Digitized by the Internet Archive c o* +t in 2011 with funding from ""'ne Library of Congress **+*<$ <0> o s » • » ^ m ' ^\ ''-mm* #*% http://www.archive.org/details/incamptrenchsongOObrc : *°^> : • ,> 4- %£» £' *+, - > > * * © - /•'■' /■. -C\_ i ^ .i- IN CAMP AND TRENCH BY BERTON BRALEY IN CAMP AND TRENCH A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON THINGS AS THEY ARE SONGS OF THE WORKADAY WORLD NEW YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY In Camp and Trench Songs of the Fighting Forces by Berton Braley Author of "A Banjo at Armageddon" etc. New York \jeorge //. Doran (company COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY JUN 21 1918 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 0>Ci.A49?84B TO CHARLES AGNEW MacLEAN Editor of the Popular Magazine at whose suggestion and with whose encouragement most of these verses were written CONTENTS Over the Top Names Page . 16 MEN OF THE GUARD "B" Division ........ 19 Chow ......... 21 Hiking . 23 Drill 25 "PLATTSBURGERS" The Colt . 29 The Grind 31 Turnabout . 33 Education . . . . . . .35 The Breaking Point ...... 37 BOYS OF THE DRAFT The Recruit The Old Top Sergeant "K.P." Jacks of All Trades The Comb Band The Slicker . Ambition . 41 43 46 48 5i 53 55 IN THE THICK OF IT The Doughboy War Songs Artillery . >ii] 59 61 62 CONTENTS Page The Rooter ' .64 Thanksgiving Somewhere in France „ . .67 The Christmas Sermon ...... 70 The Search ...... . . 73 ON THE U-BOAT TRAIL Heroes ......... 77 The Destroyer Men ....... 79 Not in Uniform ....... 81 The Mine Sv/eepers ...... 82 Deserted Roads ... .... 84 [viii] IN CAMP AND TRENCH IN CAMP AND TRENCH OVER THE TOP YN the little pause when the drum fire stops before ■*• the whistles blow, When a fellow's heart to his boot heels drops and the seconds tick off slow, When he says "Good-bye, and if I 'go west' just tell the folks for me— — " And then chokes up in his throat and chest or cusses a bit, maybe, It gives him courage and strength and pluck, when the others wish him well With "Over the top with the best of luck and give the Bosches hell!" When our boys shall get in a first line trench of the big show over there And breathe the smoke and the battle stench as the shrapnel bursts in air, It'll help each man as he waits and waits to charge through No Man's Land, If he's sure that back in the Good Old States we know and we understand. His heart will thrill with a truer pluck if he knows we wish him well, With "Over the top with the best of luck and give the Bosches hell!" [15] IN CAMP AND TRENCH CALL him Sammy or call him Jack, Call him Johnny or Ted or Mac, Give him any old kind of name, It doesn't matter, he'll fight the same. The name you give him won't help or harm His brave young heart or his fighting arm ; Whatever the label that's his to wear, When he hits Berlin he will write it there. So call him whatever your fancy's struck, If you only love him and wish him luck It matters not what the term may be, Its proper spelling is Victory! So call him Jerry or call him Jim, It's all quite one and the same to him, For the dream that's stirring his hot young blood Is changing the Kaiser's name to "Mud" ! [16] MEN OF THE GUARD IN CAMP AND TRENCH "B" DIVISION HEN we heard our country calling us we volun- teered for service; It was just our simple duty, or it looked that way to us, Though the thought of facing shell fire made us feel a trifle nervous, And we weren't exactly anxious to be mixing in the fuss. Now in companies, battalions and in regiments we're drilling, We are lettered and we're numbered for our job across the foam, But the men of "B" division weren't so ready or so willing, While we hold the muddy trenches they'll be quar- tered safe at home! Oh! the men of "B" division made a safe and sane decision, They are meek and peaceful parties and they hate to pack a gun ; They'll avoid the great collision and we call 'em "B" division 'Cause they'll "B" here while we're fighting And they'll "B" here when we're done! [i93 IN CAMP AND TRENCH "B" DIVISION (continued) They're the calm, intrepid members of the tribe of "We should worry !" /'Let George do it !" is their motto, and they follow it, all right; They're the ones who ducked conscription— though it put them in a flurry— And they'll try to cop our sweethearts while we go to France and fight. But I'd rather be a soldier who is daring blood and slaughter Than to have a heart of putty and to stick at home and know That while other men were playing in the game across the water I belonged to "B M division, with the guys who wouldn't go! They have made their own decision and they're stuck in "B" division, While we do our bit of service for the old red, white and blue, But we view 'em with derision and we call 'em "B" division 'Cause they'll "B" here while we're fighting And they'll "B" here when we're through ! [20] IN CAMP AND TRENCH CHOW YOU may mutter and swear at the Reveille call With its "Can't get 'em up in the morning," And you may not be fond of assembly at all, But you drop into line at the warning; Police call will cause you a lot of distress, Though you answer at once or regret it, But you jump when the splinter-lips bugle for mess And the hash-slinger yells, "Come and get it!" For you know that it means "Form in line for your beans With your mess-kit in hand— do it now!" And you cheerfully come For your coffee and slum When the splinter-lips bugle for chow ! When you trudge in at night from a twenty-mile hike With your throat and your uniform dusty, You learn what a genuine appetite's like— The kind that the writers call "lusty," And a feed at the swellest of city hotels, With a half-dozen waiters to set it, Wouldn't touch what the hash-slinger serves as he yells : "Hi, doughboys, it's up ! Come and get it !" [21] IN CAMP AND TRENCH CHOW (continued) For It's filling and hot And it hits the right spot And it smoothes out the lines in your brow, So we line up with speed When the time comes for feed And the splinter-lips bugle for chow. It is bully to find there's a letter for you Or a box of tobacco and candy, And permission for leave is too good to be true, And a book or a paper comes handy ; But the moment in camp that is dearest to me (And with pleasure I always have met it) Is the time when the hash-slinger bellows out free; "Hi, doughboys, it's up! Come and get it!" Oh! we kick and we howl And we mumble and growl At the stuff that we eat, but somehow We gather in style With a standing broad smile When the splinter-lips bugle for chow. [22] IN CAMP AND TRENCH HIKING (Heavy Marching Order) NE-TWO-THREE-FOUR." Some-hike! Some- hike! Hot-sun. Thick-dust. Hard- work? Sure-Mike. Forty -five-pound-pack-now- weighs-one-ton. "One-two-three-four"-I-swear-this-gun Isn't-any-small-arm. Take-it-from-me, It-was-made-for-field-ar-tiller-ree! It-should-have-wheels, six-wheels-or-more — Gosh-my-throat's-dry. "One-two-three-four !" Route step is easier, breaks the monotony, Brings back your spirits a bit, if you've got any; Don't have to count every step that you take, Don't have to watch every move that you make. Some other squad starts to kidding and joking you, Then you kid back, though the dust cloud is choking you; Maybe a bunch starts a popular song That helps a heap when you're hiking along. And then when you stop for a rest Where the grass looks so soft and so green And you loosen the pack from your weary old back And you swig from your army canteen, [23] IN CAMP, AND TRENCH HIKING (continued) You heave a deep sigh from your chest And you say to yourself as you sprawl: "Well, I thought I was gone—that I couldn't keep on ; But I guess I'll get through, after all !" Then it's "Fall in—march!" and we're off again, A bunch of dusty and tired men, Whose shoulders sag from their bandoliers As they tramp along for a hundred years; Or it seems a hundred until you get So you march like soldiers, and we don't — yet. Our feet are sore and we'd like to quit, But each guy summons his nerve and grit And sticks, somehow, till we hit our camp With the corporals counting the steps we tramp. "One-two-three-four." Darn-all-this-work. I-wish-X-knew-how-I-could-shirk Long-hikes-like-this. Fm-all-in-now ; When-I-get-back— oh-you-mess-chow! Seems-like-I-can't-take-one-step-more; "One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four." [24] IN CAMP AND TRENCH DRILL GOSH, but I'm tired of drill! Clumping all over the lot, ("Right shoulder — humph ! Left shoulder— humph !") Dusty and sweaty and hot. Tramping the clods in platoons and in squads, Dressing by inches and charging by rods; Harking to shavetails who bark their commands ; Turning and wheeling, or standing dead still, Keeping just so with my feet and my hands — Gosh, but I'm tired of drill ! I've got an ache in my back, I've got a pain in my neck ; ("Right shoulder— humph ! Left shoulder— humph !") Gee, but I feel like a wreck ! Ache in each arch of my feet as we march, (Feel like a dress shirt without any starch). Doing the manual hours at a time, Learning to work with "mechanical skill," Sergeant says: "Rotten! You guys are a crime! Do it all over." (We do it all over.) Gosh, but I'm tired of drill ! Day after day after day. Plenty, I say, is enough. [253 IN CAMP AND TRENCH DRILL (continued) ("Right shoulder — humph! Left shoulder — humph!") ..Who the hell started this stuff? I wouldn't kick about doing my trick Down in the trenches — tout this is too thick. Ain't there no end to this horrible bore? Skipper says : "Boys, if you'll work with a will, We'll make you soldiers in seven years more." ("Right shoulder— humph ! Left shoulder— humph !") Gosh, but I'm tired of drill ! [26] PLATTSBURGERS IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE COLT COLT" is the name that surely fits This weapon's every action, For like a colt she runs to skits Which drive you to distraction. She seems a gentle, simple gun, But when you come to aim her She jumps and kicks and bucks like fun And, gosh 8 it's hard to tame her. The blue-steel Colt, The new steel Colt, She runs to stunts erratic, For she's a durn Tough arm to learn, This Army Automatic. You think you'll blow the mark to pot At ten or fifteen paces And find that not a single shot Has left the slightest traces. All seven bullets went astray Amid the zephyrs breezy, Thus showing in a vivid way The Colt is not so easy. [29] IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE COLT (continued) The nifty Colt, The shifty Colt, She speaks in tones emphatic, But often works By whims and quirks, This Army Automatic! Yet when you get to know this arm And how to coax and pet her, She'll do her duty like a charm, No gun will serve you better; She'll stick right closely by your side, And as the fight grows hotter And you are caught in battle's tide You'll thank your stars you've got her. The lusty Colt, The trusty Colt, The weapon democratic, Whose vicious might Makes men one height, The Army Automatic ! [30] IN CAMP AMD TRENCH THE GRIND OH ! you grumble and yawn as you wake up at dawn Or maybe an hour or two prior, And you jump out ker-plunk from your nice cosy bunk To a floor that is far from the fire ; Then there's mess and "Police" and your labours increase When the bugle is sounded for drilling, Which is needful, all right, if you'd learn how to fight, Though it isn't especially thrilling. But you simply must go through it, There's the job— you've got to do it, Though there seems an awful gob of it to cram ; If you want to be an officer, A good efficient officer, A credit to your Uncle Sam! Then there's bayonet drill, where you learn how to kill In a manner uncouth but conclusive ; After which you must scoot to the range, where you shoot At a target that's highly elusive. Then to classes you hie where you buck S. P. I. And the I. D. R. adds to your worry ; Even noon call for mess scarcely lightens the stress, For you've got to get through in a hurry. [31] IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE GRIND (continued) But the Training Schools demand it And you'll simply have to stand it And go trotting to the slaughter like a lamb If you want to be an officer, A first-class A 1 officer, A credit to your Uncle Sam! In the trenches you grub and the suicide club Needs a lot of your strictest attention, And there's duty to do with the wig-wagging crew And the hikes, which are painful to mention; And at night there is school, which you find, as a rule, Is productive of labour and sorrow ; Then you loaf till it's taps— that's a half hour, per- haps— And there's nothing to do till to-morrow. But although you growl and grumble, You will do your duty humble With the patience of an oyster or a clam If you want to be an officer, A real, up-standing officer, A credit to your Uncle Sam! Glossary: "Police"— cleaning up barracks and streets, etc. S. P. I.— "Small Problems in Infantry." I. D. R.— "Infantry Drill Regulations." Suicide Club— Machine Gun Men. Wig- wagging Crew— Signalmen. [32] IN CAMP AND TRENCH TURNABOUT O-DAY I am only a private That every one orders about; When a Sergeant says "Hup !" I have got to play up, And I jump at the corporal's shout. But presently I shall arrive at My turn to be Sergeant ; oh, boy ! And the Sergeant to-day Will be private, and, say, I guess that won't rill me with joy! I'll make him stand round at attention, The way that he does it to me, And I'll give him a call If he blunders at all Or he errs in the slightest degree. I'll use all my native invention To work him with vigour and vim, And whatever he did To keep me on a grid I shall certainly do it to him! For it's all in the game we are learning And it isn't in rancour, we know; Though this turnabout stuff May appear a bit rough, [33] IN CAMP AND TRENCH TURNABOUT (continued) It's the way to make officers grow. It means that the stripes we are earning , Will represent labour and sweat— And the Sergeant just now Will have beads on his brow When I am a Sergeant, you bet! £34] IN CAMP AND TRENCH EDUCATION TJjELIEVE me, hereafter, whenever I meet ■■-' A chap who is digging a ditch in the street I'll bring up my hand and salute! For I have been learning, in sap and boyau, How hard you must work and how much you must know To be a good shovel-recruit. My hands are all blisters, my muscles are lame From digging the sand and revetting the same In a proper and soldierly style, And all the night long as I lie in my bunk I dream about dirt by the ton or the chunk And sand by the linear mile. I used to think trenches were simple and plain, Requiring no actual use of the brain, But I was mistaken, that's clear; From what I've observed, if you build them correct, You need to be carpenter, drain architect And plumber and mine engineer. So we're getting plenty of drill from the start Till we learn every phase of the business by heart, And we know all the hooks and the crooks, For when we're commanding our men at the front We've got to know all of this trench-digging stunt Without any help from the books. [35] IN CAMP AND TRENCH EDUCATION (continued) I talk about parados, wattling, facine And think that in time I will know what they mean; , Though at present I'm hazy, I guess. Perhaps when I've dug out a dug-out or two I'll learn why I'm doing the things that I do And accumulate sense, more or less. And meantime I'm drilling with shovel and pick In sand that is heavy and mud that is thick, Constructing traverse and redoubt And doing my Sunday-school darndest to cope With all the instructions. I'll learn them, I hope, If the arnica doesn't run out ! Glossary: Revetting — strengthening trench sides with brush- work, etc. Parados — opposite to parapet; back of a trench. Wattling-— basketwork to hold dirt. Facine—a bundle of sticks. Traverse—zigzag trenches. Redoubt—a heavily forti- fied bit of trench. [36] IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE BREAKING POINT THERE'S a feud between Kelly and Klaw, They sputter like steaks on a grid, For Klaw calls big Kelly a Chaw And Kelly says Klaw is a Yid ; There's a row between Linton and Jones And there's trouble with Hyland and Wright, And our barrack resounds with the tones Of quarrel, dissension and fight, We used to be joyous and blithe And pleasant and placid to boot, But lately two-thirds of us writhe In a nervous excitement acute; We're fidgety, crochety, sore, We wake at the dawn with a scowl, And things that we grinned at before Now cause us to curse and to growl. The reason? It's simple enough: We've worked and we've studied and grilled, We've gone through a mill that is rough, We've dug and we've hiked and we've drilled, And now that we're pretty near through And most of the labour is past, We're fretting and wondering who Will land the commissions at last. [37] IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE BREAKING POINT (continued) There's rumour and whisper at mess And guesses in trench and latrine, We spread wild reports as we dress, We gossip at school and canteen, We hear they'll examine on this Or lay all their stress upon that. What marvel our nerves go amiss And every one talks through his hat? But wait till it's over; then Klaw And Kelly will patch up their row, And Linton and Jones will haw S haw ! At the way that they carry on now ; The winners and those they defeat Will act like good men who fought well, For the finish is not hard to meet — It's only the worry that's hell. [38] BOYS OF THE DRAFT IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE RECRUIT 1USED to wake up with a sticky tongue And an eye that was dull and red, And the 6ongs that the early birdies sung I heard on my way to bed ; But now I jump with the reveille And my eyes are bright and clear And I thank my lucky stars each day That the government brought me here. I used to be mean as a hermit crab Till I'd swallowed my morning drink, But now that I'm wearing the Olive Drab I'm blithe as a bobolink, For the fresh air thrills through my throat and chest And I just want to shout and roar, And life has a savour, a zip, a zest That I never have known before. I used to be flabby and soft and white When I sat at a desk in town, But since I've been learning the way to fight I'm husky and hard and brown. It took a cocktail to make me eat The choicest of food, but now You watch me march to a mess-shack seat And wade through the army chow. [41] IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE RECRUIT (continued) So I smile a sort of a shame-faced smile When I think how I plead exempt, And I'm glad that the board saw through my guile With a glance of cool contempt ; And though I may perish across the seas, I'll be one of a splendid clan, For the army's taken a piece of cheese And made it into a Man! [42] IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE OLD TOP SERGEANT TWENTY years of the army, of drawing a ser- geant's pay And helping the West Point shavetails, fresh from the training school, To handle a bunch of soldiers and drill 'em the proper way (Which isn't always exactly according to book and rule). I've seen 'em rise to Captains and Majors and Colonels, too, And me still only a sergeant, the same as I used to be, And I knew that some of them didn't know as much as a sergeant knew, But I stuck to my daily duty— -there wasn't a growl from me. Twenty years of the army, Serving in peace and war, Standing the drill of the army mill, For that's what they paid me for. Twenty years with the army, which wasn't so much for size, But man for man I'd back it to lick any troops on earth. [43] IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE OLD TOP SERGEANT (continued) 'Twas a proud, little, classy army, as good as the flag it flies, And it takes an old top sergeant to know what the flag is worth. Then— a shot at Sarejevo, and hell burst over there And the Kaiser dragged us in it, and the bill for the draft was passed And— they handed me my commission, and some shoulder straps to wear, And the crazy dream of my rooky days had changed to a fact at last. Twenty years with the army, And it's great to know they call On the guys like me for what will be The mightiest job of all. Twenty years of the army, of doing what shavetails bid, And I know I haven't the polish that fellows like that will show, And I hold a high opinion of the brains of a West Point kid, But I think I can make him hustle when it comes to the work I know. But who cares where we come from, Plattsburg, ranks, or the Guard, This isn't a pink tea-party, but a War to be fought and won; There's a serious job before us, a job that is huge and hard, And the social register don't count until we've got it done! [44] IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE OLD TOP SERGEANT (continued) Twenty years in the army, And now I've got my chance. Have I earned my straps? Well, you watch the chaps That I've trained for the game in France ! [45l IN CAMP AND TRENCH P. M H ! Kitchen Police is the duty that creases A lot of new lines in your brow ; It keeps a guy hustling when detailed for rustling The daily allowance of chow. The Murphies I'm peeling have set my mind reeling, I've done seven billion and three, When I get away from this job I'll be grey from K. P. But there's no escaping from scrubbing and scraping The pans and the pots and the plates, And bringing in fuel and ladling out gruel And paring the onions by crates; My nerves are all shaken from smelling the bacon, The coffee, the beans, and the tea, My hunger's departed; who was it that started K. P.? I thought I'd be fighting the Germans, and righting The wrongs that the papers portrayed, And here I am wearing an apron and bearing The task of a scullery maid ; Why, drilling is easy compared to the greasy Hard labour they've handed to me, This cleaning of fishes and juggling of dishes, K. P.! [46] IN CAMP AND TRENCH "K. P." (continued) Say, when by a drive at the Bosche we arrive at The widely known town of Berlin, And cheerfully- — rather—- we reach out and gather The Kaiser and Hindenburg in, I've got a suggestion to settle the question Of what we shall do with 'em: Gee! I'd thrill to be viewing the pair of them doing K. P.! [47] IN CAMP AND TRENCH JACKS OF ALL TRADES UNCLE SAM reached out and took us, so of course we went and came To his school of preparation for the military game ; We laid down the tools of labour for our rifles and our packs, Wrapped our clothing into bundles and put khaki on our backs. Yes, we left the farm and office and the counter and the mill, And the time clock all behind us, but we hadn't left our skill; And while fighting in the trenches is the work we have in view, Any other job you mention is the kind that we can do. For the farmers and the plumbers And the agents and the drummers And the miners from the tunnel and the shaft, And the puddlers and the tailors And the lumbermen and sailors Have their quota in the Army of the Draft. We are learning to be soldiers who can hand the gaff to Fritz, With a stew pan for a kelly and our rifles in our mitts, But if there's a strike of workers on the recreation hall [48] IN CAMP AND TRENC JACKS OF ALL TRADES (continued) We've a bunch of boys among us who can build it, stage and all. They can paint the scenes and shift 'em, they can write and act a play With a list of star performers that would daze the Great White Way, For the pick of each profession and the class of every trade Are assembled here together in the army we have made. Yes, the digger of the sewer And the butcher and the brewer And the politician, leaving all his graft, And the writer and the actor And the garment sub-contractor Have their quota in the Army of the Draft! We have many expert cracksmen who are pretty sure to shine In the job of prying spaces through the mighty Ger- man line; We have engineers and sandhogs who will presently begin On the digging of a subway that will take us to Berlin. We're an army of civilians who are being trained for war, But the work of smashing Germans isn't all we're fitted for; [49] IN CAMP AND TRENCH JACKS OF ALL TRADES (continued) We're a varied bunch of toilers from a big and busy land That our Uncle Sam has summoned for a job he has on hand. For he gets the high and lowly And the wicked and the holy And the men of every trade and every craft, And well work and win together As we battle heil-for-leather In the democratic Army of the Draft ! [So] IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE COMB BAND |H ! we love the gay Victrola in the watches of the night And we sit about and listen to its records with delight, And we like to hear the music of the regimental band While the leader juggles gaily with the baton in his hand, But the melody that's sweetest as we linger in the gloam Is the harmony extracted from a fine tooth comb. Yes, we get some tissue paper and some combs from out our kit And we gather in the squad-tent where the lantern shadows flit, And we play a bunch of ragtime with a lot of vim and In a sort of jazz-band rhythm — all the latest stuff we know; Tunes that set your shoulders swaying, while your thoughts are light as foam, To the sound of syncopation on a fine tooth comb. It's a crazy sort of music which would drive a critic mad, But it makes the evenings shorter and it really ain't so bad; [Si] IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE COMB BAND (continued) And it often kind of gets you when the boys start in to play, For I've seen some homesick fellows wipe a tear or two away To the strains of "Suwanee River" and "My Old Ken- tucky Home" As they float in wistful minors from a fine tooth comb. When this cruel war is over— and I hope I'll last it through — And we beat the German army— as we all intend to do ; When the slaughtering is finished and the final fight we win And with flags and pennons flying we go marching through Berlin, I would like to tramp in triumph past the Kaiser's palace dome Playing "Stars and Stripes Forever!" on a fine tooth comb i tsal IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE SLICKER OH I the slicker makes a dicker for a u-ne-f orm That's the very latest style and cut; He is military, very, where the ladies swarm And you ought to see the beggar strut. Just to suit him we salute him as he breezes by In the khaki of a fighting man, But he never will endeavour to go forth to die, And he'll stay as far from trouble as he can. Every fellow isn't yellow in the ordnance corps ; There are plenty who are first-rate men. It's the codger who's a dodger that we all abhor, That has ducked the draft to wield a pen ; One who blenches at the trenches, though his frame is dressed In the garments that the soldiers wear; It's the cutie seeking duty in a nice warm nest Very far away from "Over There." He's a showboy, not a doughboy, in his nice clean clothes, And he'll never get 'em muddied up in scraps, For the rattle of a battle is a thought he loathes As he polishes his shoulder straps. [53] IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE SLICKER (continued) So we greet him when we meet him with a smart salute -As he swaggers past, all neat and trim, But I'm thinking he'd be shrinking in his khaki suit If he knew the view we take of him ! [54] IN CAMP AND TRENCH (Aviation Corps) J HAVE studied hard in the engine class And with math I have racked my brain, With a penguin old I have cut the grass And I've ridden a practice plane; I've taken a routine flight or two And they say that I'm not so bad, But the glorious goal that I have in view Is to pilot a combat Spad ! Oh! to surge and soar as the engines roar And to dart like a hawk awheel, And to climb and swoop as I loop the loop Or flash in a giddy vrille, With my eyes alight and my pulses glad— Oh, Gee, but I long for a combat Spad ! I must plug along in a slow old hack Till I'm fit for the test, I know, Till I've learned the way to the clouds and back And drilled for the war's big show; But I watch the chap from the Esquadrille And my heart it thumps like mad As I think of the joy a man must feel To fly in a combat Spad ! [55] IN CAMP AND TRENCH AMBITION (continued) Oh ! the way she leaps to the stars and sweeps Through the chill of the upper air, I would give my soul to win control Of a plane like that up there, To shoot through space like the daring lad Who's doing stunts with a combat Spad. Well, the time will come when my barograph Will register dizzy height, When I'll down my Hun from the clouds and laugh As I drive with the speed of light, With my Lewis drumming a song of death While the Gothas plunge aflame, As I taste adventure with every breath And play in the war's great game! So I wait my chance when the air of France Shall welcome me as I rise To dare my fate with the Huns of Hate Who battle amid the skies. I shall try my luck with a heart that's glad And win or lose in a combat Spad! [56] IN THE THICK OF IT IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE DOUGHBOY E kicks about his sergeant And he kicks about his chow, He grumbles at the drilling And he makes an awful row When the bugle blows assembly And he's ordered on a hike. For the howls he makes are legion At the things he doesn't like. He kicks about the shavetail And his foolish little strut; He says the Captain's crazy And the Colonel is a mutt. He grumbles at the General (He doesn't know what for) And he says the war department Is mismanaging the war. He kicks about his uniform, His mess-kit and his pack; He moans about the danger Of his never coming back. Yes, when he's safe in barracks He's a kicker all the while ; He says the army's crummy And a soldier's life is vile. [59] IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE DOUGHBOY (continued) But when he gets in action With the other fighting men You'll find this kicker changing Into something else again. He will kick himself through hell fire V/herc the battle tumult rings, Till he's kicked the German Kaiser On the garbage heap of Kings. |6o] IN CAMP AND TRENCH WAR SONGS OH ! the songs that thrill the trenches are the songs that start the feet Into keeping time and measure with their syncopated beat, Not the grand and stately music that the sober-minded praise, But the foolish little ditties of the shows and cabarets. In the crackle of the rifles and the rumble of the guns There's an underlying rhythm which interminably runs To a mighty sort of ragtime, as the bullets whine and spat And machine guns split the ear drums with a vicious rat-a-tat. So the syncopated music of the Tin Pan Alley brand Is the stuff that cheers our fighters in a far and for- eign land; It's the gay and careless cadence that seems always to be made As a battle hymn in ragtime for the wholly unafraid! [61] IN CAMP AND TRENCH ARTILLERY GUNS! Guns! Guns! In the battle of to-day they're the ones ; They're the bruisers in the fray, They're the boys that clear the way? Thro win' projectiles by tons- Heavy guns! Yes, somewhere way back of the lines, In a nice leafy bower or dell, Is where the artillery shines In givin' the enemy hell; The guns waddle up through the mire Like a fat lady walks on her pins, But when the command comes to fire, Well, that's when the straffin' begins. The muzzles heaves up to the sky, The lanyards is pulled, there's a roar ; The shells whistles, curvin' up high, And then there is more— an' still more. The gunners they sweats an' they smiles As carriages shiver an' wrench, An' way off— -some several miles- — Them shells has abolished a trench. [62] IN CAMP AND TRENCH ARTILLERY (continued) Your infantry may be O. K., But when you prepare for a charge If big guns ain't clearin' the way You're gonta be smashed, by an' large. It's guns that rips bomb proofs to bits An' barb wire entanglements, too; It's guns gives the enemy fits So infantrymen kin break through! Yes, youVe gotta have the guns, Heavy guns, Throwin' shells by tons an' tons, Shells that smashes an' that stuns; They're the bruisers of the fray, They're the boys that clears the way, In the warfare of to-day they're the ones- Bully guns! [63] IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE ROOTER JIM FISHER was a shiftless duck Who had but little to his credit, He blamed his poor estate on luck But people snickered when he said it. They knew he dodged the thought of work And looked for it but feared to find it ; They said his middle name was Shirk, And Jim, he loafed, and didn't mind it. It would be hard to name a task That Jim was ever sawing wood at, But, just in case some one should ask, There was one stunt that he was good at. He was a rooter superfine, A fan beyond all sense or reason ; He ballyhooed behind the nine At every contest through the season. He yelled and hooted long and loud, He cheered and sang through thin and thick ; it Was so amusing to the crowd That he got in without a ticket. [64] IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE ROOTER (continued) An umpire's goat he loved to bait. He liked to thrill the rooters' caucus With howls that seemed to ululate And cries of "Robber" hoarse and raucous. And many times when there was doubt About the home town's chance of winning, Jim's bellow helped to pull them out To triumph in the final inning. So when upon the army draft It pleased just Destiny to list him, Though many people grinned and laughed, You bet the baseball rooters missed him ! But though he was a lazy gink Who, up to then, through life had stumbled, He took his dose without a blink — He was a sport, and never grumbled. At last they sent him on his way To face grim battle in the trenches; He marched with temper light and gay And winked at all the Gallic wenches. One day the Bosche artillery Began an extra heavy shelling; All Hades suddenly broke free Within the trench where Jim was dwelling. [653 IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE ROOTER (continued) It seemed that awful bath of fire Would never, never discontinue; •■ It killed and buried men in mire And racked the others, brain and sinew. And then there came a charge of Huns, They looked tremendous and titanic; Jim's comrades, dropping all their guns, Started to run in sudden panic. Then, high above the battle roar Sounded a most appalling hooting; It was Jim Fisher, as of yore, Bellowing, shouting, screaming, rooting! "Come awn!'* he yelled. "Come awn, play ball! Them guys ain't got a thing to show us. Come awn— one smash, one smash, that's all, One smash an' they won't want to know us. "Come awn, wake up, get in the game, We'll send these Potsdam bushers spinning! Come awn, boys, come—" They heard— and came, And won out in the final inning! [66] IN CAMP AND TRENCH THANKSGIVING SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE 'M sittin' here in a muddy trench Somewhere on the Flanders line, While the rain comes down in a steady drench An' the shells from the Bosches whine; An' the folks are havin' a feast at home While I'm in the muck of war, An' I sit an' rattle my tired dome To think what I'm thankful for. Then all of a sudden it comes to me An' I lift up my head an' smile, An' my heart it jumps in a bust of glee An' I laughs to myself awhile ; For though I'm here in a smelly spot In the middle of death an' war, Good Lord-amighty, I know I've got A heap to be thankful for ! An' here is the cause I've got for thanks: I'm livin' as fits a Man, I'm doin' my bit in freedom's ranks An' fightin' the best I can. [67] IN CAMP AND TRENCH THANKSGIVING (continued) Before I joined in this mighty show I plugged at a routine job, * An' life was easy an' safe— an' slow, With never a thrill or throb. But now, though I'm in the midst of death An' half of the time is hell, I taste adventure with every breath In the roar of the shot an' shell. An' the rats may scamper an' cooties bite, A habit that I abhor, But I'm in the thick of a Man's-sized fight An' it's one I'm thankful for! Say, when I think of the way I'd feel If I was a slacker guy, Afraid to cut an' afraid to deal In a game where the stakes is high, I says to myself : "Say, you, buck up, You got no cause to kick; Give thanks that you ain't no slacker pup With a heart that's weak an' sick!" I ain't a hero— you get me, Jack? But nevertheless I ain't No quakin' boob with a jelly back An' a stomach that's always faint.' No doubt them fellers is glad to miss The sound of the bugle call, But if I die in a war like this, They never have lived at all ! [68] IN CAMP AND TRENCH THANKSGIVING (continued) So I'm glad an' thankful that I have been A part of this roarin' game ; That I have suffered an' fought with Men An' took each chance that came. You may die soon, but you live a lot In this ugly old sport of war, So takin' it all in all I've got A heap to be thankful for ! [69 1 IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE CHRISTMAS SERMON E was sittin' tight in a dug-out An' playin' a game of rum, For ours was a quiet sector then An' Fritz's guns was dumb, When a footstep crunched in the ice outside An' in the Chaplain come. Now our Chaplain hailed from Princeton, He was husky an' full of vim; He'd been a guard in his college days An' he'd always kept in trim, An' there wasn't a soldier in the trench That had more nerve than him. Well, he come in that dirty dug-out In a kind of a smilin' way, An' he says to us : "Boys, I'm thinkin' Of havin' some words to say— A kind of a sort of a sermon That's fitted to Christmas day." "Sure, shoot it," says Spike McGuggan. "In all of this muck an' grime I'd like to hear some woids of cheer To make me forget this slime, Fer you gotta admit that a day like this Is a heluva Christmas time!" [70 3 IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE CHRISTMAS SERMON (continued) So we throws down the cards we're playin' An' eight of us boys, or ten, Is gathered around the parson While he clears his throat, an* then He starts off a bully sermon On "Peace an' Good Will to Men." But he just gets nicely goin' An' you bet we didn't scoff When the sentries yells: "Hi, fellers, Our old friend Fritz is off; He's throwin' a bunch of hand grenades An' startin' a Christmas strafe!" We grabs our masks an' rifles (An' the Chaplain grabs one, too) An' we all piles out in the ice cold trench In a fearful hullyballoo, For the Huns has started over the top An' there's work for us to do. The parson sights his rifle An' every time she pops Out there in the middle of No Man's Land Some field grey figger drops, An' the parson grins a happy grin Whenever a German flops. Says I : "If peace was the thing you preached, Then what are you fightin' for?" The parson answers: "We'll give 'em peace [71] IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE CHRISTMAS SERMON (continued) By makin' 'em sick of war, For the fellow who will not fight for peace Is a person that I abhor." 'Twas a lively show, but we smashed the Huns An' we drove them back again. An' the Chaplain takes one final shot An' puts down his gun, an' then He finishes up his Christmas talk On "Peace an' Good Will to Men »" [72] IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE SEARCH HE'D come to the city and bucked the big game And, playing the best that he could, He won some small portion of money and fame ; In brief, he had surely "made good," He knew everybody worth knowing at all, His life was both varied and gay, But there was an ennui that held him in thrall And nothing could brush it away. The brightest of parties, the keenest of wits, The plaudits that come from the crowd, All life's panorama that changes and flits Failed wholly at lifting his cloud ; He wasn't a roue, all wearied and spent, He worked with a vim and a will, Yet somehow he lived in a vague discontent, Existence was lacking a thrill. There was something he wanted, he didn't know what, Not riches, or power or love ; He sought it in roving from spot unto spot, But still found no lightening of The weight of depression that laid on his heart A dull and a numb sort of pain, Which made him a mortal aloof and apart With a trouble he couldn't explain. [73l IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE SEARCH (continued) Then one day he vanished completely, poor chap, And no one could say where he'd gone, Though all of us wondered what part of the map He might have alighted upon. We chatted about him, this man who in truth Was never excited or stirred, Who, somehow or other, had never known youth Or thrilled at a deed or a word. And then came his letter, a message elate With happiness, vigor and verve. He wrote to us: "Fellows, there's nothing so great As finding a way you can serve ; By losing myself I've discovered romance In the heart of my labour and strife, For I'm driving a camion somewhere in France And I'm having the time of my life !" E74l ON THE U-BOAT TRAIL IN CAMP AND TRENCH HEROES THE heroes of the story books are ever in a pose, They always die with words of high and lofty verse or prose, But when the old Tuscania went down with flying flag Our khaki gang of heroes sang a gay and foolish rag! "Where do we go from here, boys, where do we go from here?" Across the sea the melody came dancing free and clear ; They faced their fate with souls elate and hearts that knew no fear, With "Where do we go from here, boys, where do we go from here?" "Where do we go from here, boys, where do we go from here?" A song, in truth, of valiant youth, that never loses cheer ; They felt the breath of clammy death, but with a lilt sincere Their laughing shout rang blithely out, "Where do we go from here?" It is a tale whose wondrous thrill we all of us can share [77] IN CAMP AND TRENCH HEROES (continued) When brave men meet their destiny with spirit debonair. What foe can hope with boys to cope who sing, when death is near, "Where do we go from here, boys, where do we go from here?" [78] IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE DESTROYER MEN THERE'S a roll and pitch and a heave and hitch To the nautical gait they take, For they're used to the cant of the decks aslant As the white-toothed combers break On the plates that thrum like a beaten drum To the thrill of the turbines' might, As the knife bow leaps through the yeasty deeps With the speed of a shell in flight ! Oh ! their scorn is quick for the crews who stick To a battleship's steady floor, For they love the lurch of their own frail perch At thirty-five knots or more. They don't get much of the drills and such That the battleship jackies do, But sail the seas in their dungarees, A grimy destroyer's crew. They needn't climb at their sleeping time To a hammock that sways and bumps, They leap— kerplunk ! — in a cosy bunk That quivers and bucks and jumps. They hear the sound of the seas that pound On the half-inch plates of steel And close their eyes to the lullabies Of the creaking frame and keel. [79] IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE DESTROYER MEN (continued) They scour the deep for the subs that creep On their dirty assassin's work, And their keenest fun is to hunt the Hun Wherever his U-boats lurk. They live in hope that a periscope Will show in the deep sea swell, Then a true shot hits and it's "Good-bye, Fritz"- His future address is Hell 1 They're a lusty crowd and they're vastly proud Of the slim, swift craft they drive ; Of the roaring flues and the humming screws Which make her a thing alive. They love the lunge of her surging plunge And the murk of her smoke screen, too, As they sail the seas in their dungarees, A grimy destroyer's crew! [So] IN CAMP AND TRENCH NOT IN UNIFORM THEY haven't no khaki nor battleship blue, They're kind of a nondescript sort of a crew, Hard-handed and husky, but not like you meet On the holystoned decks of the battleship fleet; Nope, these here is only the everyday guys That handles the vessels what feeds the Allies, But — stop an' consider a bit what they mean — These lads of the merchant marine! They sails with a cargo of beef or of steel, Or T. N. T. maybe, or bacon an 5 meal, An' so they goes wallowin', loaded for fair, To feed an' munition the folks "over there." An' if they gets by— -well, they sighs with relief An' comes back to take on more biscuits an' beef. An' if they gets sunk—- well, it's plain to be seen That it's rough on the merchant marine. They don't get much glory for takin' a chance On dyin' while steam'in' to England or France, For if they gets rescued from drownin' one trip They just comes up smilin' an' finds a new ship. An' if they goes down in a watery grave There isn't no half-masted flags that'll wave ; An' yet they're real heroes who're doin' their bit, Not askin' no special approval for it ; An' that's just the reason we otta be keen For the boys of the merchant marine! [81] IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE MINE SWEEPERS OH I these are doughty fishermen who tempt the roaring gale, But not for heaps of halibut or blubber of the whale ; They sally forth from anchorage, a bold and nervy crew, With drums of gleaming cable for the job they have to do; They take their open chances of the many deaths that lurk, They get no hero medals for the way they do their work, But cannily and craftily with heavy-weighted lines They sail the bounding billows as they drag the sea for mines! Their task is daily labour and the lure of it is small, They only comb the mine-fields as the greybacks rise and fall, And if their cables snare a mine their riflemen take aim And blow it all to pieces in a blaze of smoke and flame. And having done that little job, that ordinary chore, They throw the cables out again and drag the seas for more, For it's all a part of business, of the routine of the day, And you've got to do your duty if you want to earn your pay! [82] IN CAMP AND TRENCH THE MINE SWEEPERS (continued) They sometimes have a convoy, and they frequently have not, As they do their cautious fishing in a mine-infested spot; And they oftentimes are busy in the harbor of the foe While the shells are gaily skipping all about them, to and fro ; They haven't any uniforms or epaulets and such, Their pay is nothing princely and their glory isn't much; They're plain and sturdy fishermen, with salt upon their breath, Who clear the way for battleships and fish the seas for death! [83] IN CAMP AND TRENCH DESERTED ROADS TIME was we sang of wanderers who trod the open trail And roved about the merry world by foot or train or sail, Who knew the wind-swept spaces and who braved the sun and rain Or followed gipsy caravans by mountain peak or plain. But now the roads are empty of the blithe and restless clan And bats and owls are roosting in the idle gipsy-van, For every true adventurer who never could be still Has joined the greatest game of all and found a keener thrill They're somewhere in the trenches and they're some- where in the air, Oh look along the battle line and you will find them there ; But when the war is over and we welcome back our men, The rovers—what are left of them— will hit the trail again ! 1 8 4 ] «\S^ ■■"■■-■■ r mm ***** : MSk' Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: Oct. 2009 %^ PreservationTechnologies A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION * AV ~$\. 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724)779-2111 .«■'«. *£» . rtV n M r» . -«T_