Chapter C: E. W. B

F.R. CR^OZIER]

THE CAVEMAN

I was dreaming in the trenches when thoughts and visions dim
Took shape—there squatted close to me, with mien and visage grim,
A dark and hairy caveman, huge of form and bare of limb;
And he eyed me very strangely—and I thought I said to him:

“Oh! prehistoric caveman, did you own some rock-bound lair
Where, secure from interruption, you consumed your scanty fare?
Did you sally forth for hunting—or to seek some maiden fair?
Did you club her on the cranium and drag her by the hair?

“She’d be mostly good when captured, cooked your grub and had her
share.
You were happy, Mr. Caveman, tho’ your brawny limbs _were_ bare.
You were cold and hungry sometimes, but upon this point I’ll swear
You were better off than we are—you’d no uniform to tear.

“Poor benighted Mr. Caveman, if you’d only _only_ known
Of our glorious progression—all your arrowheads of bone
Would have been replaced by rifles, and for little slings of stone
You’d have had a 4.7 gun—what joys you _might_ have known!

“Things have changed, poor Mr. Caveman, since you went your simple
way,
But we’re living still in caves, sir, dug most carefully in clay.
We call them trenches, dug-outs, saps; but, call them what we may,
They are made to hide our skins in, just as in your heathen day.

“Two thousand years ago came One—taught ‘Peace on earth, goodwill’;
Unceasingly we’ve preached it since, and that ‘Thou shalt not kill.’
And all these toilsome, changeful years we’ve retrograded till
We are _with_ you, Mr. Caveman, for we’re simple cavemen still.”

I thought I was quite eloquent; my brain began to burn,
When a hand stretched out and shook me—’twas a hand I could not
spurn.
I yawned and tried to dodge that grasp, but I awoke to learn
’Twas the N.C.O. on duty, saying: “Come, my lad, your turn!”

J. M. COLLINS, 9th Battalion.

G. T. M. R.]

AN ANZAC ALPHABET

_By J. W. S. HENDERSON, R.G.A._

_Note._—This illustration has had to be postponed pending a final
statement by Mr. Hilaire Belloc as to the date of the certain
exhaustion of German resources.

_The Kaiser
to his
Secretary_

(_Dictated_) _XMAS, 1915_]

THE KAISER TO HIS SECRETARY

“Peace upon earth and unto men goodwill!”
Such words rang true of yore. (Excuse my laughing.)
Ironical they’ll ring while Huns are still
A-strafing!

My Vaterland, I know, has set its back
Against such old-world heresy and schism,
And deems such tidings but a mere anach-
ronism

Not till our Eagles twain replace the U-
Nion Jack from Dover Harbour unto Calais,
Proving thereby the truth of “Deutschland U-
ber Alles!”

Not till all men shall hearken my decree,
Not till all worlds shall tremble at my nod,
Shall peace on earth be countenanced by ME—
or God.

But since the time is fitting, down you sit
And write—forgive the French—un petit billet-
Doux with the season’s compliments to Lit-
tle Willie.

Tell him how once his courage I admired,
How recently—to my surprise—I’ve heard an
(I trust) unfounded rumour that he’s tired
of Verdun.

Bid him select a new cathedral’s spire,
Bombard it! Seize it! Never mind the losses!
Tell him its peal of bells will make more ir-
on crosses.

To Hindenburg say—he must do his best,
And if he can’t advance, then he must dig a
New line, “according to our plans,” due west
of Riga.

To her who knows how Bulgars’ palms are _Greeced_,
Send greeting suited to a Royal Queen—oh!
And bid her give her brother’s love at least
To Tino.

To Enver write: “Since some of you seem lost
And some of you don’t seem to know quite where ’e are.
I’ve squared at—well—at never mind the cost,
Bulgaria.

“That is my part; you must now stop the gab
(Why, anybody can do that much, damn it!)
Of those who try to shake the faith of Ab-
dul Hamid.”

Then when I’m satisfied that General Bird-
Wood and his Anzacs at the Dardanelles
Are busy studying the latest word
In Hells,

And my supplies are safe, then right away
I’ll hie to Egypt—not by ocean liner,
But by a rather safer route through A-
sia Minor.

These plans of mine, at which some seem surprised,
Are not, as fools think, calculated solely on
The out-of-date campaigns of undersized
Napoleon.

For when I’ve got the British blighters beat
(Here comes my cunning), what I mean to do is
To exercise, on water smooth, my fleet
Near Suez.

Then, finally, for Double Eagles’ head,
In order to perpetuate my Kultur,
By Royal Decree I’ll substitute instead—
A Vulture.

H. B. C.

THE ANZAC THUNDERSTORM—FROM THE TRENCHES

Do not we know that fall of night over Anzac!

Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! All the afternoon the warships on our right had been engaged in the playful work of tearing pieces from the hillsides of Achi Baba, eight miles to the south of us, ruining the trenches of our friend the enemy, blowing up a supply base, a mule train, dropping shells on the forts, or indulging in some of the many small acts of friendliness to which Jack Tar is prone. As the evening wore on we could see the flash from both shell and gun.

About the time we finished our frugal evening meal lightning began to play in intermittent flashes, like a heavenly searchlight, from far across the hidden Narrows and Asia Minor, and put to shame the puny bursts of light from the handiwork of man. The boats were still at it, but their dull booming was now intermixed with the rumble of distant thunder.

The lightning becomes more vivid. There is a rattling, crashing roar from the artillery of the skies that can never be equalled by any earthly batteries. Surely the Creator is in angry mood to-night, as comes a deafening peal, followed by vivid flashes of forked lightning in fantastic shapes. One seems a long arm with hooked fingers, as though the Most High would grasp one or both of the contending armies and hurl them into the seas. The lightning plays around the steel points of the bayonets of the motionless sentries, standing ever ready under the parapets, and keeping a ceaseless watch the night through on the enemy trenches.

Trench and traverse, hill and valley, are revealed by a brighter light than that of day. The rude wooden crosses, marking the places where, alas! too many of Australasia’s best have fallen, are brought out in bold relief against the dark background of holly scrub, and the narrow strips of winding roadway on the long hillsides from the beach—the work of months—up which perspiring fatigue parties toil with rations, water, ammunition and other necessary stores the day long, are laid out as a relief map by Heaven’s electricity.

A rattling, crashing roar, such as I have never heard in any Australian thunderstorm, is followed by a deafening clap, and a huge ball of fire falls earthward at terrific speed in the direction of Constantinople, followed by a sound as of a shattering explosion, which causes the very hillsides to quake, traverse and parapet to tremble, and the roofs of dug-outs to send down a shower of stones.

Sunset over Imbros as seen from Anzac

_Drawn by C. E. W. BEAN_]

The ships have long given up the unequal struggle to make their voices heard against those of the elements, and as the storm passes over, and the rumblings of the thunder become more and more distant and the lightning less vivid, the veil is drawn from the face of the moon, and the White Lady sails out into her own once more.

The storm has had its effect on those manning the trenches. The bubbling rattle of the machine-gun, the sharp crack of Turkish rifles, and the heavier report of our own arms, which usually punctuate the night, are noticeable by their absence. The turmoil of an hour ago has turned to unbelievable quiet.

I. A. SAXON,
21st Australian Battalion.

SENSE OR ——?

There’s a certain hard-hearted old censor
(Which is not meaning any offence, sir)
Who won’t let us tell,
When we say “I’m quite well,”
Where we’ve planted the water condenser.

And that same stony-hearted old censor,
When we speak of the shell-smoke as dense, sir,
Will rule it out straight—
And the same if we state
That some of our non-coms, are denser.

And yet this same rigid old censor
(Whose business must now be immense, sir)
Will let it go through—
Tho’ he knows it’s not true—
If we tell her our love grows intenser!

But though mostly this rigid old censor
Is a far stiffer bar than a fence, sir,
Yet he let down the rails
For our Christmas mails,
So three jolly good cheers for the censor.

C. D. MC. (Sergt.).