Voices of Silence (34 page)

It’s the Duck Board Glide,

It’s the Duck Board Slide,

On a cold and frosty night;

For it’s over a mile

In single file

Out in the pale moon-light.

It’s nippy; slippy;

Bumpy; jumpy;

Shell-holes either side;

And when machine guns cough

You can all drop off

That Duck Board Glide.

It’s very dark and lonely,

And you see, when on the top,

A Very Light; so in the trench

You very light-ly drop.

But when you want to reach the line,

That’s done as best you may,

There’s only one path that you have to take,

It is the only way.

It’s the Duck Board Glide, etc.

When you were young, and went to Church,

Or Chapel, it may be,

The
Padre
used to take some text

To
strafe
you all with glee.

‘The path is long and narrow

Along which you ought to go!’

We did not know then what it was,

But now, of course, we know.

It’s the Duck Board Glide, etc.

Sivori Levey

The name of Joseph Arthur Brown

By some profound mischance

Was sent right through to G.H.Q.

As ‘Killed in action, France.’

So when poor Joseph went to draw

His bully beef and bread,

‘You’re not upon the strength, my son,’

The Quartermaster said.

To Sergeant Baird then Joseph went

And told his fortune harsh,

But Sergeant Baird on Joseph glared

And pulled his great moustache.

‘Have I not taught you discipline

For three long years?’ said he,

‘If you are down as dead, young Brown,

Why, dead you’ll have to be.’

In vain the journal of his town

Was bought by friends to please,

That he might see his eulogy

In local Journalese;

For to the Captain Joseph went

With teardrops in his eye,

And said, ‘I know I’m dead, but oh!

I am so young to die!’

And at the Captain’s feet he knelt

And clasped him by the knee.

But on his face no sign of grace

Poor Joseph Brown could see.

‘Then to
John Bull
I’ll write,’ he cried,

‘Since supplication fails.’

‘But you are dead,’ the Captain said,

‘And dead men tell no tales.’

So reckless passion seized upon

The luckless Private Brown,

And with two blows upon the nose

He knocked the Captain down.

’Mid cries of horror and surprise

They led the lad away.

Before the Colonel grim and stern

They brought him up next day.

But when the Colonel sentenced Brown

(R.62703)

With thund’rous voice and language choice

To thirty days F.P.,

Across the trembling prisoner’s face

A smile was seen to spread,

As he replied, with conscious pride,

‘You can’t, ’cos I am dead.’

Edward de Stein

What is Master Winston doing?

What new paths is he pursuing?

What strange broth can he be brewing?

Is he painting, by commission,

Portraits of the Coalition

For the R.A. exhibition?

Is he Jacky-obin or anti?

Is he likely to ‘go Fanti’,

Or becoming shrewd and canty?

Is he in disguise at Kovel,

Living in a moujik’s hovel,

Making a tremendous novel?

Does he run a photo-play show?

Or in
sæva indignatio

Is he writing for H
ORATIO?

Fired by the divine afflatus

Does he weekly lacerate us,

Like a Juvenal
renatus?

As the great financial purist,

Will he smite the sinecurist

Or emerge as a Futurist?

Is he regularly sending

H
AIG
and B
EATTY
screeds unending,

Good advice for censure blending?

Is he ploughing, is he hoeing?

Is he planting beet, or going

In for early ’tato-growing?

Is he writing verse or prosing,

Or intent upon disclosing

Gifts for musical composing?

Is he lecturing to flappers?

Is he tunnelling with sappers?

Has he joined the U-boat trappers?

Or, to petrify recorders

Of events within our borders,

Has he taken Holy Orders
?

Is he well or ill or middling?

Is he fighting, is he fiddling? –

He can’t be only thumb-twiddling.

These are merely dim surmises,

But experience advises

Us to look for weird surprises,

Somersaults, and strange disguises.

Thus we summed the situation

When Sir Hedworth Meux’ oration

Brought about a transformation.

Lo! the Blenheim Boanerges

On a sudden re-emerges

And, to calm the naval
gurges
,

F
ISHER’S
restoration urges.

C.L. Graves

Sing me a song of the Army,

Of khaki and rifles and drums;

Sing me a ballad of heroes,

Taking each day as it comes.

Sing of the colonel who bellows,

Sing of the major who swears,

Sing of the slackers who don’t care a jot,

And the second lieutenant who dares.

Sing of the raptures of marching

(I
may
interrupt, but don’t grieve!);

But above all sit down now and tell me

The glorious
MYTH
about
LEAVE
!

Lucas Cappe

Sez I to my wife: ‘As leave is tight,

Just send me a wire to-morrow night.

Say you’re moving, or had a fire,

Or caught the measles, or – anyway wire!’

The telegram came at three to-day,

And it done no good, for I grieve to say

She’s short of sense is that wife of mine –

Here’s her telegram, line for line:

‘Please grant leave to Private Bell,

I’ve got the measles and don’t feel well.

The house is on fire – I’m filled with sorrow,

And if that’s not enough, we’re moving tomorrow!’

There are four words, the sweetest words

In all of human speech,

More sweet than are all songs of birds,

Or Lyrics poets teach.

This life may be a vale of tears,

A sad and dreary thing –

Four words, and trouble disappears

And birds begin to sing.

Four words, and all the roses bloom,

The sun begins to shine:

Four words, will dissipate the gloom,

And water turn to wine.

Four words, will hush the saddest row,

And cause you not to grieve –

Ah well, here goes, you’ve got them now:

‘
You’re next for leave
.’

Louie Samuels

If you’re waking call me early, call me early, sergeant dear,

For I’m very, very weary, and my warrant’s come, I hear;

Oh! it’s ‘blightie’ for a spell, and all my troubles are behind,

And I’ve seven days before me

(Hope the sea will not be stormy)

Keep the war a’going sergeant,

Train’s at six, just bear in mind!

Who lists to what I here relate, a tale both sad and movin’ hears

Of Harold, who was taught too late to curb his itch for souvenirs;

It really was as though he deemed it heinous as a sin to rest

Inactive when the country teemed with objects of such interest;

And once his fancy caught a thing, he’d jump out straight and whisk it in –

A splinter from a Gotha’s wing – a Very light – a biscuit-tin –

Shell-noses, clasp-knives, water-flasks, Bosche helmets, and a rifle too,

Old buttons, badges, Hun gas-masks, and every kind of trifle too.

His shell-cases just stood in stacks; he filled the entire bunk with them,

And leather jerkins, German packs – his quarters fairly stunk with them.

But protest was but wasted breath although you spent a day on it,

He’d threaten you with instant death and wave a rusty bayonet.

(Here comes a protest from my Muse: ‘Have done with all this frolicking,

And if you tell the sequel, choose a metre not so rollicking.’)

Leave at last had Hiawatha

(I beg pardon, I mean Harold),

Leave to visit home and kindred;

Safely was the Channel travelled,

But, alas, at disembarking,

As he staggered up the gangway –

Hundredweights of kit about him,

As he fumbled in his pocket

For the little landing-ticket,

Came a deafening explosion,

Came a flash of blinding brightness,

Harold was no more existent;

In his hurry he’d forgotten

He’d a Mills’ bomb in his pocket

Where he rummaged for the ticket.

So he never reached his home and

Wife and children vainly stuck the

Holly in the Christmas pudding;

All in vain the children’s stockings,

Waited slack and empty for the

Souvenirs from France to fill them.

’Twas the child of the Inspector

At the Customs house at Folkestone

Who as fate ordained enjoyed them,

For the kit that had survived him

Had been promptly confiscated.

A moral from this tale appears, which let us not poke fun at: ‘All Beware, beware of souvenirs, and if you can, have none at all.’

Now you subs of tender years

For your morals, it appears,

(You must admit they’re open much to question)

There is shortly going to be

A morality O.C.,

Who will see that vice does not spoil your digestion.

His H.Q. is going to be

Close by Leicester Square, and he

Will parade his Batt. for duty every night,

In his ranks we’ll shortly see

P’raps a Bishop or M.P.,

Who will see that virtue’s path you tread aright.

If on leave and pleasure bent

At Victoria, a gent

Will grab you as you’re dodging off alone,

Will escort you to H.Q.,

When you’ll quickly find that you

Are provided with an aged chaperone.

Your amusement will depend

On how much she’ll let you spend,

And you’ll dine at Lyons or an A.B.C.,

Should you dare to want a drink,

With a look she’ll make you think

What an awful well of sin a sub can be.

You may smoke one cigarette,

Ere retiring you will get

All your orders for the morrow’s pleasure feast,

Hand your cash in charge, and then

Off to bed as clock strikes ten,

Feeling that in former days you were a beast.

You will come to learn and love

Programmes as described above

For you must admit that you were most immoral,

You will find when leave’s expired

That your fancies will have tired

For the glass that sparkles, and for lips of coral.