Voices of Silence (33 page)

It isn’t the foe that we fear;

It isn’t the bullets that whine;

It isn’t the business career

Of a shell, or the bust of a mine;

It isn’t the snipers who seek

To nip our young hopes in the bud:

No, it isn’t the guns,

And it isn’t the Huns –

It’s the
MUD
,

MUD
,

MUD
.

It isn’t the
mêlée
we mind.

That often is rather good fun.

It isn’t the shrapnel we find

Obtrusive when rained by the ton;

It isn’t the bounce of the bombs

That gives us a positive pain:

It’s the strafing we get

When the weather is wet –

It’s the
RAIN
,

RAIN
,

RAIN
.

It isn’t because we lack grit

We shrink from the horrors of war.

We don’t mind the battle a bit;

In fact that is what we are for;

It isn’t the rum-jars and things

Make us wish we were back in the fold:

It’s the fingers that freeze

In the boreal breeze –

It’s the
COLD
,

COLD
,

COLD
.

Oh, the rain, the mud, and the cold,

The cold, the mud, and the rain;

With weather at zero it’s hard for a hero

From language that’s rude to refrain.

With porridgy muck to the knees,

With sky that’s a-pouring a flood,

Sure the worst of our foes

Are the pains and the woes

Of the
RAIN
,

the
COLD
,

and the
MUD
.

Robert W. Service

There are various types of courage, there are many kinds of fear,

There are many brands of whiskey, there are many makes of beer,

There is also rum, which sometimes in our need can help us much,

But ’tis whiskey – whiskey – whiskey! hands the courage which is ‘Dutch’.

In moments when the front is still – no hustling whizzbangs fly –

In all the world you could not find a braver man than I!

Yet on patrol in No-Man’s-Land, when I may have to stalk a

Benighted Hun, in moments tense I have recourse to ‘Walker’.

’Tis Scotland’s best which helps me rest, ’tis Mountain Dew which stays me

When Minnies rack my wearied soul, or blatant H.E. flays me,

’Twas by its aid that I endured Trones Wood and such-like places.

In times of stress my truest friend accelerates my paces.

Take what you will save only this – my evening tot of whiskey,

It gives me warmth, and helps to make a soaking much less risky,

Oh! G.O.C.s now hear our pleas respectfully presented,

Lend us your aid in this our plight, and we will be contented.

Don’t know how it happened quite,

Sure the jar came up all right?

Just as full as it should be,

Wouldn’t touch it, no, not me!

Sergeants very seldom touch

Rum, at least, not very much,

Must have been the A.S.C.,

Anyway, it wasn’t me!

Yet when I told them that I hadn’t touched the jar,

They didn’t believe me, they didn’t believe me;

They seem to know a sergeant’s thirst,

I fear they all believe the worst.

It’s the rottenest luck that there could be;

And when I tell them, and I’m certainly going to tell them

There’ll be fatigues for them where’er I be,

They’ll never believe me, they’ll never believe that

The man who tapped the jar could not be me!

The corp’rl and the privit they

Was standing in the road.

Do you suppose, the corp’rl said,

That rum is ‘à la mode?’

I doubt it! said the privit as

He shouldered up his load.

‘Now this ’ere war’, the corp’rl said,

‘Has lasted long enuff.’

‘Gorblime,’ said the private with

His voice exceeding gruff,

‘Not ’arf it ain’t!’ and drew his nose

Across his sheepskin cuff.

The privit to the sergeant said,

‘I wants my blooming rum.’

‘No poo,’ the sergeant curtly said,

And sucked his jammy thumb.

‘There’s “soup in loo” for you to-night.’

The privit said, ‘By gum!’

In careless fingers loosely swung,

Up their curling smokepuffs blow,

Lightly whirling wreaths are hung,

Blue and dreaming, circling slow.

Fire-points kindle, gleaming red,

Tiny fire-sparks scatter swift,

Specks of flamelight quickly sped

E’er the lazy smoke-veils lift.

Dreams they bring of hearth and home,

Loves forgotten, – all the things

Dearer now to men who roam –

Wakened by the magic rings.

Airy castles, wonder-built,

Shortlived memories that charm,

Hopes of future, fancy-gilt,

Visioned peace and victor’s palm.

Wayward, fleeting thoughts will stray,

Words, warm with the weaving spell

Wrought by winding smoke-wreaths, may

On mind’s store of treasure dwell.

Spirits rising care defy,

Laughter chimes with tale or joke,

Vanish worry, woe and sigh,

In the twirling fumes of smoke.

Cigarettes! Bear, in your wake,

Consolation, cheer and wit;

Woodbine, Player, Golden Flake,

Truly, you have done your bit!

If the Hun lets off some gas –

Never mind.

If the Hun attacks in mass –

Never mind.

If your dugout’s blown to bits,

Or the C.O.’s throwing fits,

Or a crump your rum jar hits –

Never mind.

If your trench is mud knee-high –

Never mind.

You can’t find a spot that’s dry –

Never mind.

If a sniper has you set,

Through dents in your parapet,

And your troubles fiercer get –

Never mind.

If you’re whizzbanged day and night –

Never mind

Bully all you get to bite –

Never mind.

If you’re on a working party,

Let your grin be wide and hearty,

Though the sappers may be tarty –

Never mind.

If machine guns join the muddle –

Never mind.

Though you’re lying in a puddle –

Never mind.

If a duckboard barks your shin,

And the barbed wire rips your skin,

’Tis reward for all your sin –

So never mind.

But this warning I’d attest –

Have a care.

When your Div. is back at rest –

Then beware.

When that long three months is over,

And you’ve lost your canteen cover,

Shoot yourself or find another –

Have it there!

Have you all your drill forgotten? –

Luckless wight.

Through those months so rain besotten –

Day and night.

On the left you’ll form platoon,

Willy nilly, six till noon,

Front line trench will seem a boon –

Drill’s a rite.

Oh! you poor unhappy thing –

Be not sad.

Just remember when all’s wrong –

And you’re mad,

Though your worries may be great,

They’re but part, at any rate,

Of poor Fritz’s awful fate –

Buck up, lad!

Now listen ye of mournful mien, whose bleatings rend the air,

Who spread an air of gloom where’er you go,

That though of cleverness you have p’r’aps more than your fair share,

Yet most of us just hate your wail of woe.

One day ’tis ‘this’, and next day ‘that’, your bogies come at will,

Of fearful ills to come you rave and rant,

You said a year ago the war was lost – we’re fighting still,

The job has been no easier for your cant.

In reverse you see disaster, and a victory spurs you on

To still greater efforts in the realms of doubt,

‘We’ll be lured into a trap’, or ‘We can ne’er hold what we’ve won’,

And ‘We’ll all be starved to death’ your constant shout.

’Tis true that mostly you are those who ne’er have known the joy

Of living in ten feet of mud and slime,

Or the ecstasy which thrills one, sheer delight without alloy,

When you’re dodging crumps and Minnies all the time.

So in future cut the grousing, and for God’s sake wear a grin,

The time is surely coming in a while,

When in spite of all your croakings the old Huns will be ‘all in’,

Cut the everlasting wail and smile, man,
SMILE
!

This is the Armoured(illo) Train.

His great advantages are plain;

A lumbering beast, yet still we note

That in his cumbrous overcoat

Mosquito bites he can defy

While spitting fire as he goes by;

So safety lurks beneath his weight

Of Armadillo-pattern plate.

St John Hamund

The Centipede, so folks repeat,

Has something like a hundred feet.

The Sentrypede has only two –

Enough for what he has to do;

But when he’s done his Sentry-go

In ammunition boots, you know,

Each foot is in a sorry state,

And feels about a hundredweight!

St John Hamund

The world wasn’t made in a day,

And Eve didn’t ride on a ’bus,

But most of the world’s in a sandbag,

The rest of it’s plastered on us.

Little stacks of sandbags,

Little lumps of clay;

Make our blooming trenches

In which we work and play.

Merry little whizz-bang,

Jolly little crump

Made our trench a picture,

Wiggle, woggle, wump.

We’ve had a play in ragtime, and we’ve had a ragtime band,

We’ve had a ragtime army, and we’ve had a ragtime land;

But why not let us have what we have never had before?

Let’s wade right in tomorrow and let’s have a ragtime war.

Let’s carry up our duckboards to a ragtime’s jerky strains,

Let’s whistle ragtime ditties while we’re bashing out Hun brains,

Let’s introduce this melody in all we say and do,

In our operation orders, and in all our lies to Q.

Let us write O.O.s to music, and the red-hats can decide

The witching hour of zero to a dainty Gaby Glide;

We’ll take the fateful plunge, and when we venture o’er the top

We’ll do it to a Turkey Trot or tuneful Boston Hop.

We’ll drink our S.R.D. to tune, and even ‘chatting up’

Becomes a melody in rhyme if done to ‘Dixie Pup’,

A bombing raid to ‘Old Kentuck’ would make a Fritzie smile,

He’d stop a bomb with pleasure to a ragtime’s mystic guile.

Can you see our giddy ‘Q’ staff, as they go up the line,

Just walking round the trenches to the air ‘Kentucky Mine’,

Gaily prancing down the duckboards, as they tumble o’er a bucket

To the quiet seducing strains of ‘My Dear Home in Old Kentucket’.

It’s a long way to Tipperary,

Or so it always seems;

There’s a long, long trail awinding

Into the land of dreams.

And there’s a long and narrow path

Our Warriors know well,

For one way leads to Blighty,

And the other way to – well!