then the detail turned their heads To where their captain lay, And every rifle in that squad Was pointed straight his way.

And he? He running true to form, Two inches raised his chin, And spouted German volubly In accents clear and thin.

Click, click, click, click, click, down the line Each safety-catch turned o'er, But the captain did not hesitate, And merely talked the more.

In conversation friendly He rambled gently on Unto the Boches' leader, Till it was nearly dawn.

The while his men they "covered" him- The while their hearts grew black- And you could feel the trigger fingers Squeezing up the slack.

Just what the purport of his last Remark was, no one knew, But in a burst of confidence A Boche head rose in view... .

Across the four-fold stillness That covers No Man's Land, An automatic pistol shot Rang clear and piercing and

The next day German papers told How Captain Skunk von Skee Was killed by a Yankee captain, And Yankee treachery.

LITTLE WAR MOTHERS.

When you look at his picture and your eyes Are dimmed and mighty wet, And it seems as though your trembling hands Could reach and touch him yet: When you faintly call and he answers not Your supplicating prayer, Remember his last thought was You: I know-for I was there.

When the day is done and the hearth-fire glows, And you slowly knit and knit; And your furtive eyes from the embers rise To where he used to sit: And you feel he never can slip up And kiss you unaware, Remember his last word was You: I know-for I was there.

When your dear brave heart is breaking- And life is 'reft of joy; And only the spark of memory- The face of a boy-your boy: May the good G.o.d hover over you, And touch your silvered hair, And tell you what I've tried to tell: He knows - for He was there.

INTERRUPTED CHOW.

I've had some mighty narrow calls- Some close shaves not a few, But one of the fairly closest I'll now narrate to you.

'Twas midnight-hus.h.!.+ the plot grows thick- Crowd close, and hold your breath- 'Twas midnight-and the slum-cart came Upon its round of death.

(It isn't really that the slum Was quite as bad as that, But the playful Boche so often dropped A sh.e.l.l where it was at.)

'Twas midnight-and our appet.i.tes Were whetted large and keen, As trench feed, once a day, must leave An interval between.

And so we sought the buzzy-cart, "Mess-kits alert" and found It standing in a quiet spot Where never came a sound-

Excepting that of bursting sh.e.l.ls Across the field a way, (But as I said before, the Boche Is very given to play).

All innocent and hungry-like And empty to the core, I came upon that buzzy-cart, With never thought of war.

More calm, beneficent and mild- More free from things of strife- I promise you I never was In all my mortal life.

The air was fair, the stars were out, The mocking-bird sang clear; The poppies bloomed, the sergeants fumed, And food was very near.

When suddenly the ground gave way- It seemed a mile or more- And the whole adjacent landscape leapt To heaven with a soar.

Earth, rocks and stars commingling In a swirling ma.s.s arose, Where I, rec.u.mbent in the hole, a.s.sumed an easy pose.

And when I found that I was there- Both arms, both legs, and head, I picked me up and cogitated _Why_ I wasn't dead.

For information looked I 'round North, south and east and west- But the good platoon had up and cleared Some several feet with zest.

(And the strangest phase of the whole strange thing, For me to understand, Was that when I got up I had My mess-kit in my hand.)

And there I stood and gazed me down Upon the hole and mud, And found I was alive because That blamed sh.e.l.l was a "dud."

A dud's a sh.e.l.l that fails to burst- Whose crater's microscopic- And as I'd just sunk down in it, My Fates were philanthropic-

For had the bally thing gone off- Instead of sitting jake- You'd ne'er have found my scattered parts With a hair-comb or a rake.

You'd ne'er have found your humble slave- For, sprinkled east and west, My sad remains would scarce have bulged The pocket of your vest.

A finger in Benares- A toe in Timbuctoo- And on the Mountains of the Moon A portion of my shoe.

An eye on Kinchinjanga- To greet the snow-peaked morn; An ear at Cape Lopatka, And my dog-tag at the Horn.

S. O. S.

(Service of Supply.)

There's an S. O. S. behind the Lines That feeds us sh.e.l.ls and hardtack, And guns and clothes and beans and things, And heals our wounds and pain.

There's an S. O. S. across the seas That knits for us and writes to us, Buys bonds and whoops it up for us, And cheers us on again.

There's an S. O. S. behind the Lines, We could not do without it: Just go and ask the Army, If you'd know the reasons why.

There's an S. O. S. across the seas, And if you ever doubt it, Just go and ask a soldier, Who will promptly black your eye.

THE GAS-PROOF MULE.