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diff --git a/old/69980-0.txt b/old/69980-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index af2b306..0000000 --- a/old/69980-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3831 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Yanks, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Yanks - A.E.F. verse originally published in “The Stars and Stripes,” - the official newspaper of the American expeditionary forces - -Author: Various - -Release Date: February 7, 2023 [eBook #69980] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading - Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from - images generously made available by The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YANKS *** - - -[Illustration: He’s been on every front from Château-Thierry to the -Rhine CLR, Baldwin Jr. Coblenz—1919] - - - - - YANKS - A. E. F. VERSE - - - ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN - “THE STARS AND STRIPES” - - THE OFFICIAL NEWSPAPER OF THE AMERICAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCES - - ❧ - - G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS - NEW YORK AND LONDON - The Knickerbocker Press - 1919 - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1919 - BY - G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS - -[Illustration] - - - - - To - - THE CHILDREN OF FRANCE - - - - - FOREWORD - - -The A. E. F. was about the most sentimental outfit that ever lived. Most -of it—so it seemed to anyone who served on the staff of _The Stars and -Stripes_—wrote poetry. All of it read poetry. “The Army’s Poets” column, -in which some hundred thousand lines of verse were printed during the -course of the Army newspaper’s existence, was re-read, cut out, sent -home, pinned or pasted up in dugouts, Adrian barracks and mess shacks, -laughed over and, in all likelihood, wept over. - -It was good verse. Occasionally the metre was out of joint, the rhymes -faulty, the whole mechanism awry, but it was good verse for all that. -For it rang true, every syllable of it, however the scansion may have -halted or the expression blundered. It was inspired by mud and cooties -and gas and mess-kits and Boche 77’s and home and mother, all -subordinated to a determination to stick it through whatever the time -and pains involved. - -Various anthologies of war verse have appeared in America. Nearly all -have consisted almost wholly of the work of non-combatant poets—indeed -of professionals—who wrote smoothly, visioned the horror with facile -accuracy for what it was, and interpreted well—for people who didn’t get -to the war. _Yanks_ is the work of men who got there. It is a source -book of A. E. F. emotion. - -_Yanks_ is composed entirely of selections from the verse published in -_The Stars and Stripes_ during the nine months of its pre-armistice -career, and seven months before the Army newspaper, according to the -pledge of its editors, was “folded away, never to be taken out again.” -The profits from the original edition were to have been used to buy -fruit and delicacies for American sick and wounded in overseas -hospitals, and would have been but for the decision of the Judge -Advocate General of the A. E. F. who, after the publication and sale of -the volume, refused to permit the expenditure of the proceeds because of -a technicality. - -The royalties accruing from the sale of this volume will be devoted to -_The Stars and Stripes_ Fund for French War Orphans, to which 600,000 -American soldiers gave more than 2,200,000 francs during their stay in -France. - -This republication is made with the consent and approval of Newton D. -Baker, Secretary of War, under the direction of the former editorial -council of _The Stars and Stripes_, now associated in the publication of -_The Home Sector_. - -[Illustration: John T. Winterich] - - - - - CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - FOREWORD v - - JUST THINKIN’—_Hudson Hawley, Pvt., M.G. Bn._ 1 - - TO THE KID SISTER—_J. T. W., Pvt., A.S._ 3 - - CORP’RAL’S CHEVRONS 5 - - YOU’RE NOT A FAN, PIERRETTE—_S. H. C._ 6 - - MY SWEETHEART—_Frank C. McCarthy, Sgt., A.S._ 8 - - DAD’S LETTERS 9 - - MLLE. SOIXANTE-QUINZE—_J. M. H., F.A._ 11 - - HOME IS WHERE THE PIE IS 14 - - HOW IT WORKS OUT—_Tyler H. Bliss, Corp., Inf._ 16 - - FAITH 19 - - THE ORPHANS OF FRANCE—_Franklin P. Adams, Capt., U. S. A.; Stuart - H. Carroll, Sgt., Q.M.C._ 20 - - REVEILLE—_Ray L. Huff, Pvt., M.D._ 22 - - FULL DIRECTIONS—_Daniel Turner Balmer, A.S._ 24 - - ON LEARNING FRENCH—_Alfred J. Fritchey, Camp Hospital 30_ 25 - - “WHO SAID SUNNY FRANCE?”—_Jack Warren Carrol, Corp., F.A._ 26 - - THE TRUANT—_R. R. Kirk, Pvt., G2, S.O.S._ 28 - - TRIBUTE—_F. M. H. D., F.A._ 29 - - SEA STUFF—_Steuart M. Emery, Pvt., M.P._ 31 - - LETTERS—_Mel Ryder, Sgt. Major, Inf._ 33 - - SOLDIER SMILES—_Allen A. Stockdale, Capt., U.S.A._ 35 - - BEEFING—_H. H. Huss, Sgt., Inf._ 37 - - THE TANK—_Richard C. Colburn, Sgt., Tank Corps_ 39 - - THE NEW ARMY—_R. R. Kirk, S.S.U._ 42 - - TOUJOURS LE MÊME—_Vance C. Criss, Corp., Engrs._ 43 - - TO THE WEST WIND—_William S. Long, Corp., A.S._ 45 - - THE DRIVER—_F. M. H. D., F.A._ 46 - - SONG OF THE CENSOR MAN—_John Fletcher Hall, Sgt., Inf., Acting - Chaplain_ 48 - - DO YOU KNOW THIS GUY?—_Frank Eisenberg, Pvt., Tel. Bn._ 50 - - CAMOUFLAGE—_M. G._ 52 - - TRENCH MUD—_John J. Curtin, Sgt., Inf._ 54 - - I LOVE CORNED BEEF—_A. P. B._ 56 - - A CHAPLAIN’S PRAYER—_Thomas F. Coakley, Lt., Chaplain_ 59 - - BILLETS 60 - - THE MULE SKINNERS—_William Bradford, 2nd Lt., A.G.D._ 63 - - THE OLD OVERSEAS CAP—_Fairfax D. Downey, 1st Lt., F.A._ 65 - - HOGGIN’ IT—_Med. Mique_ 67 - - THE MAN—_H. T. S._ 69 - - SONG OF THE GUNS—_Grantland Rice, 1st Lt., F.A._ 70 - - THROUGH THE WHEAT 72 - - ALLIES—_Merritt Y. Hughes, Pvt., Inf._ 74 - - TO BUDDY—_Howard J. Green, Corp., Inf._ 76 - - THE WOOD CALLED ROUGE-BOUQUET—_Joyce Kilmer, Sgt., Inf. Killed in - action, July 30, 1918_ 78 - - GOOD-BYE 81 - - THE FIELDS OF THE MARNE—_Frank Carbaugh, Sgt., Inf. (Written while - lying wounded in hospital; died, August, 1918)_ 83 - - A NURSE’S PRAYER—_Thomas F. Coakley, Lt., Chaplain_ 85 - - LINES ON LEAVING A LITTLE TOWN WHERE WE RESTED—_Russell Lord, - Corp., F.A._ 86 - - POPPIES—_Joseph Mills Hanson, Capt., F.A._ 87 - - POILU—_Steuart M. Emery, Pvt., M.P._ 89 - - AS THINGS ARE 91 - - THE GIRL OF GIRLS—_Howard A. Herty, Corp., 1st Army Hq._ 92 - - THE LITTLE DREAMS—_Joseph Mills Hanson, Capt., F.A._ 94 - - THE R.T.O.—_A. P. Bowen, Sgt., R.T.O._ 98 - - THE MACHINE GUN—_Albert Jay Cook, Corp., M.G. Bn._ 100 - - OUR DEAD 102 - - EVERYBODY’S FRIEND—_Frederick W. Kurth, Sgt., M.T.D._ 103 - - THE STEVEDORE—_C. C. Shanfelter, Sgt., S.C._ 105 - - BLACK AND WHITE—_Harv._ 108 - - THE OL’ CAMPAIGN HAT 111 - - WHEN THE GENERAL CAME TO TOWN—_Vance C. Criss, Corp., Engrs._ 113 - - SEICHEPREY—_J. M. H._ 116 - - BEFORE A DRIVE—_Charles Lyn Fox, Inf._ 117 - - PRIVATE JONES, A. E. F.—_William I. Engle, Pvt., Inf._ 119 - - “HOMMES 40, CHEVAUX 8” 121 - - THE BUGLER—_Lin Davies, Pvt._ 123 - - THE RETURN OF THE REFUGEES—_Frederick W. Kurth, Sgt., M.T.D._ 124 - - AS THE TRUCKS GO ROLLIN’ BY—_L. W. Suckert, 1st Lt., A.S._ 126 - - GETTIN’ LETTERS—_E. C. D., Field Hospital_ 129 - - TO THE CHILDREN OF FRANCE—_R. R. Kirk, Pvt., G2, S.O.S._ 131 - - THEN WE’LL COME BACK TO YOU—_Howard H. Herty, Corp., 1st Army Hq. - Reg._ 132 - - TO A DOUGHBOY 133 - - LIL’ PAL O’ MINE—_E.S.E._ 135 - - PERFECT CONTRITION—_Thomas F. Coakley, Lt., Chaplain_ 136 - - WHEN PRIVATE MUGRUMS PARLAY VOOS—_Charles Divine, Pvt._ 137 - - IF I WERE A COOTIE—_A. P. Bowen, Sgt., R.T.O._ 139 - - THE LILY—_Howard J. Green, Corp., Inf._ 141 - - ME,—AN’ WAR GOIN’ ON!—_John Palmer Cumming, Inf._ 142 - - THE ROAD TO MONTFAUCON—_Harold Riezelman, 1st Lt., C.W.S._ 145 - - VESTAL STAR—_Fra Guido, F.A._ 146 - - THE DOUGHBOY PROMISES—_Arthur McKeogh, Lt., Inf._ 147 - - OLD LADY RUMOR—_C. H. MacCoy, Base Hosp. 38_ 149 - - THE LOST TOWNS—_Steuart M. Emery, Pvt., M.P._ 150 - - DER TAG—_Howard J. Green, Corp., Inf._ 152 - - THERE’S ABOUT TWO MILLION FELLOWS—_Albert J. Cook, Sgt., Hq. - Detch.,—Army Corps_ 154 - - NOVEMBER ELEVENTH—_Hilmar R. Baukhage, Pvt., A.E.F._ 157 - - - - - JUST THINKIN’ - - - Standin’ up here on the fire-step, - Lookin’ ahead in the mist, - With a tin hat over your ivory - And a rifle clutched in your fist; - Waitin’ and watchin’ and wond’rin’ - If the Hun’s comin’ over to-night— - Say, ain’t the things you think of - Enough to give you a fright? - - Things you ain’t even thought of - For a couple o’ months or more; - Things that ’ull set you laughin’, - Things that ’ull make you sore; - Things that you saw in the movies, - Things that you saw on the street, - Things that you’re really proud of, - Things that are—not so sweet. - - Debts that are past collectin’, - Stories you hear and forget, - Ball games and birthday parties, - Hours of drill in the wet; - Headlines, recruitin’ posters, - Sunsets ’way out at sea, - Evenings of pay days—golly, - It’s a queer thing, this memory! - - Faces of pals in Homeburg - Voices of women folk, - Verses you learnt in schooldays - Pop up in the mist and smoke, - As you stand there, grippin’ that rifle, - A-starin’, and chilled to the bone, - Wonderin’ and wonderin’ and wonderin’, - Just thinkin’ there—all alone! - - When will the war be over? - When will the gang break through? - What will the U. S. look like? - What will there be to do? - Where will the Boches be then? - Who will have married Nell? - When’s that relief a-comin’ up? - Gosh! But this thinkin’s hell! - HUDSON HAWLEY, Pvt., M.G. Bn. - - - - - TO THE KID SISTER - - - You were only a kid, little sister, - When I started over the sea, - But you’ve grown quite a lot since I came here, - And you’ve written a letter to me, - And nobody knows that you wrote it— - It’s a secret—and we’ll keep it well, - Your brother and you and the ocean, - And nobody’s going to tell. - - You were only a tot when I left you. - I remember I bade you goodbye - And kissed you, a little bit flustered, - And you promised you never would cry. - But I know that you cried, little sister, - As soon as I’d gone out the door, - And did I cry myself? I’m a soldier, - So don’t ask me anything more. - - I think of you often, kid sister— - You’re the only kid sister I’ve got— - I know you’ll be good to your mother, - And I know that you’ll help her a lot. - And whenever she seems to be gloomy, - You’ve just got to cheer her somehow— - You were only a kid to your brother, - But you’re more than the world to him now. - J. T. W., Pvt., A.S. - - - - - CORP’RAL’S CHEVRONS - - - Oh, the General with his shiny stars, leadin’ a parade, - The Colonel and the Adjutant a-sportin’ of their braid, - The Major and the Skipper—none of ’em look so fine - As a newly minted corp’ral comin’ down the line! - - Oh, the Bishop in his mitre, pacin’ up the aisle, - The Governor, frock-coated, with a votes-for-women smile, - The Congressman, the Mayor, aren’t in it, I opine, - With a newly minted corp’ral comin’ down the line! - - - - - YOU’RE NOT A FAN, PIERRETTE - - - I’ll take you to the Follies, dear, - If there you think you’d like to go; - I’ll buy you beaucoup wine and beer - Down at the gay Casino show; - In short, I’ll do whatever task - Your little heart desires to name - Save one: You must not ever ask - To see another baseball game. - - Your understanding is immense - At “compreying” the jokes they spring - In vaudeville shows—and you’re not dense - Because you like to hear me sing. - But, cherie, you will never be - The one to set my heart aflame, - Because you simply cannot see - The inside of a baseball game. - - When you and I were watching while - The Doughboys battled the Marines, - Did classy hitting make you smile? - Did you rejoice in home run scenes? - Ah, no; when Meyer slammed the pill— - They couldn’t find it for a week— - You turned to me and said, “Oh, Bill, - I sink hees uniform ees chique.” - - And did you holler “Atta Boy!” - When Powell zipped ’em, one, two, three, - And made the Doughboys dance with joy— - Was yours the voice that rose in glee? - Not so; you made your escort feel - Like one big, foolish, roasted goose, - When all the bleachers heard you squeal, - “But, Bill, hees nose ees so retrousse.” - - So when you don your new chapeau - Hereafter for a promenade, - Remember that no more we’ll go - To sit beneath the grandstand shade; - Your curtain calls are surely great - Where Thespians tread the boards of fame, - But, Gosh! you can’t appreciate - A good old Yankee baseball game. - S. H. C. - - - - - MY SWEETHEART - - - I saw her in a dream as though in life, - Her form, her soft blue eyes, her eider hair, - Which fell as silken, golden portals, draped - Before her bosom fair. - - She whispered in my ear, “Sweetheart, be brave, - We’ll back you up in all you do and dare.” - Then bending o’er, she pressed her lips to mine ... - I woke—she was not there. - FRANK C. MCCARTHY, Sgt., A.S. - - - - - DAD’S LETTERS - - - My dad ain’t just the letter writin’ kind— - He’d rather let the women see to that; - He’s got a mess o’ troubles on his mind, - And likes to keep ’em underneath his hat. - - And p’raps because he isn’t very strong - On talkin’, why, he’s kind o’ weak on ink; - But he can work like sin the whole year long, - And, crickey, how that dad o’ mine can think! - - When I set out from Homeville last July, - He didn’t bawl the way my sister did; - He just shook hands and says, “Well, boy, goodbye.” - (He’s got his feelin’s, but he keeps ’em hid.) - - And so when mother writes about the things - That I spend half my time a-thinkin’ of, - There’s one short line that every letter brings: - “Father will write, and meanwhile sends his love.” - - “Father will write.” Well, some day p’raps he will— - There’s lots of funny prophecies come true; - But if he just keeps promisin’ to, still, - I’ll understand, and dad’ll know I do. - - - - - MLLE. SOIXANTE-QUINZE - - - Oh, a mistress fit for a soldier’s love - Is the graceful 75; - As neat and slim, and as strong and trim - As ever a girl alive. - - Where the steel-blue sheen of her mail is seen, - And the light of her flashing glance, - In the broken spray of the roaring fray - Is the soul of embattled France. - - Her love is true as the heaven’s blue— - She will fight for her love till death; - Her hate is a flame no fear can tame, - That slays with the lightning’s breath. - - For the sun of day turns fogged and gray, - And night is a reeling hell - When she swings the flail of the shrapnel’s hail, - Or looses the bursting shell. - - From high Lorraine to the Somme and the Aisne, - She has held at bay the Hun, - That with broken strength he may pay, at length, - For the sins that his race has done; - - For Alsace, torn from the mother land, - Ravished and mocked and chained; - For Belgium, nailed to the martyr’s cross, - For holding her faith unstained. - - Thou Maid, who cam’st, like a beacon flame, - In thy people’s darkest hour, - Who bade them thrill with patriot will - By the spell of thy mystic power, - - As thou gav’st them heart to speed the dart - From arquebus and bow, - Give us to drive, with the 75, - Our bolts on a baser foe, - - That we who have come from Freedom’s home - Across the western wave, - Such blows shall give that France may live - As once for us she gave. - - May our good guns play with a stinging spray - On the Prussian ranks of war, - And smite them yet as did Lafayette - The hireling Huns of yore! - - May we aim again at a tyrant’s men - As straight and swift a blow - As at Yorktown came, with smoke and flame, - From the guns of Rochambeau! - - Oh, a mistress fit for our soldier love - Is the soixante-quinze, our boast, - Our hope and pride, like a new-won bride, - But the dread of the Kaiser’s host! - J. M. H., F.A. - - - - - HOME IS WHERE THE PIE IS - - - “Home is where the heart is”— - Thus the poet sang; - But “home is where the pie is” - For the doughboy gang. - Crullers in the craters - Pastry in abris— - Our Salvation Army lass - Sure knows how to please. - - Watch her roll the pie crust - Mellower than gold; - Watch her place it neatly - Within its ample mold; - Sniff the grand aroma - While it slowly bakes— - Though the whine of Minnie shells - Echoes far awakes. - - Tin hat for a halo! - Ah, she wears it well! - Making pies for homesick lads - Sure is “beating hell”; - In a region blasted - By fire and flame and sword, - Our Salvation Army lass - Battles for the Lord! - - Call me sacrilegious, - And irreverent, too; - Pies? They link us up with home - As naught else can do! - “Home is where the heart is”— - True, the poet sang; - But “home is where the pie is” - To the Yankee gang! - - - - - HOW IT WORKS OUT - - - When Jonesy joined the Army he had all the dope down fine. - Said he, “I’d ought to land the cush, though serving in the line. - A private’s pay is thirty, then by adding ten per cent— - That’s thirty-three, - And now lessee, - In this here now French currency— - Five-sixty rate, - Makes one-eight-eight, - Or thereabouts; why, hell! that’s great! - It’s more’n enough - To buy me stuff, - And let me throw a swell front bluff. - Because my chow - Is paid for now, - And I don’t need but to allow - A little kale - For vin or ale, - And maybe some day blow a frail - To vo-de-vee - In gay Paree - Or some live joint like that citee— - Why, I’ll be flush—besides, Friend Govt. is staking me the rent.” - - On pay day Jones was right on deck, an outstretched cap in view— - He thought by trusting to his hands some clackers might leak through. - He’d planned to split his wages among all the leading banks, - But the Q.M. - Just said, “Ahem - Expenses come - To quite a sum, - Though where the tin is coming from - Is not my care, - But your affair. - We’ll have to charge you for a pair - Of leggins lost, - Ten francs the cost; - On board the ship we note you tossed - A cigarette - Into the wet— - Subs might upon our trail have set. - That’ll put you - Back ninety-two; - Insurance, bonds, allotments, too— - In short, you owe the Government just eighty-seven francs.” - TYLER H. BLISS, Corp., Inf. - - - - - FAITH - - - I heard the cannons’ monotone - A mile or two away; - But in the shell-torn town I saw - Two little boys at play. - - From what was yesterday a home - I heard the cannons booming; - But in the garden I could see - A bed of pansies blooming. - - Along the weary, dreary road, - Forspent and dull I trod; - But in the sky of spring I saw - The countenance of God. - - - - - THE ORPHANS OF FRANCE - - - Gone are the games that they should be playing; - Gone are the trinkets to childhood dear. - Hushed are the voices that should be saying - Words of parental cheer. - - Give them the joy that is theirs by birthright! - Give them the smiles they are robbed of! Give, - Give them the love that is childhood’s earth-right— - Give them the right to live! - FRANKLIN P. ADAMS, Capt., U.S.A. - - - Give, and the baby buds shall grow - In childhood’s sheltered garden plot; - Give, and the coming years shall show - Each blossom a forget-me-not. - - Give, and the dawn of lonesome years - Shall turn to a springtime morning mild; - Give, and receive through a mist of tears, - The blessing of a little child. - STUART H. CARROLL, Sgt., Q.M.C. - - - - - REVEILLE - - - Get up, get up, you sleepy head, - And grab your sox and trou; - Get up, get up, get out of bed, - You’re in the Army now. - - Get up, get up, you carrion beast, - Get up and dig for chow; - It doesn’t matter what you think, - You’re in the Army now. - - Get up and powder, rouge and curl - And dress—no matter how— - But don’t be late for reveille, - You’re in the Army now. - - Get up, you foozle, ninny, boob, - There’s eggs and cheese and ham - (For officers) and slum for you, - You slave of Uncle Sam. - - But don’t you fret or don’t you fume, - For honest Injun! How - Would you have felt if you were not - In Uncle’s Army now? - RAY L. HUFF, Pvt., M.D. - - - - - FULL DIRECTIONS - - - We saw them, but we did not need to ask where lay the Front; - Their clothes were neat and rolls aback, well made; - They marched with faces wrinkled, not by smiles or many frowns, - Betokening men determined, unafraid. - - Once more we saw them, needing not to ask where lay the Front; - Their clothes were soiled, and packs in careless roll; - They, greeting, made their way along with faces tired yet bright, - Betokening men who fought with heart and soul. - - We need not hear the cannon’s boom to know where action lies, - Nor yet to seek until we find the place, - For map and compass, signboard, news we’re ever getting from - The look upon the passing poilu’s face. - DANIEL TURNER BALMER, A.S. - - - - - ON LEARNING FRENCH - - - Like silver bells heard in a mist, - Or moonstone echoes from some brook - Where silver birches wall a nook, - Or like sea ripples moon-lit kissed, - - Or like a lake of silver ledges - Where iris water-lilies lave, - Or like some lark’s translucent wave - Of song above white hawthorn hedges, - - The maiden ripples French to me; - But I am like an argonaut - In some mute agony of thought, - Lost in sound’s sweet tranquillity. - ALFRED J. FRITCHEY, Camp Hospital 30. - - - - - “WHO SAID SUNNY FRANCE?” - - - It lies on your blankets and over your bed, - There’s mud in the cover that covers your head, - There’s mud in the coffee, the slum, and the bread— - Sunny France! - There’s mud in your eyebrows, there’s mud up your nose, - There’s mud on your leggins to add to your woes, - The mud in your boots finds its place ’twixt your toes— - Sunny France! - - _Oh, the grimy mud, the slimy mud, the mud that makes you swear, - The cheesy mud, the greasy mud, that filters through your hair._ - - You sleep in the mud, and drink it, that’s true; - There’s mud in the bacon, the rice, and the stew, - When you open an egg, you’ll find mud in it, too— - Sunny France! - There’s mud in the water, there’s mud in the tea, - - There’s mud in your mess-kit as thick as can be, - It sticks to your fingers like leaves to a tree— - Sunny France! - - _Oh, the ruddy mud, the muddy mud, the mud that gets your goat, - The sliding mud, the gliding mud, that sprays your pants and coat!_ - - It cakes in your mouth till you feel like an ox, - It slips down your back and it rests in your sox; - You think that you’re walking on cut glass and rocks— - Sunny France! - There’s mud in your gas mask, there’s mud in your hat, - There’s mud in your helmet, there’s mud on your gat, - Yet though mud’s all around us, we’re happy at that— - Sunny France! - - _Oh, the dank, dank mud, the rank, rank mud, there’s just one guy to - blame; - We’ll wish him well (we will like hell!) and Kaiser Bill’s his name!_ - JACK WARREN CARROL, Corp., F.A. - - - - - THE TRUANT - - - The wise years saw him go from them, - Untaught by them, yet wise; - He had but romped with the hoyden years, - Unwitting how time flies; - Whose laughter glooms to wistfulness - At swift, undreamt good-byes. - - The wise, grave, patient mistresses - Of his young manhood’s school, - The wise, grave, patient years-to-be— - He never knew their rule; - And yet he marches by a man, - A hero, and no fool! - - The wise years see him go from them, - Untaught by them, yet wise; - The lad who played where, yesterday, - Girls’ kisses were the prize! - They wonder whence his manhood came, - So well he lives—and dies! - R. R. KIRK, Pvt., G2, S.O.S. - - - - - TRIBUTE - - - There’s tumultuous confusion a-comin’ down the road, - An’ the camouflage don’t nearways hide the dust, - An’ it ain’t no flock of camions, though some’s carryin’ a load - (I guess the provos winked—or got it fust). - But now it’s comin’ closer, you can tell ’em by the roar— - It’s the Hundred Second Infantry a-goin’ in once more. - - Oh, they’ve met the Hun at the length of a gun, - And they know what he is and they mind what he’s done, - So that’s why they sing as they slog to more fun! - You doughboys, you slow boys, - Here’s luck, an’ let her go, boys— - We like you, Infantry. - - Now us in the Artillery don’t live no life of ease - Nor yet particular security, - For the present that Fritz sends us one can’t dodge behind the trees, - Unless trees was much thicker than they be. - But we know our lot is doughnuts, Orders Home, and Gay Paree - To what you march to singin’, Hundred Second Infantry. - - Oh, there’s numerous blanks in your company ranks, - But there’s two in the Boches’ for one in the Yanks’, - An’ all that he guv, you returned him with thanks, - You doughboys, you slow boys, - Here’s luck, an’ let her go, boys— - We like you, Infantry. - F. M. H. D., F.A. - - - - - SEA STUFF - - - Now I’m a soldier, so I ain’t - No hand at art, but say, - There’s things at sea I’d like to paint - Before I’m tucked away. - - A cruiser on the sunrise track, - Alert to find the morn, - With every funnel belching black - Into the red, gold dawn; - - A flock o’ transports, crazy lined, - On blue-green waves advance, - That sink their bows, all spray an’ dewed, - Hellbootin’ it for France; - - A manned gun peerin’ out to port - As evenin’ shadows close; - Beyond, a ship slipped up an’ caught - Against a cloud o’ rose; - - A crow’s nest loomin’ from below - Across the Milk Way’s bars, - Just like a cradle rockin’ slow, - An’ sung to by the stars. - - No, I can’t paint the things I’ve seen - While we were passin’ by, - But, all the same, they sure have been - Worth lookin’ at, say I. - STEUART M. EMERY, Pvt., M.P. - - - - - LETTERS - - - My buddy reads his letters to me, and, say, he sure can write! - I have to sit and chew my pen and even then - The way it reads when I get through I know it’s pretty sad - As far as composition goes; the grammar, too, is bad. - But talk about—gee, he can sling the ink to beat the band, - And picture everything he’s seen a way that sure is grand. - - I got him to write a note to my gal and, golly, it was fine! - I copied it and signed my name, but, all the same, - It didn’t seem to please her, for she wrote in her reply - She’d read it several times and it didn’t sound like I - Was sayin’ exactly what I meant, and was I feelin’ good; - I’m kind of glad she took it so—in fact, I hoped she would. - MEL RYDER, Sgt. Major, Inf. - - - - - SOLDIER SMILES - - - You may talk of kings and princes, - And the glory of their show; - You may sing of knights and ladies - In the days of long ago; - You may paint a vivid picture - Of the wonder worlds to see, - But the smiles on soldier faces - Look the best of all to me. - - They are gassed and shelled and tortured, - They are muddy, thin, and weak; - They are shocked and shot and shattered, - And you marvel when they speak; - They will give their all in battle - That the world may be made free, - And their smiles amidst their sorrows - Are real miracles to see. - - They have smiled since they were babies— - Laughter, love have been their charms— - And their smiles were patriotic - When their country called to arms; - They go laughing to the trenches, - Filling fighting lines with glee, - And with smiles they come back wounded— - Those are smiles that puzzle me. - - Kings and kaisers may be mighty - As the bloody brutes of war; - They may use the worst of weapons - Never dreamed of e’er before; - But they’re sure to meet disaster - Over land and on the sea, - For the soldier boys of Freedom - Fight—and smile—the whole world free! - ALLEN A. STOCKDALE, Capt., U.S.A. - - - - - BEEFING - - - It seems I’m never satisfied - No matter where I go. - My job’s a cinch, my duties soft, - I still find grief and woe. - If I’m stationed in a training camp - Where drills are very light, - I holler to be sent up front - To get into the fight. - - When we were in the U. S. A., - I thought we had no chance, - And I wasn’t really satisfied - Till on my way to France. - We’ve been here now about six months, - And if I had kept track, - I’ll bet I’ve said, a thousand times, - “I wish that I was back.” - - And when I was a corporal - I belly-ached around - And thought a better sergeant - Than I’d make could not be found. - I’ve had three stripes for eight long months, - And still I curse my luck, - And threaten that I’ll tear ’em off - And go back to a buck. - - For when they try to please me - And dish out first class chow, - And there’s sugar in the coffee, - I’ll holler anyhow. - And if I was sent to Heaven - And up there was doing well, - I wouldn’t, yet, be satisfied - Till I’d got a look at hell! - H. H. HUSS, Sgt., Inf. - - - - - THE TANK - - - Oh, she’s nothin’ sweet to look at an’ no symphony to hear; - She ain’t no pome of beauty, that’s a cinch— - She howls like Holy Jumpin’ when a feller shifts a gear, - But she’s sure a lovey-dovey in a pinch. - Just head her straight for Berlin and no matter what the road, - Or whether it’s just trenches, trees, and mud, - And I’ll guarantee she’ll get there with her precious human load - And her treads a-drippin’ red with German blood. - Oh, you tank! tank! tank! - She’s a pippin’, she’s a daisy, she’s a dream! - Where the star-shells are a-lightin’ up the thickest of the fightin’, - She’ll be sailin’ like a demon through the gleam. - - - If the way is rough and stony and the vantage point is far, - Just slip her into high and hang on tight, - Shove your foot down on the throttle and to hell with all the jar!— - She’ll take you clean from here to out of sight. - ’Course you’ve got to clean and scrub her same as any piece of tin - That’s worth the smoke to blow her up the flue; - But just whisper to her gently, pat her back and yell “Giddap!” - And there ain’t a thing she wouldn’t do for you. - Oh, you tank! tank! tank! - She’s a Lulu, she’s a cuckoo! She’s the goods! - When the Boches see you comin’, they will set the air to hummin’ - A-wavin’ of their legs to reach the woods. - - When the last great rush is over and the last grim trench is past, - She will roll in high right through old Berlin town, - - Her grim old sides a-shakin’ and her innerds raisin’ hob, - Intent on runnin’ Kaiser William down. - Then she’ll find him and we’ll bind him to her grindin’, tearin’ treads, - And we’ll start her rollin’ on the road to hell, - Shove her into high and leave her, tie her bloomin’ throttle down— - We’ll say she’s lived her life and lived it well. - Oh, you tank! tank! tank! - She’s a devil! She’s a dandy! She’s sublime! - When her grimy hide goes hurlin’ through the dirty streets of Berlin, - Watch the goose step change to Yankee double time! - RICHARD C. COLBURN, Sgt., Tank Corps. - - - - - THE NEW ARMY - - - Who are those soldiers - Who go marching down? - They’re the young fellows - Of your old home town. - - The butcher’s son, the baker’s, - His Honor’s lad, too; - The old casual mixture - Of Gentile and Jew. - - Don’t they march manly! - Ay, they step light; - And soon by the papers - Ye’ll see they can fight! - R. R. KIRK, S.S.U. - - - - - TOUJOURS LE MÊME - - - No matter how wise or how foolish - The company’s cook may be, - When down at the table we’re seated, - Two things we all plainly can see; - When we look at the chow - There’s the bosom of sow, - And beans—beans—beans. - - If quartered in city or country, - The cook never misses his aim; - If messing in swamp or on mountain, - Two things will remain quite the same; - Though it may cause a row, - We get bosom of sow, - And beans—beans—beans. - - When tasks for the day are all ended, - And weary are body and brain, - Small matter it makes if we’re eating - Indoors, or outside in the rain, - The cook makes his bow - With the bosom of sow, - And beans—beans—beans. - - Of all that I’ve learned in the Army, - This fact I am sure I know well— - And others are certain to tell you— - The soldier’s worst picture of hell - Is thrice daily chow - With the bosom of sow, - And beans—beans—beans. - VANCE C. CRISS, Corp., Engrs. - - - - - TO THE WEST WIND - - - West Wind, you’ve come from There, - Surely my Girlie - Breathed in your truant air— - Did you kiss my Girlie? - Seemed then a-sleeping she, - As you passed merrily? - Whispered she aught of me, - Dreaming full tenderly? - - West Wind, turn back your speed; - Blow to my Girlie! - Turn back, you wind, and heed— - Hie to my Girlie! - Elfin-like seeming, - Close to her hover; - Into her dreaming - Say that I love her. - WILLIAM S. LONG, Corp., A. S. - - - - - THE DRIVER - - - I’m a slouch and a slop and a sluffer, - And my ears they are covered with hair, - And I frequent inhabit the guardhouse, - I’ll be “priv” until “fini la guerre.” - But my off horse, she shines like a countess, - And my nigh made the general blink, - And they pull like twin bats fresh from Hades, - And they’re quick as a demimonde’s wink. - - Oh, it’s often I’m late at formations, - And it’s taps I completely disdain. - And my bunk, it brings tears from the captain, - And the cooties are at me again. - But when there’s a piece in the mire, - With her muzzle just rimming the muck, - Then it’s hustle for me and my beauties— - If they don’t they are S.O. of luck. - - And when there’s some route that’s receiving - Its tender regards from the Huns, - Then we gallop hell bent for election - To our duty o’ feeding the guns. - The gas, the H.E., and the shrapnel, - They brighten our path as they burst, - But they’ve never got me or my chevals— - They’ll have to catch up to us first. - - I’m a slouch and a slop and a sluffer, - And my ears they are covered with hair, - And I frequent inhabit the guardhouse, - I’ll be “priv” until “fini la guerre.” - But my hosses, they neigh when I’m comin’, - An’ my sarge knows how hefty they drag, - An’ the cap lent me ten francs this mornin’— - Here’s to him an’ to me an’ the flag! - F. M. H. D., F.A. - - - - - SONG OF THE CENSOR MAN - - - Oh, I am the man with a mightier pen - Than the chisel the lawgiver knew; - The snip of my shears is more dreaded of men - Than the sword that Napoleon drew. - I foil the young man with a nose for the news, - And I stifle the first feeble note - Of the soldier who ventures to air any views - That he never was paid to promote. - - Oh, it’s snip, snip, snip is the rhythmic swing - Of my shears in the morning light, - And clip, clip, clip is the raucous ring - Of their voice in the starry night. - I may strike from the calendar all of its dates, - And I rob every town of its name, - And rarely a letter but sadly relates - The tale of my terrible fame. - - Oh, I know all the secrets that ever were told, - Till every unfortunate prays - That the book of omnipotent knowledge I hold - May be sealed to the end of my days. - On each written syllable, proudly I state, - I pronounce benediction or ban; - For I’m the personification of Fate— - The redoubtable Censor man! - JOHN FLETCHER HALL, - Sgt., Inf., Acting Chaplain. - - - - - DO YOU KNOW THIS GUY? - - - One hears at sound of reveille, - Straight through till taps is blown, - “Gimme, lemme take yer razor,” - “Have you got a sou to loan?” - Or maybe, “Gosh, I lost my towel, - Lemme take yours, will you, Bill?” - “Have you got some extra ‘Sunkums’?” - “I wanna wet me gill.” - - All through the day it’s e’er the same, - Week in, week out, “Say, Bo, - I’m just a few francs shy today, - Wot’s chances for a throw? - You know me, Al, me woid’s me bond, - I’ve never stuck a pal, - But I simply gotta keep that date - Or hunt another gal.” - - “Have you an extra undershirt? - The Major’s gonna see - What makes the men so nervous like - And scratch so frequently.” - “I’m gonna promenade ce soir, - Lemme take yer new puttees. - Aw, mine’s been muddy for a week, - Loose up, yuh tight ol’ cheese.” - - “I don’t know where me money goes, - It takes the prize for speed, - The next day after we’ve been paid, - Can’t buy a punk French weed. - Next month I’ll have to slacken up, - Or jump into the lake”— - But till that old ghost walks again, - It’s gimme, lemme take! - FRANK EISENBERG, Pvt., Tel. Bn. - - - - - CAMOUFLAGE - - - They tell us tales of camouflage, - The art of hiding things; - Of painted forts and bowered guns - Invisible to wings. - Well, it’s nothing new to us, - To us, the rank and file; - We understand this camouflage - —We left home with a smile. - - We saw the painted battleships - And earthen-colored trains, - And planes the hue of leaden skies, - And canvas-hidden lanes. - Well, we used the magic art - That day of anxious fears; - We understand this camouflage - —We laughed away your tears. - - They say that scientific men - And artists of renown - Debated long on camouflage - Before they got it down. - Well, it came right off to us, - We didn’t have to learn; - We understand this camouflage - —We said we’d soon return. - - We understand this camouflage, - This art of hiding things; - It’s what’s behind a soldier’s jokes - And all the songs he sings. - Yes, it’s nothing new to us, - To us, the rank and file; - We understand this camouflage - —We left home with a smile. - M. G. - - - - - TRENCH MUD - - - We have heard of Texas gumbo - And the mud in the Philippines, - Where, if we had legs like Jumbo, - The mud would cover our jeans. - But never did we get a chance - To feel real mud till we hit France. - - Our shoes are deep in it, - We often sleep in it, - We almost weep in it— - It’s everywhere; - We have to fight in it, - And vent our spite in it, - We look a sight in it, - But we don’t care! - - The mud that lies in No Man’s Land - Is as thick on the other side, - And where the Germans make their stand - Is where we’ll make them slide, - For our hob-nailed shoes will force a way, - And we’ll knock them cold—for the U.S.A. - - Though we must eat in it, - Wash our feet in it, - Try to look neat in it, - This mud and slime; - Though we get sore in it, - Grumble and roar in it, - _We’ll win the war in it_ - In our good time! - JOHN J. CURTIN, Sgt., Inf. - - - - - I LOVE CORNED BEEF - - - I LOVE corned beef—I never knew - How good the stuff COULD taste in stew! - I love it WET, I love it DRY, - I love it baked and called MEAT PIE. - I love it camouflaged in HASH— - A hundred bucks I’d give—in CASH - To have a BARREL of such chow - A-standing here before me now. - I say “YUM YUM” when “soupie” blows, - I SNIFF and raise aloft my nose: - CORNED WILLIE! Ha! Oh, BOY, that’s FINE! - Can hardly keep my place in LINE. - I kick my heels and wildly yell: - “Old Sherman said that ‘WAR IS HELL,’ - But GLADLY would I bear the heat - If corned beef I could get to eat!” - I love it HOT—I love it COLD, - Corned Willie never WILL grow old. - I love it—now PAUSE—listen, friend: - When to this war there comes an end - And PEACE upon the earth shall reign, - I’ll hop a boat for HOME again. - Then to a RESTAURANT I’ll speed— - No dainty MANNERS will I heed— - But to the waiter I will cry: - “Bring me—well, make it corned beef PIE! - And—better bring some corned beef STEW, - And corned beef COLD—I’ll take that, too. - And—now, don’t think I’m CRAZY, man, - But could you bring a corned beef CAN? - And—WAIT!—I’m not through ORDERING yet— - I want a SIRLOIN STEAK—you BET, - With hash browned SPUDS—now, LISTEN, friend, - I’ve got the CASH, you may depend— - Right HERE it is—let’s see, I’ll try— - Oh, bring a piece of hot MINCE PIE - And ALL this stuff that’s printed here; - My appetite is HUGE, I fear.” - - Then, when he’s filled my festive board - With all these eats, I’ll thank the Lord - (For that’s the PROPER thing to do), - And then I’ll take the corned beef STEW, - The corned beef PIE and corned beef COLD, - The corned beef CAN I’ll then take hold - And RAM the whole WORKS into it - And say: “NOW, damn you, THERE you’ll sit. - You’ve haunted every DREAM I’ve had— - You don’t know what shame IS, egad! - Now SIT there, Bo—See how you FEEL— - And watch me eat a REG’LAR meal!” - A. P. B. - - - - - A CHAPLAIN’S PRAYER - - - O Lord, I am not worthy to - Be found amid these reddened hands - Who offer an atoning due, - Themselves, to Thee, great martyr bands. - - Let me but kiss the ground they tread, - And breathe a prayer above their sod, - And gather up the drops they shed, - These heroes in the cause of God. - THOMAS F. COAKLEY, Lt., Chaplain. - - - - - BILLETS - - - (Dedicated to the gallant peasants of sunny France, who - own them, and the officers of the A.E.F. who made the - selection for the proletariat.) - - I’ve slept with horse and sad-eyed cow, - I’ve dreamed in peace with bearded goat, - I’ve laid my head on the rusty plow, - And with the pig shared table d’hôte. - I’ve chased the supple, leaping flea - As o’er my outstretched form he sped, - And heard the sneering rooster’s crow - When I chased the rabbit from my bed. - I’ve marked the dog’s contented growl, - His wagging tail, his playful bite; - With guinea pig and wakeful owl - I’ve shared my resting place at night, - While overhead, where cobweb lace - Like curtains drapes the oaken beams, - The spiders skipped from place to place - And sometimes dropped in on my dreams. - And when the morning, damp and raw, - Arrived at last as if by chance, - I’ve crawled from out the rancid straw - And cussed the stable barns of France. - - And sometimes when the day is done - And lengthening shadows pointing long, - I dream of days when there was sun - And street cars in my daily song. - But over here—ah! what a change, - The clouds are German-silver lined— - Who worries when we get the mange? - What boots it if our shoes are shined? - The day speeds by and night again - Looms up a specter grim and bare; - We trek off to the hen house then - And climb the cross barred ladder there— - Another biologic night - Spent in a state sans peace, sans sleep; - And as I soothe some stinging bite, - I mark the gentle smell of sheep, - The smell that wots of grassy dell, - Of hillsides green where fairies dance.... - The vision’s past—I’m back in hell, - An ancient stable barn of France. - - We’ve slept with all the gander’s flock, - By waddling duck we’ve slumbered on— - In fact, we’ve slept with all the stock, - And they will miss us when we’re gone. - We’ve seen at times the nocturne eyes - Of playful mouse on evening spree, - And the coastwise trade at night he plies - With Brother Louse on a jamboree. - We’ve scratched and fought with foe unseen, - And with the candle hunted wide - For the bug that thrives on Paris green, - But cashes in on bichloride. - - Perchance may come a night of stars, - Perchance the snow drift through the tile, - Perchance the evil face of Mars - Peeks in and shows his wicked smile; - ’Tis then we dream of other days - When we were free and in the dance, - And followed in the old time ways, - Far from the stable barns of France. - - - - - 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 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. - - 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 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. - - - - - THE OLD OVERSEAS CAP - - - The war of the Trojans and all the Greek crew - Was fought for the sake of a fair lady who - Went absent without leave, for weal or for woe, - And took her permission to Paris to go. - - All Greeks grasped steel helmets and trench knives and tanks - And wheel teams and chariots and fell into ranks. - Shipping boards gave no trouble with quarrels or slips: - The beauty of Helen had launched all the ships. - - All cautioned their sweethearts that since they must go, - To keep home hearths heated, on flirting go slow; - For each warrior was off to the battle and strife - To make the world safe for a good-looking wife. - - But they’d never have fought if they’d read Helen’s note, - Which just before leaving she hastily wrote: - “Menelaus just entered our once happy home - With an overseas cap on the top of his dome!” - FAIRFAX D. DOWNEY, 1st Lt., F.A. - - - - - HOGGIN’ IT - - - Well, I’ve eaten food sublime, and I’ve eaten food that’s rotten, - From Alaska’s coldest corner to where the landscape’s cotton; - At times there has been plenty, then there’s times when there’s been - none, - And I’ve kept me upper stiffest, for complainin’ I’m not one. - But it’s now that I’m protestin’—oh, I’ve suffered silence long— - It’s fancy food I’m cravin’, for me system’s goin’ wrong. - - Oh, it’s bacon, bacon, bacon, - Till your belly’s fairly achin’ - For some biscuits or some hot cakes that in your mouth would melt; - There’s no German dog could dare me, - No fear of death would scare me, - If I only had some chicken à la King beneath me belt. - - Now I read where Mr. Hoover tells the folks to lay off hoggin’, - We’ll be needin’ lots of grub to put the Fritz on the toboggan; - And the way that they’ve responded makes you feel so awful proud - That you’d like to meet old Bill to take his measure for a shroud. - Lord, it’s plenty that we’re gettin’, but I’d be dancin’ jigs - If they’d pass an order home to stop a-killin’ off the pigs. - - For it’s bacon, bacon, bacon, - Till your very soul is shakin’— - If I could pick me eatin’, it’s a different song I’d sing; - I’d not miss a raidin’ party, - For patrol I’d be quite hearty, - Oh, I’d swap me chance of Heaven for some chicken à la King. - MED. MIQUE. - - - - - THE MAN - - - Here today in the sunshine I saw a soldier go - Out of Life’s heated battle into the evening glow. - He was just a common soldier, one of a mighty clan, - But every watcher bared his head in honor to the Man. - We stood there at attention, and the flag-draped coffin came, - And we snapped up to salute him, though we never knew his name. - He was just a common soldier, but we couldn’t salute as well - The best old major general on this bright side o’ hell! - H. T. S. - - - - - SONG OF THE GUNS - - - This is the song that our guns keep singing, - Here where the dark steel shines; - This is the song with their big shells winging - Over the German lines— - - “We are taking you home by the shortest way, - We are taking you out of this blood and slime - To the land you left in an ancient day, - Where lost lanes wander at twilight time; - We are bringing you peace - In the swift release - From the grind where the gas drifts blur; - On a steel shod track - We are taking you back, - We are taking you back to Her!” - - This is the song that our guns keep roaring, - Out through the night and rain; - This is the song with their big shell soaring - Over the battered plain— - - “We are taking you home by the only way, - By the only road that will get you back - To the dreams you left where the dusk was gray - And the night wind sang of a long-lost track; - We are bringing you rest - From the bitter test, - From the pits where the great shells whirr; - Through the bloody loam - We are taking you home, - We are taking you home to Her!” - GRANTLAND RICE, 1st Lt., F.A. - - - - - THROUGH THE WHEAT - - (The Sergeant’s Story) - - - “There’s a job out there before us,” - Said the Captain, kinder solemn; - “There’s a crop out there to gather - Through the wheat fields just ahead.” - Through the wheat of Château-Thierry - That was soon to hold our column, - “There’s a crop out there to gather,” - That was all the Captain said. - (Oh, at dawn the wheat was yellow, - But at night the wheat was red.) - - “There’s a crop out there to gather,” - And we felt contentment stealin’ - Like a ghost from out the shadows - Of a lost, old-fashioned street; - For the crop out there before us - Brought a kinder home-like feelin’, - Though the zippin’ German bullets - Started hissin’ through the wheat. - But it didn’t seem to bother - As we slogged along the beat. - - “There’s snakes here,” whooped a private - As the bullets started hissin’; - And we saw that Hun machine guns - In the thicket formed our crop; - So we started for the harvest - Where a bunch of them was missin’, - But a bunch of them was hittin’ - Where we hadn’t time to stop. - But we damned ’em to a finish - As we saw a bunkie drop. - - So we gathered in the harvest, - And we didn’t leave one missin’; - (We had gathered crops before this - With as tough a job ahead.) - Through the wheat of Château-Thierry, - With the German bullets hissin’, - “There’s a crop out there to gather,” - That was all the Captain said. - (Oh, at dawn the wheat was yellow, - But at night the wheat was red.) - - - - - ALLIES - - - The French, the British, and the Portugee, - Captain, or colonel, or king though he be, - Gives a salute in response to me, - Buck private in Uncle Sam’s Infantry. - There’s much that a soldier’s salute implies, - But it means the most when it means, “We’re Allies!” - - In Belgium and France and Italy - They talk in ways that are Greek to me, - But the speech of soldiers’ courtesy - Is a Lingua Franca wherever you be. - With a single gesture, I recognize - That I am one of the Twenty Allies. - - I never could tell just why it should be - That the first salute should be up to me - In this queer, new army democracy, - But every commander must answer me, - British, or French, or Indo-Chinee, - Captain, or colonel, or king though he be. - There’s much that a soldier’s salute implies, - But it means the most when it means, “We’re Allies!” - MERRITT Y. HUGHES, Pvt., Inf. - - - - - TO BUDDY - - - It’s a tough fight for you, Buddy, - And it takes a heap of grit - To stick and win - And keep your grin - When you’re in the thick of it. - - It’s no cinch for you, Buddy, - When the dreams with which you came - Melt into naught - As you are taught - The horrid, bitter game. - - It’s a hard pull for you, Buddy, - And oft times it looks damned blue, - But square your chin - And vow to win, - And play the game clean through. - - For there’s a great time coming, Buddy, - A time worth waiting for, - When Kultur’s done - And all is won, - And the boys come home from war. - - Oh, she’ll be waiting, Buddy, - And the lovelight in her eye - Will shine with joy - As Her Big Boy - Goes proudly marching by. - - It’s a hard road for you, Buddy, - But it’s more than worth the game - To buck all fears - So Mother’s tears - Will be for joy, not shame. - HOWARD J. GREEN, Corp., Inf. - - - - - THE WOOD CALLED ROUGE-BOUQUET[1] - - - (Dedicated to the memory of 19 members of Co. E., - 165th Infantry, who made the supreme sacrifice at - Rouge-Bouquet, Forest of Parroy, France, March 7; read - by the chaplain at the funeral, the refrain echoing - the music of Taps from a distant grove.) - - - I - - In the woods they call Rouge-Bouquet - There is a new-made grave today, - Built by never a spade or pick, - Yet covered by earth ten metres thick. - - There lie many fighting men, - Dead in their youthful prime, - Never to laugh or live again - Or taste of the summer time; - - For death came flying through the air - And stopped his flight at the dugout stair, - Touched his prey— - And left them there— - Clay to clay. - He hid their bodies stealthily - In the soil of the land they sought to free, - And fled away. - - Now over the grave, abrupt and clear, - Three volleys ring; - And perhaps their brave young spirits hear: - Go to sleep— - Go to sleep— - (_Taps sounding in distance._) - - - II - - There is on earth no worthier grave - To hold the bodies of the brave - Than this spot of pain and pride - Where they nobly fought and nobly died. - Never fear but in the skies - Saints and angels stand, - Smiling with their holy eyes - On this new come band. - - St. Michael’s sword darts through the air - And touches the aureole on his hair, - As he sees them stand saluting there - His stalwart sons; - And Patrick, Bridget, and Columbkill - Rejoice that in veins of warriors still - The Gael’s blood runs - - And up to Heaven’s doorway floats, - From the woods called Rouge-Bouquet, - A delicate sound of bugle notes - That softly say: - Farewell— - Farewell— - (_Taps sounding in distance._) - - - L’ENVOI - - Comrades true, - Born anew, - Peace to you; - Your souls shall be where the heroes are, - And your memory shine like the morning star, - Brave and dear, - Shield us here— - Farewell! - JOYCE KILMER, Sgt., Inf. - Killed in action, July 30, 1918. - -Footnote 1: - - Copyright, 1918, Charles Scribner’s Sons. - Copyright, 1919, George H. Doran Co. - - - - - GOOD-BYE - - - Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, - We’re on the seas for France, - We’re on our way to make them pay - The piper for the dance. - To starboard and to port - Our paint-splotched convoys toss, - Grim thunderbolts in rainbow garb, - We jam a path across. - Our guns are slugged and set - To smack the U-boat’s eye— - God help the Hun that tries his luck— - Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye. - - Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, - The decks are deep with men, - We’re going out to God knows what, - We’ll be back God knows when. - Old friends are at our sides, - Old songs drift out to sea, - Oh, it is good to go to war - In such a company. - The sun is on the waves - That race to meet the sky, - Where strange new shores reach out to us— - Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye. - - Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, - A long and weary while, - Through all the drab and empty days, - Remember us and smile. - Our good ship shoulders on - Along a lane of foam, - And every turn the screw goes round - Is farther still from home. - We’ll miss the things we left, - The more the white miles fly, - So keep them till we come again— - Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye. - - - - - THE FIELDS OF THE MARNE - - - The fields of the Marne are growing green, - The river murmurs on and on; - No more the hail of mitrailleuse, - The cannon from the hills are gone. - - The herder leads the sheep afield, - Where grasses grow o’er broken blade; - And toil-worn women till the soil - O’er human mold, in sunny glade. - - The splintered shell and bayonet - Are lost in crumbling village wall; - No sniper scans the rim of hills, - No sentry hears the night bird call. - - From blood-wet soil and sunken trench, - The flowers bloom in summer light; - And farther down the vale beyond, - The peasant smiles are sad, yet bright. - - The wounded Marne is growing green, - The gash of Hun no longer smarts; - Democracy is born again, - But what about the troubled hearts? - FRANK CARBAUGH, Sgt., Inf. - (Written while lying wounded in hospital; died August, 1918.) - - - - - A NURSE’S PRAYER - - - O Lord, I must not cry, - And yet mine eyes contain - Such floods of scalding tears - That they will never dry, - Descending soft as rain, - Through all the coming years. - - Cor Jesu, I must weep, - When I behold the sight! - These men who fought and bled, - Who moan and cannot sleep, - Their souls so snowy white, - The wounded and the dead. - THOMAS F. COAKLEY, Lt., Chaplain. - - - - - LINES ON LEAVING A LITTLE TOWN WHERE WE RESTED - - - We with the war ahead, - You who have held the line, - Laughing, have broken bread - And taken wine. - - We cannot speak your tongue, - We cannot fully know - Things hid beneath your smile - Four years ago. - - Things which have given us, - Grimly, a common debt, - Now that we take the field, - We won’t forget! - RUSSELL LORD, Corp., F. A. - - - - - POPPIES - - - Poppies in the wheat fields on the pleasant hills of France, - Reddening in the summer breeze that bids them nod and dance; - Over them the skylark sings his lilting, liquid tune— - Poppies in the wheat fields, and all the world in June. - - Poppies in the wheat fields on the road to Monthiers— - Hark, the spiteful rattle where the masked machine guns play! - Over them the shrapnel’s song greets the summer morn— - Poppies in the wheat fields—but, ah, the fields are torn. - - See the stalwart Yankee lads, never ones to blench, - Poppies in their helmets as they clear the shallow trench, - Leaping down the furrows with eager, boyish tread - Through the poppied wheat fields to the flaming woods ahead. - - Poppies in the wheat fields as sinks the summer sun, - Broken, bruised and trampled—but the bitter day is won; - Yonder in the woodland where the flashing rifles shine, - With their poppies in their helmets, the front files hold the line. - - Poppies in the wheat field; how still beside them lie - Scattered forms that stir not when the star shells burst on high; - Gently bending o’er them beneath the moon’s soft glance, - Poppies of the wheat fields on the ransomed hills of France. - JOSEPH MILLS HANSON, Capt., F.A. - - - - - POILU - - - You’re a funny fellow, poilu, in your dinky little cap - And your war worn, faded uniform of blue, - With your multitude of haversacks abulge from heel to flap, - And your rifle that is ’most as big as you. - You were made for love and laughter, for good wine and merry song, - Now your sunlit world has sadly gone astray, - And the road today you travel stretches rough and red and long, - Yet you make it, petit soldat, brave and gay. - - Though you live within the shadow, fagged and hungry half the while, - And your days and nights are racking in the line, - There is nothing under heaven that can take away your smile, - Oh, so wistful and so patient and so fine. - You are tender as a woman with the tiny ones who crowd - To upraise their lips and for your kisses pout, - Still, we’d hate to have to face you when the bugle’s sounding loud - And your slim, steel sweetheart Rosalie is out. - You’re devoted to mustaches which you twirl with such an air - O’er a cigarette with nigh an inch to run, - And quite often you are noticed in a beard that’s full of hair, - But that heart of yours is always twenty-one. - No, you do not “parlee English,” and you find it very hard, - For you want to chum with us and words you lack; - So you pat us on the shoulder and say, “Nous sommes camarades.” - We are that, my poilu pal, to hell and back. - STEUART M. EMERY, Pvt., M. P. - - - - - AS THINGS ARE - - - The old home State is drier now - Than forty-seven clucks - Of forty-seven desert hens - A-chewin’ peanut shucks. - - There everybody’s standin’ sad - Beside the Fishhill store, - A-sweatin’ dust an’ spittin’ rust - Because there ain’t no more. - - The constable, they write, has went - A week without a pinch. - There ain’t no jobs, so there’s a gent - ’At sure has got a cinch. - - I ain’t a’gonna beef a bit, - But still, it’s kinda nice, - A-knowin’ where there’s some to git - Without requestin’ twice. - - - - - THE GIRL OF GIRLS - - - When the war god reached out his talons - And showed me the way to the fray, - My sweethearts shed tears by the gallons— - There was weeping and gnashing that day. - - Don’t blame them for crying like babies; - I’m surprised they recovered at all, - ’Cause I sure made a hit with the ladies, - Just one look at me and they’d fall. - - Take Evelyn or Peggy or Jennie— - They surely were there with the looks, - And I’ve never regretted a penny - I blew in on flowers and books. - - And Mildred—that kid was a thriller, - A complexion like peaches and cream; - She was sweeter than Marilynn Miller, - And Phyllis—oh, boy, what a dream! - - And now that I’m over the ocean, - I remember them each by their smile; - But there’s one who gets all my devotion, - And I’m thinking of her all the while. - - When my clothes need mending and scrubbing, - And only one sock I can find, - And my knuckles are swollen with rubbing, - Why, girlies, you’re far from my mind. - - My thoughts are for one who is dearer - Than Phyllis or Peggy or Mae; - Each day that I’m gone she seems nearer— - And she’s feeble, but smiling and gay. - HOWARD A. HERTY, Corp., 1st Army Hq. - - - - - THE LITTLE DREAMS - - - Now, France is a pleasant land to know - If you’re back in a billet town, - And a hell of a hole for the human mole - Where the trenches burrow down; - But where doughboys be in their worn O.D., - Whatever their daily grinds, - There’s a little dream on this sort of theme - In the background of their minds: - - “Oh, gee whiz, I’d give my mess kit - And the barrel off my gat - Just to take a stroll up Main Street - In a new Fedora hat; - Just to hit the Rexall drug store - For an ice-cream soda stew, - And not a doggoned officer - To tell me what to do.” - - Here’s a youngster sprawled in an old shell hole - With a Chauchat at his eye; - There’s some wide H.E. on the next O.P. - And a Fokker in the sky. - It’s a hundred yards to his jump-off trench - And ten to the German wire, - But what does he hear, more loud and clear - Than the crack of harassing fire? - - Echoed footsteps on the marble - Throbs of a revolving door, - And the starter’s ticking signal— - “Up! Express here—fourteenth floor!” - Click of coins on the cigar stand; - Two stout parties passing by— - “I sold short and took no chances; - Lackawanna’s too damn high.” - - Here’s a C.O. down in his dugout deep - Who once was a poor N.G. - The field phone rings and someone sings, - “Red Gulch, sir. 12–9–3 - Is spilling lach on Mary Black; - Have Jane retaliate.” - Two minutes more and he hears Jane roar, - While he thinks this hymn of hate: - - “That north forty must look pretty, - Head high, now, and ears all set; - And the haystacks in the meadow— - Wonder if they’ve mowed it yet? - Crickets clicking in the stubble; - Apples reddening on the trees— - Oh, good Lord, I’m seeing double; - That’s not gas that made me sneeze.” - - Here’s a Q.M. warehouse, locked and still, - At the end of a village street; - The sunset red on the woods ahead, - And a sentry on his beat. - The hour chimes from the ancient spire, - A child laughs out below, - And the sentry’s eyes, on the western skies, - Behold, in the afterglow, - - Row on row of smoking chimneys, - Long steel roofs and swinging cranes, - Maze of tracks and puffing engines, - Creeping strings of shunted trains, - Asphalt streets and stuccoed houses, - Lots, with brick and lath piled high; - Whips of shade trees by the curbings, - Yellow trolleys clanging by. - - These are tawdry thoughts in an epic time - For martial souls to own? - They are thoughts, my friend, that we would not mend, - That are bred of our blood and bone. - A mustard shell it is very well, - And an egg grenade’s O.K., - But we get our steam from our little dream - Of the good old U.S.A. - - Cotton fields along the river, - Night lights streaming from a mill; - Corn, with curling leaves a-quiver, - Dump cars lining out a fill; - Presses roaring in a basement, - Woods, with waters gleaming through— - Kaiser Bill, we’ll up and go there - When we’ve rid the world of you! - JOSEPH MILLS HANSON, Capt., F.A. - - - - - THE R.T.O. - - - O hear the song of the R.T.O. - With his “40 Hommes or 8 Chevaux.” - He works in the day and he works at night, - For the men must go or the men can’t fight. - They call him here and they call him there, - They ask him Why and they ask him Where. - O his cars don’t come, but his cars must go, - Be it wet or dry or rain or snow, - If they call for Hommes or they want Chevaux. - Thus goes the song of the R.T.O. - - O it’s “How we love you, R.T.O., - With your ’40 Hommes or 8 Chevaux’! - Say, whadja do before the war— - Work in a packin’ house? O Lor’! - We got an army in here now, - And we ain’t got room for our packs and chow. - They’s 40 Hommes aboard, you KNOW, - So come ahead with your 8 Chevaux, - And shout ‘Allez’ and away we’ll go. - O how we LOVE you, R.T.O.!” - - Heaven help the R.T.O. - With his “40 Hommes or 8 Chevaux”! - He’s got five hundred men to load - On a few small cars and a busy road. - O the war won’t end if he don’t make good, - ’Cause he’s got to send ’em the men and food, - Be it wet or dry or rain or snow. - And they call for Hommes or they want Chevaux, - There’s hell to pay if the stuff don’t go, - So Heaven help the R.T.O. - A. P. BOWEN, Sgt., R.T.O. - - - - - THE MACHINE GUN - - - Anywhere and everywhere, - It’s me the soldiers love, - Underneath a parapet - Or periscoped above; - Backing up the barrage fire, - And always wanting more; - Chewing up a dozen disks - To blast an army corps; - Crackling, spitting, demon-like, - Heat-riven through and through, - Fussy, mussy Lewis gun, - Three heroes for a crew! - - Advocate of peace am I, - Which same some won’t admit; - Say! I’d like to see that crowd - Come out and do their bit! - Out to where the boys have died, - That peace on earth might come - Sooner than if He above - Had based His hopes on some! - Whimper not, my friends, when men - Have holy work to do, - Tuning up the Vickers gun, - Three heroes for a crew! - - Anywhere and everywhere, - From Loos to Ispahan, - Yankee, Poilu, Tommy’s - Been with me to a man; - Pacifist and fighter, too, - I care not where I go, - Crashing, smashing at the lines - That shield the common foe. - Anywhere and everywhere, - Heat-riven through and through, - Fussy, mussy Browning gun, - Three heroes for a crew! - ALBERT JAY COOK, Corp., M.G. Bn. - - - - - OUR DEAD - - - They lie entombed in serried ranks, - A cross atop each lonely grave. - They rest beneath the peaceful banks - They fought so valiantly to save. - - This ground made sacred by their tears, - Our starry flag above each head, - For upwards of a thousand years - A shrine shall be unto our dead. - - - - - EVERYBODY’S FRIEND - - - At first we wuz gay as the ship slipped away - From the land where we’d lived all our lives, - An’ we laughed an’ we sang till the whole harbor rang, - An’ threw kisses to mothers and wives. - - But after a while as we stood there in file, - An’ the people wuz only a blur, - Things sort o’ calmed down, an’ we jus’ watched the town - Till we couldn’t see nothin’ o’ her. - - Say, then we felt blue, an’ you couldn’t tell who - Felt the worst, fer we all darn near cried; - ’Twas jus’ like when night is a-comin’ in sight, - An’ you’ve been where somebody’s died. - - First thing we knew came a roar, an’ it grew - Till I’ll bet that the Kaiser could hear; - Fer there off one side, lookin’ at us with pride, - Wuz Liberty! Who wouldn’t cheer? - - I s’pose she’s still there with the crown in her hair - An’ her lamp givin’ light to the land; - That may all be so, but there’s lots of us know - How we still feel the touch of her hand. - - Sometimes in the night when there ain’t any fight, - An’ we’re standin’ on guard all alone, - Like an angel o’ grace she comes near, an’ her face - Cheers our hearts which wuz colder’n a stone. - - In the thick of a scrap, with sweat oozin’ like sap, - She puts her cool hand into ours; - An’ like that everywhere, we c’n feel that she’s there, - With her help, and her smile like the flowers. - FREDERICK W. KURTH, Sgt., M.T.D. - - - - - THE STEVEDORE - - - We don’t pack no gat or rifle, we don’t juggle pick or spade, - Nor go stunnin’ peevish Germans in no dashin’ midnight raid; - But we hit the warehouse early and we quit the warehouse late, - And there ain’t no G.O. limits on the speed we truck the freight. - We don’t hike along the roadway in them iron derby hats - While the shrapnel punctuates the breeze and gas floats o’er the - flats; - We just dodge the fallin’ cases and we slap them back on high, - For it’s just a pile o’ pilin’ in the Service of Supply. - - No, we ain’t no snappy soldiers, and our daily round of drills - Includes a lot of movements minus military thrills; - But we drill them bloomin’ box cars, double timin’ on the bends, - And we slam them full of boxes till they’re bulgin’ at the ends. - We ain’t sniped no Fritzie snipers, and we ain’t wrecked no tanks, - And we don’t go dashin’ forward with the ever-thinnin’ ranks; - But some nights we gets an order for a shipment on the fly, - Then we plug right through till mornin’, in the Service of Supply. - - We ain’t got no dugout movies, nor a Charlie Chaplin laugh; - We ain’t got no handsome colonel with his neat and nifty staff, - Nor a brave and fearless captain with a flashing sword and gun - To yell, “Now up and at ’em, boys! We’ve got ’em on the run!” - We ain’t soaring round in biplanes, punching holes in Boche balloons, - Nor corralling frightened Fritzies by battalions and platoons, - But when they yell, “Rush order!” then we get around right spry, - For the boys are up there waitin’—on the Service of Supply. - C. C. SHANFELTER, Sgt., S.C. - - - - - BLACK AND WHITE - - - I was like the child - Who believed there was - A Santa Claus - But had never seen him, - Only - I have seen another world - And know it exists. - - I used to think that - There was only one world— - A world of - Mud - And bursting shells - Which killed and wounded - Me and my pals; - A world of - Hizzing bullets - And mustard gas, - And cold, sleepless nights, - And no food for days, - And Huns who cried - “Kamerad!” - (When their ammunition was gone), - And filthy clothes, - And cooties - And cooties - And cooties. - - But now I know that there is also - A world of— - Clean sheets and pajamas, - And good food - And plenty of it, - And kind, gentle women - In white - Who give you cocoa and soup, - And doctors who give you more than - “C.C.” pills, - And peaceful days - Without a single shell, - And peaceful nights, - And officers who wear white collars - And have only heard of cooties, - And visitors who sit on your bed - And murmur “How thrilling,” - And street cars and taxis, - And buildings without - A single shell hole in them, - And everything - I only dreamed of before. - Gosh! but it’s a wonderful war— - BACK HERE. - HARV. - - - - - THE OL’ CAMPAIGN HAT - - - No more against a battle sky with swooping pilots lined, - No more where charging heroes die my peakéd top you’ll find. - In training camps and peaceful climes the war is not for me, - Yet still I dream of other times and what I used to be. - The Mauser crackles once again—the smoky Springfield roar - Avenges those who manned the _Maine_ upon the Cuban shore. - Fedora-style I did my bit in jungle sun and dirt, - And now I’ve got a mortal hit, just like the old blue shirt! - - I hear the tingling ’Frisco cheers, the squat “Kilpatrick” sway, - As boldly swung we from the piers, Manila months away. - Luzon, Panay—I saw them all, Pekin was not the least— - O I have felt the siren call that sweeps from out the East. - Below the line of Capricorn in divers times and places - I’ve heard retreating yowls of scorn from herds of Spiggot races. - The Rio Grande and Vera Cruz—I knew them like a map, - And now it looks as though I lose—the jackpot to a cap! - - No more against a blazing sky where hard-pressed Fokkers flee, - No more where charging heroes die, my peakéd top you’ll see. - The trade mark of the Johnnie’s gone, but, just between us two, - I’ll bet you I come back again when this damn war is through! - - - - - WHEN THE GENERAL CAME TO TOWN - - - We wuz workin’ in th’ offus— - That is, all exceptin’ me— - An’ I wuz jest a-settin’, - As a orderly should be, - - When a feller wearin’ eagles - Perchin’ on his shoulder straps, - Poked his head right in th’ winder, - An’ he talks right out an’ snaps, - - “Who’s th’ officer commandin’ - Over this detachment here?” - An’ th’ looey he salutes him, - While us rest wuz feelin’ queer. - - “I am, sir,” th’ looey tells him, - Wonderin’ what th’ row’s about. - “Pershing’s comin’ in five minits,” - Says th’ kernel. “All troops out.” - - Gosh, how we did hurry, - For we looked a doggone fright— - Some had hats a-missin’, - An’ they warn’t a coat in sight. - - First we cleaned up in th’ offus, - Then we swept up in th’ street, - An’ it wasn’t many seconds - Till th’ place wuz hard t’ beat. - - Next we hunted up our clothin’, - Borried some an’ swiped some more, - Then th’ looey got us standin’ - In a line afore th’ door. - - Mighty soon around th’ corner - Come two scrumptious lookin’ cars, - An’ they wasn’t any licence - On th’ first one—’cept four stars. - - When the car had stopped right sudden, - Then th’ gineral he stepped out, - An’ without much parley-vooin’ - He begin t’ look about. - - They wuz lots o’ darkey soldiers - What wuz lined up in a row, - An’ he shore looked at ’em careful, - Walkin’ past ’em mighty slow. - - An’ th’ Frenchmen come a-flockin’, - An’ they couldn’t understand - Why he warn’t a-wearin’ medals, - An’ gold braid t’ beat th’ band. - - Then he made a little lectur, - Givin’ all them Frenchmen thanks, - Since they’d acted mighty kind-like - In a-dealin’ with his Yanks. - - All th’ peepul started clappin’ - When his talk kum to a close, - An’ a purty little lassie - Offered him a dandy rose. - - Shore he tuk it, smilin’ pleasant, - Like a gift he couldn’t miss— - An’ th’ little maid wuz happy - When he paid her with a kiss. - - Then he stepped into his auto, - An’ he hurried on his way— - While us guys went back t’ workin’, - Feelin’ we had had SOME day. - VANCE C. CRISS, Corp., Engrs. - - - - - SEICHEPREY - - - A handful came to Seicheprey - When winter woods were bare, - When ice was in the trenches - And snow was in the air. - The foe looked down on Seicheprey - And laughed to see them there. - - The months crept by at Seicheprey - The growing handful stayed, - With growling guns at midnight, - At dawn, the lightning raid, - And learned, in Seicheprey trenches, - How war’s red game is played. - - September came to Seicheprey; - A slow-wrought host arose - And rolled across the trenches - And whelmed its sneering foes, - And left to shattered Seicheprey - Unending, sweet repose. - J. M. H. - - - - - BEFORE A DRIVE - - - Loud spitting motor truck and wagon trains, - And caissons and guns and Infantry, - All jammed together in the dark - And mud and rain of northern France, - Moving toward the Front. - - Night after night it had been thus, - With days of hard, relentless drudgery - Spent over maps of war and battle plans, - With one or two or three, perhaps, - Short hours of sleep in every twenty-four, - Only what chance afforded, - Till I had lost all trace of time. - Day meant but heavy toil, - And night dull tramping onward in the mud, - Buffeted about by caissons and guns and motor trucks; - Life was but mud and rain and weary men. - - And then—one evening ere the march began, - I chanced to pause and gaze into the West, - And there was all the beauty of the world - Lying a-top the rain-bejewelled trees - In stripes of crimson, lavender, and blue, - And all the other colors known to man! - - Then darkness came, and I was tramping northward once again, - Buffeted about by caissons and guns and motor trucks. - But lo! the road that night was smooth; - My feet were steady and my heart was gay, - For I had looked into the West I love - And there had seen the magic of your smile. - CHARLES LYN FOX, Inf. - - - - - PRIVATE JONES, A. E. F. - - - “Who is the boy and what does he do, and what do the gold stripes - mean? - And why is his mouth so grim and hard while those eyes of his are - a-dream? - Only a private soldier, eh, and he holds his head that high? - Putting on airs a bit, I’d say; nothing about him that’s shy. - - “He’s been through hell three times, you say, and turned up with a - grin? - He’s faced the great unknown so much it holds no fear for him? - He’s seen the highest lights of life and deepest shadows, too? - He knows what glory means when mixed with mud, red blood and blue? - - “He’s slept in the slush and rain and hummed a tune as the big guns - barked? - He’s eaten a single meal a day, and kept ragtime in his heart? - He’s fallen three times, you say, in the dark, with limp, still things - around, - And he called the nurse ‘kid’ and asked her to help him get back to - that ground? - - “No wonder the mouth is grim and set, no wonder the eyes a-dream; - The best and worst in life and death the plain buck private has seen. - Ah, well, I suppose he’d like to quit and get an easier job. - No? Not he? He told you, you say, he wouldn’t trade bunks with God?” - WILLIAM I. ENGLE, Pvt., Inf. - - - - - “HOMMES 40, CHEVAUX 8” - - - Roll, roll, roll, over the rails of France, - See the world and its map unfurled, five centimes in your pants. - What a noble trip, jolt and jog and jar, - Forty we, with Equipment C in one flat-wheeled box-car. - - We are packed by hand, - Shoved aboard in ’teens, - Pour a little oil on us - And we would be sardines. - - Rations? Oo-la-la! and how we love the man - Who learned how to intern our chow in a cold and clammy can. - Beans and beef and beans, beef and beans and beef, - Willie raw, he will win the war, take in your belt a reef. - - Mess kits flown the coop, - Cups gone up the spout; - Use your thumbs for issue forks, - And pass the bull about. - - Hit the floor for bunk, six hommes to one homme’s place; - It’s no fair to the bottom layer to kick ’em in the face. - Move the corp’ral’s feet out of my left ear; - Lay off, sarge, you are much too large, I’m not a bedsack, dear. - - Lift my head up, please, - From this bag of bread; - Put it on somebody’s chest, - Then I’ll sleep like the dead. - - Roll, roll, roll, yammer and snore and fight, - Travelling zoo the whole day through and bedlam all the night. - Four days in the cage, going from hither hence; - Ain’t it great to ride by freight at good old Unc’s expense? - - - - - THE BUGLER - - (A patient in Base Hospital 48) - - - “I can’t blow taps no more,” - He says to me. - (They’d kidded him outside the barracks door.) - “I used to do it pretty well before— - Before I played my buddy off. It’s war, - But don’t you see? - - “The moon was full and white, - And shinin’ free, - About the way it’s shinin’ there tonight. - We started up, and Buddy got it right— - A piece of shrap; it dropped him out the fight - Alongside me. - - “We laid him in the clay; - And it was me - That sounded taps; there was no other way ... - I can’t blow taps no more ... but say! - I tapped a German skull the other day. - And that squares me!” - LIN DAVIES, Pvt. - - - - - THE RETURN OF THE REFUGEES - - - They pick their way o’er the shell-pocked road - As the evening shadows fall, - A man and woman, their eyes a-gleam - With awe at war’s black pall. - - The straggling strands of her snowy hair - Are tossed in the wind’s rude breath; - His frail form shakes as the whistling gusts - Sweep o’er the field of death. - - With straining eyes, hearts beating fast, - They seek to gaze ahead - To where they left their little home - When from the Hun they fled. - - ’Neath the heights of a hill o’erlooking the vale, - Half hid in a purple shade, - The dim outline of the town comes to view, - And they hasten down the glade. - - At last the town, the street, and home! - But God! Can it be this?— - This pile of stones, this hideous hulk, - This gaping orifice? - - The sun has set. The evening star - Sends down its soothing light. - Gone are the tears; their hearts are strong— - “For God, for France, and Right!” - FREDERICK W. KURTH, Sgt., M.T.D. - - - - - AS THE TRUCKS GO ROLLIN’ BY - - - There’s a rumble an’ a jumble an’ a bumpin’ an’ a thud, - As I wakens from my restless sleep here in my bed o’ mud, - ’N’ I pull my blankets tighter underneath my shelter fly, - An’ I listen to the thunder o’ the trucks a-rollin’ by. - - They’re jumpin’ an’ they’re humpin’ through the inky gloom o’ night, - ’N’ I wonder how them drivers see without a glim o’ light; - I c’n hear the clutches roarin’ as they throw the gears in high, - An’ the radiators boilin’ as the trucks go rollin’ by. - - There’s some a-draggin’ cannons, you c’n spot the sound all right— - The rumblin’ ones is heavies, an’ the rattly ones is light; - The clinkin’ shells is pointin’ up their noses at the sky— - Oh, you c’n tell what’s passin’ as the trucks go rollin’ by. - - But most of ’em is packin’ loads o’ human Yankee freight - That’ll slam the ol’ soft pedal ontuh Heinie’s hymn o’ hate; - You c’n hear ’em singin’ “Dixie,” and the “Sweet Bye ’N’ Bye,” - ’N’ “Where Do We Go from Here, Boys?” as the trucks go rollin’ by. - - Some’s singin’ songs as, when I left, they wasn’t even ripe - (A-showin’ ’at they’s rookies wot ain’t got a service stripe), - But jus’ the same they’re good ole Yanks, and that’s the reason why - I likes the jazz ’n’ barber shop o’ the trucks a-rollin’ by. - - Jus’ God and Gen’rul Pershing knows where these here birds’ll light, - Where them bumpin’ trucks is bound for under camouflage o’ night, - When they can’t take aero pitchers with their Fokkers in the sky - Of our changes o’ location by the trucks a-rollin’ by. - - So altho’ my bed is puddles an’ I’m soaked through to the hide, - My heart’s out with them doughboys on their bouncin’, singin’ ride, - They’re bound for paths o’ glory, or, p’raps, to fight ’n’ die— - God bless that Yankee cargo in the trucks a-rollin’ by. - L. W. SUCKERT, 1st Lt., A.S. - - - - - GETTIN’ LETTERS - - - When you’re far away from home an’ you’re feelin’ kind o’ blue, - When the world is topsy turvy, nothin’ sets jest right fer you, - Yuh can sneer at all yer troubles, an’ yer cares yuh never mind, - When you’ve really had a letter from the Girl yuh left behind. - - When the cook is downright nutty, an’ his biskits never raise, - When he feeds yuh canned tomatoes fer jes’ seventeen straight days, - Yuh can quite fergit he’s nutty, yuh can treat him fairly kind, - If you’ve really had a letter from the Girl yuh left behind. - - When the Captain’s got a grouch on, an’ has bawled yuh out fer fair, - When some pesky Lieut has sassed yuh which to home he wouldn’t dare, - Yuh can lift yer chin an’ whistle, an’ that’s easy, yuh will find, - If you’ve really had a letter from the Girl yuh left behind. - - When a letter comes yuh grab it right before the other guys, - An’ yuh git a little vision of the light that’s in Her eyes; - Yuh can see Her smiles an’ dimples, an’ fer other girls you’re blind - When you’ve really had a letter from the Girl yuh left behind. - - Jest a sheet or two of paper with a purple stamp or two, - But it means the whole creation to the heart an’ soul o’ you, - An’ yuh git to feelin’ pious, an’ yuh pray a bit, yuh mind, - For the great Almighty’s blessin’ on the Girl yuh left behind. - E. C. D., Field Hospital. - - - - - TO THE CHILDREN OF FRANCE - - - I wish you, children, playing round - On this too-rudely trampled ground, - Only the good things I would send - To all the children I befriend. - - But one wish circles all: To know - Little of what your elders do, - And somehow into the sunlight grow - Out of the mists they stumble through. - R. R. KIRK, Pvt., G2, S.O.S. - - - - - THEN WE’LL COME BACK TO YOU - - - Some day, when screaming shells are but a dream - That vanished with the dawn of better days, - When Love and Faith are really what they seem, - And Treachery is lost in fleeting haze; - When each sweet day recalls a noble deed, - Wherein a blinding flash plays not a part, - And Truth at last has sown the godly seed - That springs to Trust and Joy in every heart; - Some day, though it be farther down the years - Than ever mortal gazed or planned ahead, - When we have made them pay for all your tears, - And squared accounts for comrades who have bled; - When we can feel that storms of Greed and Lust - Will nevermore engulf our skies of blue; - When you can live and know each sacred trust— - And not till then—will we come back to you. - Corp. HOWARD H. HERTY, - 1st Army Hq. Reg. - - - - - TO A DOUGHBOY - - - I watched you slog down a dusty pike, - One of many so much alike, - With a spirit keen as a breath of flame, - Ready to rise and ready to strike - Whenever the fitting moment came; - Just a kid with a boyish grin, - Waiting the order to hustle in - And lend your soul to the battle thrill, - Unafraid of the battle din - Or the guns that crashed from a hidden hill. - - I watched you leap to the big advance, - With a smile for Fate and its fighting chance, - Sweeping on till the charge was done; - I saw your grave on a slope of France - Where you fell asleep when the fight was won. - Just a kid who had earned his rest - With a rifle and helmet above his breast, - Who proved, in answer to German jeers, - That a kid can charge a machine gun nest - Without the training of forty years. - - I watched the shadows drifting by - As gray dusk came from a summer’s sky, - And lost winds came from beyond the fight, - And I seemed to hear them croon and sigh: - “Sleep, little dreamer, sleep tonight; - Sleep tonight, for I’m bringing you - A prayer and a dream from the home you knew; - And I’ll take them word of the big advance, - And how you fought till the game was through, - And you fell asleep in the dust of France.” - - - - - LIL’ PAL O’ MINE - - - Just a wee remembrance - Of a little child so fair, - From Dad, who coaxed himself away - To leave you over there. - - Just a little thought or two, - A dream, a wish, a prayer, - For you, my little smiler Girl, - Across the sea back there. - - Just a bit of Daddy love, - To you I send it all, - Your eyes, your smile, your golden hair, - Your love for “raggy doll.” - - Just a little tear sometimes, - Yes, men they weaken too, - War is hard, but harder still - Is bein’ ’way from you. - E. S. E. - - - - - PERFECT CONTRITION - - - “Send for a priest,” the small disc read - That clasped his neck around; - But he, brave soul, was long since dead - When found upon the ground. - - A crucifix was in his hand, - Stained by his bloody kiss, - This newest of the martyr band - To taste of Heaven’s bliss. - THOMAS F. COAKLEY, Lt., Chaplain. - - - - - WHEN PRIVATE MUGRUMS PARLAY VOOS - - - I can count my francs an’ santeems— - If I’ve got a basket near— - An’ I speak a wicked “bon jour,” - But the verbs are awful queer, - An’ I lose a lot o’ pronouns - When I try to talk to you, - For your eyes are so bewitchin’ - I forget to parlay voo. - - In your pretty little garden, - With the bench beside the wall, - An’ the sunshine on the asters, - An’ the purple phlox so tall, - I should like to whisper secrets, - But my language goes askew - With the second person plural - For the more familiar “too.” - - In your pretty little garden - I could always say “juh tame,” - But it ain’t so very subtle, - An’ it ain’t not quite the same - As “You’ve got some dandy earrings,” - Or “Your eyes are nice an’ brown”— - But my adjectives get manly - Right before a lady noun - - Those infinitives perplex me, - I can say you’re “tray jolee,” - But beyond that simple statement - All my tenses don’t agree. - I can make the Boche “comprenney” - When I meet ’em in a trench, - But the softer things escape me - When I try to yap in French. - - In your pretty little garden - Darn the idioms that dance - On your tongue so sweet and rapid, - Ah, they hold me in a trance! - Though I stutter an’ I stammer, - In your garden, on the bench, - Yet my heart is writin’ poems - When I talk to you in French. - CHARLES DIVINE, Pvt. - - - - - IF I WERE A COOTIE - - - If I were a cootie (pro-Ally, of course), - I’d hie me away on a Potsdam-bound horse, - And I’d seek out the Kaiser (the war-maddened cuss), - And I’d be a bum cootie if I didn’t muss - His Imperial hide from his head to his toe! - He might hide from the bombs, but I’d give him no show! - If I were a cootie, I’d deem it my duty - To thus treat the Kaiser, - Ah, oui. - - And after I’d thoroughly covered Bill’s area, - I’d hasten away to the Prince of Bavaria, - And chew him a round or two—under the Linden— - Then pack up my things and set out for old Hinden— - (Old Hindy’s the guy always talking ’bout strafing)— - To think what I’d do to that bird sets me laughing! - If I were a cootie, I’d deem it my duty - To thus threat the Prince and old Hindy, - Ah, oui! - - I’d ne’er get fed up on Imperial gore— - I might rest for a while, but I’d go back for more. - I’d spend a few days with that Austrian crew, - And young Carl himself I’d put down for a chew; - There’d be no meatless days for this cootie, I know, - They’d all get one jolly good strafing or so. - For if I were a cootie, I’d deem it my duty - To thus treat their damnships, - Ah, oui! - A. P. BOWEN, Sgt., R.T.O. - - - - - THE LILY - - - The lily sadly drooped her head; - “My France is bowed in grief!” she said. - “Must I live on to satisfy - The conquering Teuton’s lustful eye? - Lord, let me wither! - Let me die!” - - The lily proudly raised her head; - “My France is free once more!” she said. - “Free from dark and blood-smirched gloom! - The ruthless Hun has met his doom. - Lord, let me gladden! - Let me bloom!” - HOWARD J. GREEN, Corp., Inf. - - - - - ME,—AN’ WAR GOIN’ ON! - - - Me!—a-leadin’ a column! - Me!—that women have loved— - Me, a-leadin’ a column o’ Yanks, an’ tracin’ Her name in the Stars! - Me, that ain’t seen the purple hills before all mixed in the skies - With the gray dawn meltin’ to azure there; - Me, that ain’t a poet, growin’ poetic; - An’ the flash o’ the guns on the skyline, - An’ red wine—an’ France! - An’ me laughin’—and War! - An’ Slim Jim singin’ a song; - An’ a lop-eared mule a-kickin’ a limber - An’ axles ’thout no grease hollerin’ Maggie at me! - Me, that women have loved— - An’ War goin’ on! - - Mornin’ comin’, - An’ me—a-leadin’ a column - Along o’ them from the College, - Along o’ them from the Streets, - An’ them as had mothers that spiled them, and them as hadn’t,— - Lovin’ names in the Stars, - An’ Slim Jim singin’ a song, - An’ Folks to Home watchin’ them, too, - An’ Maggie that never had loved me, lovin’ me now, - An’ thinkin’ an’ cryin’ for me!— - For me that loved Maggie that never loved me till now. - - Mornin’ comin’, - An’ me—a-leadin’ a column, - An’ a town in the valley - Round the bend in the road, - An’ Ginger strainin’ his neck - An’ thinkin’ o’ Picket Lines— - An’ me an’ the rest o’ them thinkin’ o’ home and eggs down there in - the village, - An’ Coney startin’ to close at Home - An’ Maggie mashed in the crowd— - An’ me a-leadin’ a column— - An’ War goin’ on! - - Me that hollered for water, - With a splinter o’ hell in my side; - Me that have laid in the sun a-cursin’ the beggars and stretchers - As looked like they’d never a-come; - Me that found God with the gas at my throat - An’ raved like a madman for Maggie, - An’ wanted a wooden cross over me! - Me—an’ Slim Jim back o’ me singin’, - An’ tracin’ a name in the fade o’ the Stars! - - Me—knowin’ that some’ll be ridin’ that’s walkin’ tonight— - Knowin’ that some’ll never see Broadway again, - An’ red wine, - An’ Little Italy, - An’ Maggies like Mine,— - Me!—a-murmurin’ a prayer for Maggie - An’ stoppin’ to laugh at Slim, - An’ shoutin’ “To the right o’ the road for the Swoi-zant-canze!” - Them babies that raise such hell up the line, - An’ marchin’, - An’ marchin’ by night, - An’ sleepin’ by day, - An’ France, - An’ red wine, - An’ me thinkin’ o’ Home, - Me—a-leadin’ a column,— - An’ War goin’ on! - JOHN PALMER CUMMING, Inf. - - - - - THE ROAD TO MONTFAUCON - - - “M. P., the road from Avocourt - That leads to Montfaucon?” - “The road, sir, black with mules and carts - And brown with men a-marching on— - The Romagne woods that lie beyond - The ruined heights of Montfaucon— - - “North over reclaimed No Man’s Land - The martyred roadway leads, - Quick with forward moving hosts - And quick with valiant deeds - Avenging Rheims, Liége, and Lille, - And outraged gods and creeds. - - “There lies the road from Avocourt - That leads to Montfaucon, - Past sniper and machine gun nest, - By steel and thermite cleansed. They’ve gone— - And there in thund’rous echelon - The ruined heights of Montfaucon.” - HAROLD RIEZELMAN, 1st Lt., C.W.S. - - - - - VESTAL STAR - - - The long, long march is o’er, the weary roaming; - We bivouac, yearning for a peaceful night; - I lie and dream amid the purple gloaming, - And scan the heavens for a beacon light. - - As graying shadows lengthen o’er the landscape, - And gentle zephyrs lightly stir the air, - In yon first twinkling star I gleam a vision - Of little sister offering up a prayer. - FRA GUIDO, F.A. - - - - - THE DOUGHBOY PROMISES - - - SHE - - When you come back— - Ah, ’twill be such returning - As only lips like mine can sanctify! - Then will my arms, that ache with endless yearning, - Find sweet surcease from the regret of learning - To give you up, if need there be, to die. - - Should you come back - Aged from the toil of fighting, - Marred, it may be, though perfect you set out, - What matters, so your heart has known no blighting, - Your soul has met the test without affrighting? - What is there, dear one, after that, to doubt! - - _Oh, but you must come back to me, beloved! - Wounded or no, you must come back._ - - - HE - - When I come back, - Beneath my helmet muddy, - There’ll be a smile, stored through the strife, for you; - There’ll be a kiss, tender and warm—aye, ruddy - With hint of Gallic skies, for my real buddy - (That’s soldier talk, and soldier talk rings true). - - As I come back, - Down the street flags adorning, - Half seeing all the pomp for sight of you, - Foretaste I’ll know of gladsome days a-borning - For us, come out of Night at last to Morning - From the Long Trail that terminates for two. - - _Oh, but I will come back to you, my Mother! - Wounded? Why, no! ... I will come back!_ - ARTHUR MCKEOGH, Lt., Inf. - - - - - OLD LADY RUMOR - - - There is nothing like a rumor just to set the gang afire, - They receive it, - And believe it, - Does it matter who’s the liar? - No, it doesn’t. For as often as we hear of something new, - Though it’s doubted, - It is shouted - By our gossip-loving crew. - Conversation is a morsel, and, with greedy appetite, - How we chew it, - As we brew it, - Be it daytime, be it night. - Back in the States it started and continues o’er the foam, - And we’ll swally - It, by golly, - When we join the Soldiers’ Home! - A-h-h-h—men-n! - C. H. MACCOY, Base Hosp. 38. - - - - - THE LOST TOWNS - - - Beneath the new moon sleeping - The little lost towns lie; - Their streets are very white and hushed, - Their black spires tilt the sky. - - Across the darkened meadows - A plaintive night bird calls; - The sea of fog that clouds the fields - Rolls softly to their walls. - - Within their shuttered houses - No midnight candles glance; - Their womenfolk are all abed, - Their menfolk fight for France. - - They dream the little lost towns - Of Alsace and Lorraine, - The vision of the patient years, - The old frontier again. - - Sleep on, nor cease your dreaming, - Who pitted men and crowns, - We’ll bring you back, we’ll bring you back, - Oh, little, long lost towns. - STEUART M. EMERY, Pvt., M.P. - - - - - DER TAG - - (In answer to the German toast “Der Tag” in which the - German war lords toasted the time when Deutschland would - be “über alles.”) - - - Here’s to the day when the whole thing is won! - Here’s to the day when the Kaiser is done! - Here’s to the day when we break his swelled dome! - Here’s to the day that we go marching home! - - Long, restless nights - With cursed cootie bites - Things of the past! - Hot baths at last! - Real dollar bills! - No more O.D. pills! - - Chicken instead of our canned willie chow! - All of the ice cream the law will allow! - Mess in the way we want to be messed! - Dress in the way we like to be dressed! - - Neckties and suits! - No more salutes! - A nice, comfy bed - With a mattress instead - Of some billet floor - That makes your ribs sore. - - The day when we no longer blister our heels, - But know how a ride in the old subway feels! - The day that we no longer parlez Français, - But speak once again in the good old home way! - - Keep running, Fritz, as you’re now on the run, - And before very long you will be a licked Hun, - With “Der Tag” that you toasted time-worn and passé, - While we drink triumphantly: Here’s to Our Day! - HOWARD J. GREEN, Corp., Inf. - - - - - THERE’S ABOUT TWO MILLION FELLOWS— - - - There’s about two million fellows from the North, South, East and West - Who scurried up the gang plank of a ship; - They have felt the guy ropes paying and the troopship gently swaying - As it started on its journey from the country of the blest. - They have washed in hard salt water, bucked the Army transport grub, - Had a hitch of crow’s nest duty on the way; - Strained their eyes mistaking white caps for a humpback Prussian sub - Just at twilight when “the danger’s great, they say.” - When their ship had lost the convoy they were worried just a bit, - And rather thought the skipper should be canned; - And the sigh of heartfelt feeling almost set the boat to reeling - When each of those two million sighted land. - - There’s about two million fellows that have landed here in France, - They’re scattered God and G.H.Q. know where; - By the cranes where steamers anchor, schooner, tramp, or greasy - tanker, - There’s an O.D. outfit waiting just to make the cargo dance. - They are chopping in the forest, double-timing on the roads, - Putting two-ways where a single went before; - In the cabs of sweating engines, pushing, pulling double loads - When the R.T.O.’s in frenzied tones implore. - For it’s duty, solid duty with the hustling men behind, - From the P. of E.’s on up to No Man’s Land; - And there’s never chance of shirking when the boys up front are - working— - Night and day must go the answer to the front line’s stern demand. - - There’s about two million fellows and there’s some of them who lie - Where eighty-eights and G.I.’s gently drop; - Where the trucks and trains are jamming and the colonel he is damning - Half the earth and in particular the Service of Supply. - They have had a stretch of trenches, beat the Prussian at his best, - Seen their buddies fall like heroes right beside; - But—there’s nigh two million fellows from the country of the blest - Who know the cause for which their comrades died, - Who have crossed the sluggish shallows where their little life streams - ran - And broadened just a trifle, you will find; - And their vision’s cleaner, clearer and they hold just that much - dearer - The great and glorious land they left behind! - ALBERT J. COOK, - Sgt., Hq. Detch.,—Army Corps. - -[Illustration: C. LeRoy Baldridge Pvt A E F Audenarde Belgium Nov. -11/1918] - - - - - NOVEMBER ELEVENTH - - - We stood up and we didn’t say a word, - It felt just like when you have dropped your pack - After a hike, and straightened out your back - And seem just twice as light as any bird. - - We stood up straight and, God! but it was good! - When you have crouched like that for months, to stand - Straight up and look right out toward No-Man’s-Land - And feel the way you never thought you could. - - We saw the trenches on the other side - And Jerry, too, not making any fuss, - But prob’ly stupid-happy, just like us, - Nobody shot and no one tried to hide. - - If you had listened then I guess you’d heard - A sort of sigh from everybody there, - But all we did was stand and stare and stare, - Just stare and stand and never say a word. - HILMAR R. BAUKHAGE, - Pvt., A. E. F. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in - spelling. - 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as - printed. - 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YANKS *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. 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