Ballads of a Bohemian Part 26

I have been at it for over six months without a rest. When an attack has been going on I have worked day and night, until as I drove I wanted to fall asleep at the wheel.

The winter has been trying; there is rain one day, frost the next. Mud up to the axles. One sleeps in lousy barns or dripping dugouts. Cold, hunger, dirt, I know them all singly and together. My only consolation is that the war must soon be over, and that I will have helped. When I have time and am not too tired, I comfort myself with scribbling.

The b.o.o.by-Trap

I'm crawlin' out in the mangolds to bury wot's left o' Joe-- Joe, my pal, and a good un (G.o.d! 'ow it rains and rains).

I'm sick o' seein' him lyin' like a 'eap o' offal, and so I'm crawlin' out in the beet-field to bury 'is last remains.

'E might 'a bin makin' munitions--'e 'adn't no need to go; An' I tells 'im strite, but 'e arnsers, "'Tain't no use chewin' the fat; I've got to be doin' me dooty wiv the rest o' the boys" . . . an' so Yon's 'im, yon blob on the beet-field wot I'm tryin' so 'ard to git at.

There was five of us lads from the brickyard; 'Enry was ga.s.sed at Bapome, Sydney was drowned in a crater, 'Erbert was 'alved by a sh.e.l.l; Joe was the pick o' the posy, might 'a bin sifely at 'ome, Only son of 'is mother, 'er a widder as well.

She used to sell bobbins and b.u.t.tons--'ad a plice near the Waterloo Road; A little, old, bent-over lydy, wiv gla.s.ses an' silvery 'air; Must tell 'er I planted 'im nicely, cheer 'er up like. . . . (Well, I'm blowed, That bullet near catched me a biffer)--I'll see the old gel if I'm spared.

She'll tike it to 'eart, pore ol' lydy, fer 'e was 'er 'ope and 'er joy; 'Is dad used to drink like a knot-'ole, she kept the 'ome goin', she did: She pinched and she scriped fer 'is scoolin', 'e was sich a fine 'andsome boy ('Alf Flanders seems packed on me panties)-- 'e's 'andsome no longer, pore kid!

This bit o' a board that I'm packin' and draggin' around in the mire, I was tickled to death when I found it. Says I, "'Ere's a nice little glow."

I was chilled and wet through to the marrer, so I started to make me a fire; And then I says: "No; 'ere, Goblimy, it'll do for a cross for Joe."

Well, 'ere 'e is. Gawd! 'Ow one chinges a-lyin' six weeks in the rain.

Joe, me old pal, 'ow I'm sorry; so 'elp me, I wish I could pray.

An' now I 'ad best get a-diggin' 'is grave (it seems more like a drain)-- And I 'opes that the Boches won't git me till I gits 'im safe planted away.

(_As he touches the body there is a tremendous explosion.

He falls back shattered._)

A b.o.o.by-trap! Ought to 'a known it! If that's not a b.a.s.t.a.r.dly trick!

Well, one thing, I won't be long goin'. Gawd! I'm a 'ell of a sight.

Wish I'd died fightin' and killin'; that's wot it is makes me sick. . . .

Ah, Joe! we'll be pushin' up dysies . . .

together, old Chummie . . . good-night!

To-day I heard that MacBean had been killed in Belgium. I believe he turned out a wonderful soldier. Saxon Dane, too, has been missing for two months. We know what that means.

It is odd how one gets callous to death, a mediaeval callousness. When we hear that the best of our friends have gone West, we have a moment of the keenest regret; but how soon again we find the heart to laugh! The saddest part of loss, I think, is that one so soon gets over it.

Is it that we fail to realize it all? Is it that it seems a strange and hideous dream, from which we will awake and rub our eyes?

Oh, how bitter I feel as the days go by! It is creeping more and more into my verse. Read this:

Bonehead Bill

I wonder 'oo and wot 'e was, That 'Un I got so slick.

I couldn't see 'is face because The night was 'ideous thick.

I just made out among the black A blinkin' wedge o' white; Then _biff!_ I guess I got 'im _crack_-- The man I killed last night.

I wonder if account o' me Some wench will go unwed, And 'eaps o' lives will never be, Because 'e's stark and dead?

Or if 'is missis d.a.m.ns the war, And by some candle light, Tow-headed kids are prayin' for The Fritz I copped last night.

I wonder, 'struth, I wonder why I 'ad that 'orful dream?

I saw up in the giddy sky The gates o' G.o.d agleam; I saw the gates o' 'eaven shine Wiv everlastin' light: And then . . . I knew that I'd got mine, As 'e got 'is last night.

Aye, bang beyond the broodin' mists Where sp.a.w.n the mother stars, I 'ammered wiv me b.l.o.o.d.y fists Upon them golden bars; I 'ammered till a devil's doubt Fair froze me wiv affright: To fink wot G.o.d would say about The bloke I corpsed last night.

I 'ushed; I wilted wiv despair, When, like a rosy flame, I sees a angel standin' there 'Oo calls me by me name.

'E 'ad such soft, such shiny eyes; 'E 'eld 'is 'and and smiled; And through the gates o' Paradise 'E led me like a child.

'E led me by them golden palms Wot 'ems that jeweled street; And seraphs was a-singin' psalms, You've no ideer 'ow sweet; Wiv cheroobs crowdin' closer round Than peas is in a pod, 'E led me to a shiny mound Where beams the throne o' G.o.d.

And then I 'ears G.o.d's werry voice: "Bill 'agan, 'ave no fear.

Stand up and glory and rejoice For 'im 'oo led you 'ere."

And in a nip I seemed to see: Aye, like a flash o' light, _My angel pal I knew to be The chap I plugged last night._

Now, I don't claim to understand-- They calls me Bonehead Bill; They shoves a rifle in me 'and, And show me 'ow to kill.

Me job's to risk me life and limb, But . . . be it wrong or right, This cross I'm makin', it's for 'im, The cove I croaked last night.

IV

A Lapse of Time and a Word of Explanation

The American Hospital, Neuilly,

January 1919.

Four years have pa.s.sed and it is winter again. Much has happened. When I last wrote, on the Somme in 1915, I was sickening with typhoid fever.

All that spring I was in hospital.

Nevertheless, I was sufficiently recovered to take part in the Champagne battle in the fall of that year, and to "carry on" during the following winter. It was at Verdun I got my first wound.

In the spring of 1917 I again served with my Corps; but on the entry of the United States into the War I joined the army of my country. In the Argonne I had my left arm shot away.

As far as time and health permitted, I kept a record of these years, and also wrote much verse. All this, however, has disappeared under circ.u.mstances into which there is no need to enter here. The loss was a cruel one, almost more so than that of my arm; for I have neither the heart nor the power to rewrite this material.