Work-a-day Warriors

Front matter

WORK-A-DAY WARRIORS

SOLDIERS SHELTERING IN A CELLAR DURING A HEAVY BOMBARDMENT

WORK-A-DAY WARRIORS

A Shakespeare Tercentenary in the Trenches

A SHAKESPEARE TERCENTENARY IN THE TRENCHES

Three centuries agone since Shakespeare died, Since he was shrouded in good English ground, His body to the earth, his spirit free, His bones to lie for aye, his book to live:

And here sit I, a tattered Corporal, Reading me snatches from a tattered tome, In fateful Flanders in a fetid trench, While round me lie six lads in ravelled hose, Torn kilts, and broken shoon, and lousy shirts, Like his own Falstaff's ragged regiment.

We crouch within a dug-out's dusty depths; A cavern in the earth; Adullam cave; A mouse's burrowing—a mole's—no more, Yet sanctuary 'gainst the iron storm Which works unheeded havoc o'er our heads.

Two hundred yards away the Teuton line Twines like some scaly serpent in the grass Which ever and anon doth vomit fire.

And these are they would claim Will for their own? Well, they, if more than kin, are less than kind, For all the day, from dawning to the dusk, They've tried us with a dozen different deaths.

E'en so; I turn the pages of his book As Shakespeare turned each several folio Of that vast, varied volumed Book of Life.

Here were stout words for cheer and 'couragement, And it seemed England when we heard such words, And leafy Warwick in a Morn o' May, And Arden Forest 'neath a greenwood tree.

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land;

This England never did, nor never shall, Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, Or close the wall up with our English dead!

Around us were the lodges of our dead, Who gave their life that England still might live; The very burrow in the which we were, Had bones of dead men baked into the clay: Their ghosts still seemed to linger in our lines.

But I read on; a passage from a play, With frequent interlude and change of scene, Till here was Denmark and the moody Dane. Without, the Corporal did change the guard, Even while Bernardo challenged Francisco Upon the battlements at Elsinore:

Fran.—You come most carefully upon your hour. Ber.—'Tis now struck twelve; get thee to bed, Francisco. Fran.—For this relief much thanks…

"And so say I," said Nick, acrawling in, Tis dull work gazing into No Man's Land, And peopling it with denizens of dream— But do not let my coming stay the play; The play's the thing; your audience awaits!"

So now my fingers found that sad, sweet tale, That story of the ancient grudge between The House of Montague and Capulet.

That old-time tear, that tale of deathless love, Of youthful love, of love at sudden sight; That moonlight madness of a man and maid, That mating in a Springtime of the world, That Eve and Adam of a later date. And so I read… Till o'er the sullen booming of the guns There rose the tumult of Verona's streets, The sounds of brawl, the bickering of blades, And Tybalt draws upon Mercutio; And there is rapier play, and then, and then, Mercutio is hurt 'neath Romeo's arm:

MERCUTIO—A plague o' both your houses! I am sped… 'Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door; but 'tis enough, 'twill serve ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o' both your houses!

"I cry 'Amen!' to that!" upspake poor Nick, He of reflective eye and raven hair,

Hapsburg and Hanover, Kaisers and Kings!— My mood this moment is to quarrel most With what would rob me of my life and love, The beauty of the day, the dawn, the dusk, And give us naught but dark, and dust, and death— And yet, and yet, if only England live Our life is but a little thing to give."

And he is dead since syne; I stood one morn, At the chill hour of dawn, alone with what? A man?—a memory?—a mystery? Which was what I had loved, and yet was not; Whose hand, that I had clasped so oft before, Fell now from mine as in indifference; Who heard me not, who spoke not any word, And still seemed voluble as many tongues;

Whose eyes saw naught, yet seemed to embrace all; Whose lips were parted as might be in smile That death had been so little difficult.

From the grim belt of broken, blasted trees, There spoke the rifle of a lurking foe; The bullets spat upon the ruined wall 'Neath which he lay; silence throbbed in my ear; A bird woke in the wood, and then a wind, Which lifted up a tress of his dark hair Then laid it down, like hand invisible, And moaned like to a hungry human heart.

And there stood I, and thought of hearts would break, And hands would move in memory 'mid that hair, When this news reached his now unconscious home, And I did groan for them and not for him.

I saw the dawn drift up a quiet street, And steal into the room where he had slept; I heard a dog bark, and a clanging bell, And then the kindly kitchen sounds which he Had known on many mornings long ago.

I bent me down and felt about his breast, And took the missives, that he held so dear, From her, the mistress of his ardent heart. And they were red with his heart's blood.

I found her pictured image, pensive smiling, sad, As if she had foreknowledge of his fate— And it was also showered with that red rain. And last of all I took the little disc, The little round that told the little round Of his career, and it was red with blood.

I laid one kiss upon his brow, and looked For the last time upon his sculptured face, And so I left him, till—what comes to pass.

But here was he alive, and, "Read," says he, "Those passages where Romeo doth part With Juliet and never meets her more."

German Prisoners

GERMAN PRISONERS

When first I saw you in the curious street, Like some platoon of soldier ghosts in grey, My mad impulse was all to smite and slay, To spit upon you—tread you 'neath my feet. But when I saw how each sad soul did greet My gaze with no sign of defiant frown, How from tired eyes looked spirits broken down, How each face showed the pale flag of defeat, And doubt, despair, and disillusionment, And how were grievous wounds on many a head, And on your garb red-faced was other red; And how you stooped as men whose strength was spent, I knew that we had suffered each as other, And could have grasped your hand and cried, "My brother"!

"EACH FACE SHOWED THE PALE FLAG OF DEFEAT."

"Glad That I Killed Yer"

" GLAD THAT I KILLED YER"

A MODERN SONG OF LAMECH

Hear my voice; hearken unto my speech: for I have slain a man.—Genesis iv. 23.

Glad that I killed yer— It was you or me: Our bayonets locked, And then I pulled mine free; My heart beat like to burst; But Gawd, I got in first— Glad that I killed yer!

Glad that I killed yer, Though you are so young: How still you lie With both your arms outflung: There's red blood on your hair— Well, what the Hell I care?— Glad that I killed yer!

Glad that I killed yer— You're my enemy; I had to hate— And you—you hated me; You mightn't be to blame— I killed yer just the same— Glad that I killed yer!

Glad that I killed yer— That's the game o' war; But for my luck I'd lie just like you are; Your blood is on my hand— Surely you understand I had to kill yer?

Glad that I killed yer— Yet I can't forget The look you gave me When we turned—and met— Why do you follow me with staring eye? Was it so difficult a thing to die— Gawd! when I killed yer?

Glad that I killed yer— Yet I'm sorry, too, For those will wait So long at home for you: I have a mother living down at Bow— Thank Gawd for this that yours will never know 'Twas I that killed yer!

Glad that I killed yer— It was you or me: It does seem strange, But it had got to be. My heart beat like to burst, But Gawd, I got in first— Glad that I killed yer!

Le Tambour

LE TAMBOUR

As I rode through the town of Aire, Up the long street did come A little lad who lustily Did beat a little drum, Did bang a brazen cymbal And beat upon a drum.

His father died at Verdun, His mother weeps in Aire; The little lad drums undismayed, How should he know or care That each tuck makes her tears to start— That he beats tattoo on her heart?

Ancestry

ANCESTRY

I am one with my fleet-foot forebear, skin-clad, with his flint-head spear; I am one with the savage tribesman, with his bow-string taut to his ear; I am one with them in their courage; one with them in their fear: As I lie out here, with dead men near In this Listening-Post with my gun They and I are One!

I am one with the ancient Roman, pressing on in his grim phalanx; I am one with the Spartan, the Trojan, and the Grecian's steel-clad ranks; They with their Horse, Heaven-sent, and I with my earth-born "tanks";

"TANK" IN ACTION

As I move to attack, with my kit on my back, And my bombs and my steel-tipped gun, They and I are One!

I am one with the cohorts of Cæsar; with the hosts of Hannibal; With the legions of all the leaders to the last "Petit Caporal"; One with the millions of nameless dead, who have fallen as soldiers fall: As I crawl through the breach in the battered wall, Or charge at the run with my gun, They and I are One!

Leave

LEAVE

He was going home to-morrow, his heart was light and gay; He was going home to-morrow—but he went Home to-day!

YPRES—CHRISTMAS EVE

Back to London: A Poem of Leave

BACK TO LONDON

A POEM OF LEAVE

I have not wept when I have seen My stricken comrades die; I have not wept when we have made The place where they should lie; My heart seemed drowned in tears, but still No tear came to my eye.

There is a time to weep, saith One, A season to refrain; How should it ope, this fount of tears, While I sate in the train, So that all blurred the landscape moved Outwith the window pane?

But one short day since I had left A land upheaved and rent, Where Spring brings back no bourgeoning, As Nature's force were spent; Yet now I travelled in a train Through the kindly land of Kent!

A kindly land, a pleasant land, As welcome sight to me As after purgatorial pains The Plains of Heaven might be, When the wondrous Goodness that is God Draws a soul from jeopardy.

A pleasant land, a peaceful land Of wooded hill and weald, Where kine stand knee-deep in the grass, And sheep graze in the field; A blessèd land, where a wounded heart Might readily be healed.

A wholesome land, where each white road Leads to a ruddy hearth; Where still is heard the sound of song And the kindly note of mirth;

Where the strong man cheerful wakes to toil And the dead sleep sound i' the earth.

I have not wept when I have seen My chosen comrades die; I have not wept while we have digged The grave where they should lie; But now I lay my head in my hand. Lest my comrades see me cry.

The little children, two by two, Stand on the five-barred gate, And wave their hands to waft us home Like passengers of state; My heart is very full, so full It holds no room for hate.

The children climb the five-barred gate And blow us kisses five, The little cripple in his car Waves from the carriage drive: Blessed are the dead, but blessed e'en more We soldiers still alive!

Lo! we draw near to London town, The troop train jolts and drags, The friendly poor come forth once more To greet us in their rags— The very linen on the line Flutters and flaunts like flags!

The girls within the factory grim Smile at the broken pane; The sempstress in her lonely room Sighs o'er her task again; The servant shakes her duster forth To signal our speeding train;

The station names go flitting past Like old familiar friends; The smoke cloud with the clouds aloft In wondrous fashion blends, And, lo we enter London town, To where all journeying ends.

I have not wept when I have seen A hundred comrades die; I have not wept when that we shaped The house where they must lie— But now I hide my head in my hand Lest my comrades see me cry.

These are the scenes, these the dear souls, 'Mid which our lot was cast, To this loved land, if Fate be kind, We shall return at last, For this our stern steel line we hold— Lord, may we hold it fast!

Thunder-storm in the Trenches

THUNDER-STORM IN THE TRENCHES

Hast thou an arm like God? or canst thou thunder with a voice like Him?

Between the anger of our guns Spoke forth th' Artillery of Heaven; Like warning words writ on the wall The sky with light was riven.

Yet did there seem no note of wrath, So that my soul rejoiced, As if I'd heard from Sinai's Mount God's admonition voiced.

War: Some Reflections by Corporal Richard Crew of the Canadians

WAR

SOME REFLECTIONS BY CORPORAL RICHARD CREW OF THE CANADIANS

From whence come wars and fightings?—James iv. 1.

Sure, I dunno; There's some men call War "murder." Some say it's elevatin'; I've 'eard both sides Their cases statin' An hour or so— But I dunno.

There was Jim, Got blown up in a mine: He was elevated right enough— But yet I felt it tough,

For I was fond o' him. And then, pore Jake, Struck in 's stummach, Went swearin' straight to hell— If hell ain't all a fake— No, siree, War Ain't pretty like a Calendar!

One thing—the dead. Ain't beautifully spread, Each with an artistic scar 'Cross his fore'ead; No, that ain't War Whatever poets say— Shrapnel and high explosive Do not work that way.

Ye mind o' Ned?— Him what went West At St. Eloi?— A rare good boy, One o' the very best;

STATUE DE LA VIERGE, ALBERT, SOMME There is a belief that with the fall of this statue the war will terminate.

Well, his pore 'ead Was blown clean off, And biffed me in the chest!— It seems to me There's something in the murder theory.

I've been out 'ere Just on two year, And seen it all From Wipers to the Somme; And not much bugle blowing, Nor banner flowing, And all that truck; Just mostly muck and mud, And mud and muck, And what the Frenchies call, I think, ang-wee; No, War ain't what them long-haired coves Have cracked it up to be!

And yet, You bet, There's something in it, too— Not gauged by me and you;

My Gawd, I've stood After a heavy biff, Pondering a bit on death— And getting back my breath— Thinking how boys have died, Until, by Christ, I've cried— Yet, somehow it seemed good!

I mind me how Just nigh the Hat— (Wish was there now!) We rounded up a snake— Some rattler at that! And Lariat Jack Bent o'er his saddle bow And gripped the rattler so, And broke its bloomin' back. And I said "Shake,"

And yet felt sorry, too, For that there worm Was wondrous beautiful of hue!

I guess there are Redeeming tints to War. Mayhap the Lord— Who makes the silly snakes, And breathes in storm, and shakes. The everlastin' hills wi' His earthquakes; Who sets a little lamb Upon an English mead, Yet lets the tiger breed And the wolf dam Down in the jungle— Mayhap the Lord Ain't made no bloomin' bungle, But even in bloody war— Such as this are— Fulfils His wondrous Word!

Christ I am cold, wish Sergeant Wood would come, And dish me out my morning tot o' rum!

Four Rye Sheaves

FOUR RYE SHEAVES

Four rye sheaves to be my bed; "Now God me save," was the prayer I said;

And sweet was the sleep that came to me, For I was home where I fain would be;

And sweet was the dream that sleep did yield, A flowering bank, and a daisied field;

A lovers' lane, and a winsome maid— But I never heard the word she said;

I never heard what word she spoke, For the bugle was blown and I awoke.

Four rye sheaves to be my bed— But where this night may I lay my head?

Four rye sheaves to be my bed— Will she come with that word if I am dead?

Sick Parade

SICK PARADE

Orderly Corporal, loq.— Fall in the lazy, the lousy, and the lame, Fall in the blighters who are trying to play the game— Give me your number, religion, age, and name— Fall in, fall in!

Fall in the fellows with the chilly feet; Fall in the blokes who've had too much to eat; Fall in the "drafties" who are missing mother's teat— Fall in, fall in!

Fall in, fall in, you heirs to every ill, The "Doc" will dish you out his wonder-working pill— "Nine" or "eleven" will either cure or kill— Fall in, fall in!

Fall in—bolt down your bit o' breakfast rootie, You who expect to go to England, home, and beauty— You'll be marked down for "medicine and duty"— Fall in, fall in!

Fall in, the lousy, the lazy, and the lame, Fall in the fellows who are out to play the game— Give me your number, religion, age, and name— Fall in, fall in!

A Rest Billet

A REST BILLET

"When the next biff is over, we shall have a rest," said Jo; His comrades left him sleeping—for it was even so.

Progression

PROGRESSION

Bill, when he lived in Lunnon, lived down Whitechapel way; He owns a dug-out of his own, in old "Park Lane" to-day!

Superstition

SUPERSTITION

Three Soldiers lit their cigarettes, each by the self-same match; Well, all the three have come so far—without a single scratch!

Saint Patrick's Day in the Mornin'

SAINT PATRICK'S DAY IN THE MORNIN'

THE LOVE LILT OF CORPORAL PATRICK MULLOHOY OF THE CONNAUGHT RANGERS

Saint Patrick's Day in the mornin', A year ago to-day, I was awalkin' meself alone Adown a green lane in ould Athlone— Well, sure now, of course, sweet Molly Malone Was with me upon the way; I gathered a sprig of shamrock, Which in her dear breast she set, And, like the dew on the little plant, With tears her blue eyes were wet— For I was going away― O, Saint Patrick's Day in the mornin' A year ago to-day!

Saint Patrick's Day in the mornin', This very blessed day, The ould Colonel had us all out on parade, And, "I'm proud of me bhoys," was what he said, "Ye've won fresh laurels will never fade— That's all that I've got to say"; Then he gave us a sprig of shamrock, And I sent it home to my pet, And all that I wrote aneath it was: "Perhaps ye will not forget— For ever and alway— Saint Patrick's Day in the mornin' A year ago to-day!"

Saint Patrick's Day in the mornin', Next year this very day, Please God I'll be walkin' meself alone Adown that green lane in ould Athlone— With by me side sweet Molly Malone, To keep me upon the way;

Then I'll gather a sprig of shamrock, And set it upon her breast, And I'll place two kisses upon her lips— And I'm thinkin' ye'll guess the rest— For all that I'm going to say Is, "Ye haven't forgotten the promise ye made Upon Saint Patrick's Day— Saint Patrick's Day in the mornin' Two years ago to-day?"

"In Aleppo Once"

"THAT GRIM CASTLE IN THAT ANCIENT TOWN"

"IN ALEPPO ONCE"

How should it come to pass that on this page O'er which I pore by this pale candle light, There should appear this creature of affright— The unnamed victim of Othello's rage?

He drags himself as 'twere upon the stage, And glares with eyes that are not things of sight; And beckons to behold his piteous plight, The gouts of blood no unguent can assuage. Beneath the battlements I see him lie, Of that grim castle in that ancient town, And all his wounds are mouths that seem to cry To bring the vengeance of Almighty down― How should it come to pass he points at me? Alas! How should it come to pass? How should it come to pass?

The Nurse

THE NURSE

THE NURSE

When I came to mysel' a lily-white hand Was stroking my fever'd brow, And I couldn't remember where I'd been hit, And I couldn't remember how, But I felt as if from red-hot hell The Lord had just set me free— And here was a blessed angel from heaven A-bending over me!

She had a smile like a morn o' May, And the kindest of soft grey eyes; And I felt a sort o' confused, I suppose, And I guess that I made to rise; But she held me easy wi' one small hand, And she said, "Now, you must lie still," And I hadn't the strength o' a new-born babe, And so I just done her will.

I closed my peeps, and I lay for a spell Stretched out in my little cot, A-trying to think what I'd gave them Huns— A-trying to think what I'd got, And, by-me-bye, my leg gave a twinge, Made me more curse than cry, And I says to mysel', "Well, number one Is a compound fractured thigh!"

I explored no further for a bit, But lay still in my little bed, Till sudden a bandage slipped o'er my eye, And says I, "Number two's in the head";

Then I noses about again, and remarks, "There ain't no cause for alarm, But unless I'm mighty mistaken, Mike, Number three's in your fore left arm!"

I'd got splints all over my pore old stumps, And lint all over my skin, And I found 'arf a dozen apertures What had let bits o' shrapnel in; And thinks I, "You've more metal in your hide Than money in your purse," And I opened my eyes, and attempted to smile, And there again was the Nurse.

She looked at me so sorrowful, Yet brightly, too. Says I, "It's no use patching a hulk like me, Nurse, hadn't you best let me die?" I seen her brush her eyes with her hand, Then she gave her proud head a toss, And, "Michael," she says, "would you like to see A Red Cross Nurse really cross?"

The way that that girl manœuvred me, The sort o' things that she done, 'Twas like having my old mother back again And I but a kid aged one; There's nothing that's pretty about me, And I'm only one half tamed, But when she'd attend to my toileting, I felt thankful—and ashamed!

It was always, "Mike, good mornin', And how do you feel to-day?" And yet she'd the sharpest of eyes to see My drugs duly stowed away; The visitin' Surgeon's very good, And the resident Doctor, too, But I places it here on record, It was Nursey what pulled me through!

The sight o' her face seemed to ease my pain, The sound o' her voice done me good, And she was so gentle and kind wi' me, What had been so sinful and rude;

I done a heap o' pondering, And at nights before I slept, When I thought what I'd been with women, I just turned on my face and wept.

The world is full o' good women, And if they're not all the same, I'm doubting, matey, that you and me Are somehow a bit to blame; And when I'm a-crawling around on my crutch And Sister goes up the ward, I think, there are angels withouten wings, And I'm glad, and I thank the Lord!

A Ballad of Dead Loves

A BALLAD OF DEAD LOVES

A-long ago, when the world was young, And spears were shivered, and lutes were strung, And songs slid from the minstrel's tongue— Ah! woe is me! A knight sailed over the Spanish Main, He sailed—but he came not back again— Ah! woe is me!

A-long ago was a ladye fair, With cyne of blue and with golden hair; When her love came not she was full of care— Ah woe is me! She pined—but she pined not quite away, She wed with the knight who survived the fray— Ah! woe is me!

The Sea: A Night Watch Above

THE DERELICT

THE SEA

A NIGHT WATCH ABOVE

My soul is sick for the sea, For the scudding ships, For the rollers racing free, For the winds that sting like whips, For the winds that sting like whips, For the winds that smack like wine: O for a good ship on the sea, If that good ship were mine.

Here is the night-watch set, And here do I take my stand, Doing my spell at the parapet With my eye fixed on No Man's Land; With my eye set on No Man's Land, With my eye on that waste o' Hell, But my heart alert for the full sail's fret And the boom of the old ship bell.

I set my soul on an outward bound, And I set the course by a star; But I miss the swell beneath my feet. As she noses for over the bar, As she rises and dips at the bar, As she pauses to sniff the gale; To-night I would circle the whole world round With never a shorten sail!

I stand on the firing-step, As I've stood on the fo'c'sle-head, And I think of the sailors drowned I've known, And the soldiers I've known who are dead,

Of my mates over there who are dead, Of my mates who are graved in the sea, And I think that if God gave me choice of graves, I know what my choice would be!

The spindrift smites my face, As there comes the lashing of rain, And the gale whistles through the top-gallants Like the cry of a soul in pain, Like the cry of a soldier slain?— Or a mariner in the sea?— Ah! if God would but give me choice of death, I know what my choice would be!

The Star-Shell

THE STAR-SHELL

(WITH APOLOGIES TO THE GENTLE SHADE OF JANE TAYLOR)

Twinkle, twinkle, little star, I know just what the 'ell you are, Up above the trench so high, Like some d—— arc-lamp in the sky!

When the blinking sun is gone, When 'e nothing shines upon, The Allemand throws up your light, Twinkle, twinkle all the night.

Then the Tommy in the dark Thanks you for your tiny spark— (I don't think!) Fritz wouldn't guess our little go If you did not twinkle so!

But as it is 'e opens fire, Ketching us working at our wire— ("Keep still, you blokes; get on yer knees, And freeze, ye bloomin' blighters, freeze!)

Oft in the trench my watch I keep, And o'er the parapet I peep, But Lordy! I must mind my eye, When you go soaring through the sky!

Or when I'm out upon patrol, I've got to flop into a hole— Well do I know just what you are—Hell!— (There goes another !) Twinkle, twinkle, little star-shell!

The Carrion Crow

THE CARRION CROW

A crow sat on a crooked tree, And first it cawed, then glowered at me.

Quoth I, "Thou hoary, hooded crow, Why do ye glower upon me so?"

"I look upon thee live," it said, "That I may better ken thee dead;

"That I may claim thee for my ain When ye are smoored among the slain."

The crow perched on that crooked tree, Nor raised its evil eye frae me.

It perched upon that crooked thorn, And gazed on me as if in scorn:

"I'll whet my bill upon thy blade Where thou art lying in the glade;

"I'll pike out baith thy bonnie e'en; I'll pike the flesh frae off each bane;

"Thy lips that kissed a lover fair, God wot! but I will kiss them bare!"

The crow perched on that crooked tree, Nor raised its evil eye frae me.

"Thou horrid, hooded, hoary crow, Why do ye glower upon me so?"

"I look upon thee live," it said, "That I may better ken thee dead."

[There is a somewhat whimsical sequel to the above. One afternoon the R.Q.M.S., who is one of the best revolver shots in the Battalion, entered my billet with a Webley in one hand and a dead crow in the other. "He perched upon a tree, and glowered at me, and as I thought of him possibly picking out my e'en—well, I picked him off first!"]

Noel

NOEL

Christmas Eve, and a wind with a sting, We rode from Ypres through Elverdinghe. The ruined church rose gaunt on our right: With a turn of the head, The Q.M. said, "There will be no service to-night!"

RUINED CHURCH AT ELVERDINGHE "There will be no service to-night!"

Casualty List (Unofficial)

CASUALTY LIST

(UNOFFICIAL)

Maidens and matrons; mothers o' sons, How many have fallen a prey to the guns?

The Things I've Seen

THE THINGS I'VE SEEN

Perhaps a hundred years from now, When I below the sod am jammed, Some bloke may pick up this 'ere pome, And read, and say, "Well, I'll be damned!"

"There's nothing new," the Preacher says, "That happens underneath the sun"— And yet the curious things I've seen; The bloomin' curious things I've done.