Chapter L: L. (a. N. Z. A. C.)

From “The Anzac Book.” Cassell & Co., Ltd., Publishers, London.
Special permission to reproduce in this book.

This poem is one of many that were written to commemorate the
stubborn bravery of the Anzacs, the British soldiers from Australia
and New Zealand. These indomitables came half way round the globe
at Britain’s first call. Their first appearance was in Egypt, where
they drove the German-led Turks back into the desert and saved the
Suez canal. They were and are officially designated the “Australian
and New Zealand Army Corps,” a title too long for common use. They
have won fame and the world’s admiration as the “Anzacs,” a word
made by running together the first letters of their official title.
Australia’s own name for her soldier is Bill-Jim. “The Graves of
Gallipoli” is one of the most noble and tender poems that have come
to us out of the war.

The herdman wandering by the lonely rills
Marks where they lie on the scarred mountain’s flanks,
Remembering that wild morning when the hills
Shook to the roar of guns, and those wild ranks
Surged upward from the sea.

None tends them. Flowers will come again in spring,
And the torn hills and those poor mounds be green.
Some bird that sings in English woods may sing
To English lads beneath--the wind will keep
Its ancient lullaby.

Some flower that blooms beside the southern foam
May blossom where our dead Australians lie,
And comfort them with whispers of their home;
And they will dream, beneath the alien sky,
Of the Pacific Sea.

“Thrice happy they who fell beneath the walls,
Under their father’s eyes,” the Trojan said,
“Not we who die in exile where who falls
Must lie in foreign earth.” Alas! our dead
Lie buried far away.

Yet where the brave man lies who fell in fight
For his dear country, there his country is.
And we will mourn them proudly as of right--
For meaner deaths be weeping and loud cries:
They died pro patria!

Oh, sweet and seemly so to die, indeed,
In the high flush of youth and strength and pride.
These are our martyrs, and their blood the seed
Of nobler futures. ’Twas for us they died.
Keep we their memory green.

This be their epitaph. “Traveler, south or west,
Go, say at home we heard the trumpet call,
And answered. Now beside the sea we rest.
Our end was happy if our country thrives:
Much was demanded. Lo! our store was small--
That which we had we gave--it was our lives.”

BATTLE OF BELLEAU WOOD

EDGAR A. GUEST

This poem was chosen by Major General John A. Lejeune, Commandant
of the United States Marine Corps, as his favorite of all the
Marine Corps verse written during the war. It is republished here
by permission of the author and of the publishers, Reilly and Lee,
who hold the copyright.

It was thick with Prussian troopers, it was foul with German guns;
Every tree that cast a shadow was a sheltering place for Huns.
Death was guarding every roadway, death was watching every field,
And behind each rise of terrain was a rapid-fire concealed;
But Uncle Sam’s Marines had orders: “Drive the Boche from where
they’re hid.
For the honor of Old Glory, take the woods!” and so they did.

I fancy none will tell it as the story should be told--
None will ever do full justice to those Yankee troopers bold.
How they crawled upon their stomachs through the fields of golden wheat
With the bullets spitting at them in that awful battle heat.
It’s a tale too big for writing; it’s beyond the voice or pen,
But it glows among the splendor of the bravest deeds of men.

It’s recorded as a battle, but I fancy it will live,
As the brightest gem of courage human struggles have to give.
Inch by inch, they crawled to victory toward the flaming mounts of guns;
Inch by inch, they crawled to grapple with the barricaded Huns;
On through fields that death was sweeping with a murderous fire,
they went
Till the Teuton line was vanquished and the German strength was spent.

Ebbed and flowed the tides of battle as they’ve seldom done before;
Slowly, surely, moved the Yankees against all the odds of war.
For the honor of the fallen, for the glory of the dead,
The living line of courage kept the faith and moved ahead.
They’d been ordered not to falter, and when night came on they stood
With Old Glory proudly flying o’er the trees of Belleau Wood.

“POOR OLD SHIP!”