Chapter I: Have a Rendezvous with

DEATH _Alan Seeger_ 99

IN FLANDERS’ FIELDS _Lieut. Col. John McCrae_ 101

IN THE FRONT-LINE DESKS _Lieut. Elmer Franklin Powell_ 143

JEAN DESPREZ _Robert W. Service_ 146

JOHN DOE--BUCK PRIVATE _Allan P. Thomson_ 127

JUST THINKING _Hudson Hawley_ 80

KID HAS GONE TO THE COLORS _William Herschell_ 23

KINGS, THE _Hugh J. Hughes_ 145

KNITTING SOCKS 128

LET THERE BE LIGHT! _Ruth Wright Kauffman_ 196

LITANY _Allene Gregory_ 20

LITTLE GRIMY-FINGERED GIRL, A _Lee Wilson Dodd_ 43

LITTLE HOME PAPER, THE _Charles Hanson Towne_ 15

LITTLE TOWN IN SENEGAL, A _Will Thompson_ 42

LONELY GARDEN, THE _Edgar A. Guest_ 118

LOST ONES, THE _Francis Ledwidge_ 104

MAGPIES IN PICARDY “_Tipcuca_” 130

MAN BEHIND, THE _Douglas Malloch_ 166

MARCHING SOLILOQUY, A 71

MARINES, THE _Adolphe E. Smylie_ 73

MEN OF THE BLOOD AND MIRE _Daniel M. Henderson_ 160

MIKE DILLON, DOUGHBOY _Lieut. John Pierre Roche_ 61

MISSING “IRIS” 78

MORITURI TE SALUTANT _P. H. B. L._ 120

MULES _C. Fox Smith_ 187

NAZARETH “_L._” 47

NIGHTINGALES OF FLANDERS, THE _Grace Hazard Conkling_ 50

NINETEEN-SEVENTEEN _Susan Hooker Whitman_ 85

NO MAN’S LAND _Capt. James H. Knight-Adkin_ 16

NOT TOO OLD TO FIGHT _T. C. Harbaugh_ 75

NOT WITH VAIN TEARS _Lieut. Rupert Brooke_ 102

NOVEMBER ELEVENTH _Elizabeth Hanly_ 198

NURSE, THE 14

OLD GANG ON THE CORNER, THE _William Herschell_ 64

OLD JIM _Norman Shannon Hall_ 199

OLD TOP SERGEANT, THE _Berton Braley_ 38

ON HIS OWN _Adolphe E. Smylie_ 124

OUR SOLDIER DEAD _Annette Kohn_ 195

PADRE, THE _Capt. C. W. Blackall_ 36

PARENTHETICALLY SPEAKING 176

PASSING THE BUCK _Sergt. Norman E. Nygaard_ 32

PERSHING AT THE TOMB OF LAFAYETTE _Amelia Josephine Burr_ 52

PIERROT GOES _Charlotte Becker_ 49

POILU _Steuart M. Emery_ 95

“POOR OLD SHIP!” _C. Fox Smith_ 30

POPPIES _Capt. John Mills Hanson_ 25

PRESENT BATTLEFIELD, THE _Wright Field_ 197

RAGNAROK _Arthur Guiterman_ 21

RAIN ON YOUR OLD TIN HAT _Lieut. J. H. Wickersham_ 182

REFUGEES, THE _W. G. S._ 162

RETINUE, THE _Katharine Lee Bates_ 137

RETURN, THE _Theodore Howard Banks, Jr._ 33

RIDE IN FRANCE, A “_O. C. Platoon_” 170

RIVERS OF FRANCE, THE _H. J. M._ 79

ROAD TO FRANCE, THE _Daniel M. Henderson_ 46

RUNNER MCGEE _Edgar A. Guest_ 57

SCRAP OF PAPER, A _Herbert Kaufman_ 24

SERBIAN EPITAPH, A _V. Stanimirovic_ 50

SERVICE FLAG, THE _J. E. Evans_ 158

SERVICE FLAG, THE _William Herschell_ 154

SHIPS THAT SAIL IN THE NIGHT _Dysart McMullen_ 126

SILENT ARMY, THE _Ian Adanac_ 86

SMALL TOWN SPORT, A _Damon Runyon_ 155

SOLDIER’S FOLKS AT HOME, THE 59

SOLDIERS OF THE SOIL _Everard Jack Appleton_ 44

SOLDIER, THE _Lieut. Rupert Brooke_ 102

SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE _Le Roy C. Henderson_ 157

SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE, 1918 _Almon Hensley_ 132

SONG OF THE AIR, THE _Gordon Alchin_ 190

SONG OF THE DEAD, THE _J. H. M. Abbott_ 161

SONG OF THE GUNS, THE _Herbert Kaufman_ 134

SONG OF THE WINDS _Mary Lanier Magruder_ 163

SOURCE OF NEWS, THE 86

SPIRES OF OXFORD, THE _Winifred M. Letts_ 114

SPRING _F. M. H. D._ 123

SUDDENLY ONE DAY 151

SWAN SONGS 99

TANKS _O. C. A. Child_ 97

TELLING THE BEES _G. E. R._ 136

THERE ARE CROCUSES AT NOTTINGHAM 184

THERE WILL BE DREAMS AGAIN _Mabel Hillyer Eastman_ 171

THEY SHALL NOT PASS _Alison Brown_ 125

THEY SHALL RETURN _J. Lewis Milligan_ 179

THREE HILLS _Everard Owen_ 60

TO HAPPIER DAYS _Mabel McElliott_ 111

TO MY SON 87

TO SERVE IS TO GAIN _Charles H. Mackintosh_ 179

TO SOMEBODY _Harold Seton_ 69

“TO THE IRISH DEAD” _Essex Evans_ 180

TO THE WRITER OF “CHRIST IN FLANDERS” _E. M. V._ 69

TRAINS _Lieut. John Pierre Roche_ 53

TWO VIEWPOINTS _Amelia Josephine Burr_ 83

UNKNOWN SOLDIER ARMISTICE DAY AT ARLINGTON, THE _Grantland Rice_ 200

VICTORY! _S. J. Duncan-Clark_ 191

VISION _Dorothy Paul_ 181

VIVE LA FRANCE! _Charlotte Holmes Crawford_ 139

WAR _Col. William Lightfoot Visscher_ 70

WAR HORSE, THE _Lieut. L. Fleming_ 174

WAR ROSARY, THE _Nellie Hurst_ 185

WATCHIN’ OUT FOR SUBS _U. A. L._ 18

WAYSIDE IN FRANCE, A _Adolphe E. Smylie_ 76

WE’RE MARCHIN’ WITH THE COUNTRY _Frank L. Stanton_ 151

“WHAT THINK YE?” _W. A. Briscoe_ 165

WHEN PRIVATE MUGRUMS PARLEY VOOS _Pvt. Charles Divine_ 186

WHEN THE FRENCH BAND PLAYS 63

WHILE SUMMERS PASS _Aline Michaelis_ 72

WIDOW, THE _Miss C. M. Mitchell_ 51

WITH THE SAME PRIDE _Theodosia Garrison_ 116

WOES OF A ROOKIE, THE _William L. Colestock_ 141

WOMAN’S GAME, THE 91

WORLD SERIES OPENED--BATTER UP! 177

YOUR LAD, AND MY LAD _Randall Parrish_ 112

GREAT POEMS OF THE WORLD WAR

BEFORE ACTION

LIEUT. WILLIAM NOEL HODGSON

MILITARY CROSS, DEVON REGIMENT--KILLED IN BATTLE

From “Verse and Prose in Peace and War.” John Murray, Publisher,
London. Permission to reproduce in this book.

By all the glories of the day,
And the cool evening’s benison;
By the last sunset touch that lay
Upon the hills when day was done:
By beauty lavishly outpoured,
And blessings carelessly received,
By all the days that I have lived,
Make me a soldier, Lord.

By all of human hopes and fears,
By all the wonders poets sing,
The laughter of unclouded years,
And every sad and lovely thing:
By the romantic ages stored
With high endeavor that was his,
By all his mad catastrophes,
Make me a man, O Lord.

I, that on my familiar hill
Saw with uncomprehending eyes
A hundred of Thy sunsets spill
Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice,
Ere the sun swings his noonday sword
Must say good-bye to all of this:
By all delights that I shall miss,
Help me to die, O Lord.

ALAN SEEGER

WASHINGTON VAN DUSEN

IN THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE

No beauty could escape his loving eyes,
Not even ruthless war could hide from view
The smiling fields where crimson poppies grew,
Nor mar the sunset’s rose and purple dyes;
He watched a vine-clad slope, with glad surprise
To hear grapepickers sing, although they knew
Just on the other side, the cannon threw
Their deadly shells and woke the startled skies.

But over all that made Champagne so fair,
He saw the grandeur of the field of strife,
Exulting in the cause that placed him there,
He felt a calm, mid all the carnage rife,
And faced the battle with a spirit rare,
“For death may be more wonderful than life.”

THE NURSE

IN LONDON PUNCH

Reproduced by special permission of the Proprietors of “Punch”

Here in the long white ward I stand,
Pausing a little breathless space,
Touching a restless fevered hand,
Murmuring comforts commonplace--

Long enough pause to feel the cold
Fingers of fear about my heart;
Just for a moment, uncontrolled,
All the pent tears of pity start.

While here I strive, as best I may,
Strangers’ long hours of pain to ease,
Dumbly I question--_Far away
Lies my beloved even as these?_

THE LITTLE HOME PAPER

CHARLES HANSON TOWNE

IN THE AMERICAN MAGAZINE

Permission to reproduce in this book

The little home paper comes to me,
As badly printed as it can be;
It’s ungrammatical, cheap, absurd--
Yet, how I love each intimate word!
For here am I in the teeming town,
Where the sad, mad people rush up and down,
And it’s good to get back to the old lost place,
And gossip and smile for a little space.

The weather is hot; the corn crop’s good;
They’ve had a picnic in Sheldon’s Wood.
And Aunt Maria was sick last week;
Ike Morrison’s got a swollen cheek,
And the Squire was hurt in a runaway--
More shocked than bruised, I’m glad they say.
Bert Wills--I used to play with him--
Is working a farm with his Uncle Jim.

The Red Cross ladies gave a tea,
And raised quite a bit. Old Sol MacPhee
Has sold his house on Lincoln Road--
He couldn’t carry so big a load.
The methodist minister’s had a call
From a wealthy parish near St. Paul.
And old Herb Sweet is married at last--
He was forty-two. How the years rush past!

But here’s an item that makes me see
What a puzzling riddle life can be.
“Ed Stokes,” it reads, “was killed in France
When the Allies made their last advance.”
Ed Stokes! That boy with the laughing eyes
As blue as the early-summer skies!
He wouldn’t have killed a fly--and yet,
Without a murmur, without a regret,

He left the peace of our little place,
And went away with a light in his face;
For out in the world was a job to do,
And he wouldn’t come home until it was through!
Four thousand miles from our tiny town
And its hardware store, this boy went down.
Such a quiet lad, such a simple chap--
But he’s put East Dunkirk on the map!

NO MAN’S LAND

CAPT. JAMES H. KNIGHT-ADKIN

IN THE SPECTATOR

No Man’s Land is an eerie sight
At early dawn in the pale gray light.
Never a house and never a hedge
In No Man’s Land from edge to edge,
And never a living soul walks there
To taste the fresh of the morning air.
Only some lumps of rotting clay,
That were friends or foemen yesterday.

What are the bounds of No Man’s Land?
You can see them clearly on either hand,
A mound of rag-bags gray in the sun,
Or a furrow of brown where the earthworks run
From the Eastern hills to the Western sea,
Through field or forest, o’er river and lea;
No man may pass them, but aim you well
And Death rides across on the bullet or shell.

But No Man’s Land is a goblin sight
When patrols crawl over at dead o’ night;
Boche or British, Belgian or French,
You dice with death when you cross the trench.
When the “rapid,” like fire-flies in the dark,
Flits down the parapet spark by spark,
And you drop for cover to keep your head
With your face on the breast of the four months’ dead.

The man who ranges in No Man’s Land
Is dogged by the shadows on either hand
When the star-shell’s flare, as it bursts o’erhead,
Scares the great gray rats that feed on the dead,
And the bursting bomb or the bayonet-snatch
May answer the click of your safety-catch.
For the lone patrol, with his life in his hand,
Is hunting for blood in No Man’s Land.

THE GOLD STAR

EDGAR A. GUEST

Copyright, 1918, by Edgar A. Guest. Special permission to reproduce
in this book.

The star upon their service flag has changed to gleaming gold;
It speaks no more of hope and life, as once it did of old,
But splendidly it glistens now for every eye to see
And softly whispers: “Here lived one who died for liberty.

“Here once he walked and played and laughed, here oft his smile
was known;
Within these walls today are kept the toys he used to own.
Now I am he who marched away and I am he who fell;
Of service once I spoke, but now of sacrifice I tell.

“No richer home in all this land is there than this I grace,
For here was cradled manhood fine; within this humble place
A soldier for the truth was born, and here, beside the door,
A mother sits and grieves for him who shall return no more.

“Salute me, stranger, as you pass! I mark a soldier who
Gave up the joys of living here, to dare and die for you!
This is the home that once he knew, who fought for you and fell;
This is a shrine of sacrifice, where faith and courage dwell.”

WATCHIN’ OUT FOR SUBS

U. A. L.

From Bert Leston Taylor’s column, “A Line o’ Type or Two,” IN THE
CHICAGO TRIBUNE

Bosun’s whistle piping, “Starboard watch is on”
Sleepy army officer, waked at crack o’ dawn;
In the forward crow’s nest, watchin’ out for subs;
If they show a peeper, shoot the bloomin’ tubs.

Ocean black and shiny, silly little moon;
Transports fore and aft of us--daylight comin’ soon;
Sleeping troopers sprawling on the deck below;
Something in the water makes the spindrift glow.

In the forward crow’s nest--ah! the day is here!
Transports and destroyers looming far and near.
Ours the great adventure--gone is old romance!
Wake, ye new Crusaders! Look!--the shores of France!

FRENCH IN THE TRENCHES

WILLIAM J. ROBINSON

IN THE SAN FRANCISCO ARGONAUT

Permission to reproduce in this book

I have a conversation book; I brought it out from home.
It tells you the French for knife and fork and likewise brush and comb;
It learns you how to ask the time, the names of all the stars,
And how to order oysters and how to buy cigars.

But there ain’t no stores to buy in; there ain’t no big hotels,
When you spend your time in dugouts doing a wholesale trade in shells;
It’s nice to know the proper talk for theatres and such,
But when it comes to talking, why, it doesn’t help you much.
There’s all them friendly kind o’ things you’d naturally say
When you meet a feller casual like and pass the time o’ day.
Them little things that breaks the ice and kind of clears the air.
But when you use your French book, why, them things isn’t there.

I met a chap the other day a-rootin’ in a trench.
He didn’t know a word of ours, nor me a word of French;
And how we ever managed, well, I cannot understand,
But I never used my French book though I had it in my hand.
I winked at him to start with; he grinned from ear to ear;
An’ he says, “Bong jour, Sammy,” an’ I says “Souvenir”;
He took my only cigarette, I took his thin cigar,
Which set the ball a-rollin’, and so--well, there you are!
I showed him next my wife and kids; he up and showed me his,
Them funny little French kids with hair all in a frizz;
“Annette,” he says, “Louise,” he says, and his tears begin to fall;
We was comrades when we parted, though we’d hardly spoke at all.

He’d have kissed me if I’d let him. We had never met before,
And I’ve never seen the beggar since, for that’s the way of war;
And though we scarcely spoke a word, I wonder just the same
If he’ll ever see them kids of his--I never asked his name.

LITANY

ALLENE GREGORY

IN HARRIET MONROE’S POETRY MAGAZINE

Permission to reproduce in this book

Saint Genevieve, whose sleepless watch
Saved threatened France of old,
Above the ship that carries him
Your sacred vigil hold.

Where all the fair green fields you loved
Are scarred with bursting shell,
Joan, the Maid who fought for France--
Oh, guard your young knight well.

But if by sea or if by land
God set death in his way--
Then, Mother of the Sacrificed,
Teach me what prayer to pray!

RAGNAROK

THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS

ARTHUR GUITERMAN

IN THE BELLMAN, MINNEAPOLIS

Permission to reproduce in this book

Ho! Heimdal sounds the Gjallar-horn:
The hosts of Hel rush forth
And Fenris rages redly
From his shackles in the North;
Unleashed is Garm, and Lok is loosed,
And freed is Giant Rime;
The Rainbow-bridge is broken
By the hordes of Muspelheim.
The wild Valkyries ride the wind
With spear and clanging shield
Where all the Hates embattled
Are met on Vigrid-field;
For there shall fall the Mighty Ones
By valiant men adored--
Great Odin, Tyr the fearless,
And Frey that sold his sword.
And Thor shall slay the dragon
Whose breath shall be his bane.
The gods themselves shall perish;
The sons of the gods shall reign!

Old Time shall sound the boding horn
Again and yet again,
To rouse the warring passions
That swell the hearts of men.
Revolt shall wake, and Anarchy,
With all their horrid throng--
Revenge, Destruction, Rapine,
The spawn of ancient Wrong,
With all the hosts of slaughter
That our own sins must breed--
Cold Hate, Oppression’s daughter,
And Rage, the child of Greed.
Then, though we stand to battle
As men have ever stood,
Down, down shall crash our temples,
The Evil and the Good;
Yea, all that now we cherish
Must pass--but not in vain.
The gods we love shall perish;
The sons of the gods shall reign!

So, strong in faith, or weak in doubt,
Or berserk-mad, we range
Our spears in that long battle
Which means not Death, but Change.
Our highest with our lowest
Must own the grim behest,
And Good shall yield for Better--
Else how should come the Best?
Yet if we win our portion
How dare we crave the whole?
And if we still press forward,
Why need we know the goal?
But those whose hearts are constant
And those whose souls are wise
Have said that from our ashes
A nobler race shall rise
From shreds of shattered altars
To rear the Perfect Fane.
Our little gods must perish
That God Himself shall reign!

THE KID HAS GONE TO THE COLORS

WILLIAM HERSCHELL

IN THE INDIANAPOLIS NEWS

Permission to reproduce in this book

The Kid has gone to the Colors
And we don’t know what to say;
The Kid we have loved and cuddled
Stepped out for the Flag today.
We thought him a child, a baby,
With never a care at all,
But his country called him man-size
And the Kid has heard the call.

He paused to watch the recruiting
Where, fired by the fife and drum,
He bowed his head to Old Glory
And thought that it whispered: “Come!”
The Kid, not being a slacker,
Stood forth with patriot-joy
To add his name to the roster--
And God, we’re proud of the boy!

The Kid has gone to the Colors;
It seems but a little while
Since he drilled a schoolboy army
In a truly martial style.
But now he’s a man, a soldier,
And we lend him listening ear,
For his heart is a heart all loyal,
Unscourged by the curse of fear.

His dad, when he told him, shuddered,
His mother--God bless her!--cried;
Yet, blest with a mother-nature,
She wept with a mother-pride.
But he whose old shoulders straightened
Was Granddad--for memory ran
To years when he, too, a youngster,
Was changed by the Flag to a man!

A SCRAP OF PAPER

HERBERT KAUFMAN

From Mr. Kaufman’s book of poems, “The Hell-Gate of Soissons.” T.
Fisher Unwin, Publishers (all rights reserved), London, England.
Special permission to reproduce in this book.

“Just for a word, ‘neutrality’ ... just for a scrap of paper, Great Britain was going to make war.”--The German Chancellor to the British Ambassador in Berlin.

Just for a “scrap of paper,”
Just for a Nation’s word,
Just for a clean tradition,
Just for a treaty slurred;
Just for a pledge defaulted,
Just for a dastard blow,
Just for an ally’s summons,
Just for a friend struck low;
Just for the weal of progress,
Just for a trust held dear,
Just for the rights of mankind,
Just for a duty clear;
Just for a Prussian insult,
Just for a splendid cause,
Just for the hope of progress,
Just for the might of laws;
Just for the kingdom’s peril,
Just for a deed of shame,
Just for defense of honor,
Just for the British name!

POPPIES

CAPT. JOHN MILLS HANSON, F.A.

IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A.E.F., FRANCE

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 fields; 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.

AS THE TRUCKS GO ROLLIN’ BY

LIEUT. L. W. SUCKERT, A.S., U.S.A.

IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A.E.F., FRANCE

There’s a rumble an’ a jumble an’ a humpin’ 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’ and 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,
And 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 ol’ 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.

THE GRAVES OF GALLIPOLI