Chapter 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