Trench Ballads and Other Verses.

by Erwin Clarkson Garrett.

PREFACE

I have divided this book into three distinct parts. Part I, Trench Ballads, consists of forty American soldier poems of America's partic.i.p.ation in the World War, 1917-19, based entirely on actual facts and incidents, and almost exclusively on my own personal experiences and observations, when a private in Company G, 16th Infantry, First Division, of the American Expeditionary Forces in France. Part II, Pre-war Poems, consists of three sets of verses written just before the active entry of America in the war, and appertaining to, but not an integral part of, it, and therefore grouped separately. Part III, Other Poems, contains those of a general and non-military character.

It is highly desirable the "Notes" at the end of this volume should be consulted, and that it be realized that with few exceptions, all these Trench Ballads were written in France, many scribbled on odd pieces of paper or on old envelopes in the trenches themselves, and consequently, when present locality is intimated, it is always France, that is to say, from the standpoint that I am speaking in and from the seat of operations. For example, when I use the term "over here," it really means what the people at home in America would call "over there."

Hyperbole or little characteristic anecdotes that really never occurred, except in the brain of an author, I have absolutely shunned, and have endeavored to adhere strictly to "the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth," and to set forth the vicissitudes; the dangers, joys and tribulations of the army man, and especially the man in the ranks, and more especially the man in the ranks of the Infantry, as these latter formed the actual front-line or combat troops that bore the brunt in this greatest of all wars.

Absolute continuity or sequence would seem superfluous, but it will be observed that I have endeavored to maintain it to a certain extent, i.e., by gradually leading from a number of military verses, without any strict inter-relation, to the day of being wounded, then on to several poems concerning the military hospital, and finally bringing the Trench Ballads to a close with those having to do with the returning home of the soldier.

My previous book, "Army Ballads and Other Verses," is the result of my experiences when serving as a private in Companies "L" and "G," 23rd Infantry and Troop "I," 5th Cavalry (Regulars), during the Philippine Insurrection of 1899-1902, and if "Army Ballads and Other Verses" is taken in conjunction with this volume, it is my hope together they may prove a fairly comprehensive anthology of the American soldier of recent times.

E. C. G.

Philadelphia, November 1st, 1919.

PART I. TRENCH BALLADS.

TRENCHES.

Trenches dripping, wet and cold- Trenches hot and dry- Long, drab, endless trenches Stretching far and nigh.

Zigzag, fretted, running sere From the cold North Sea, 'Cross the muddy Flanders plain And vales of Picardy.

Through the fields of new, green wheat Filled with poppies red, While abandoned plow-shares show Whence the peasants fled.

Past the great cathedral towns, Where each gorgeous spire Torn and tottering, slowly wilts 'Neath the Vandals' ire.

Hiding in the shadows Of the hills of French Lorraine, And bending south through rugged heights To the land of sun again.

Trenches, endless trenches, Shod with high desire- All that man holds more than life, And touched with patriot fire.

Trenches, endless trenches, Where tightening draws the cord 'Round the throat of brutal Kultur, And its red and dripping sword.

Trenches, endless trenches, Bleached and choked with rain, Could ye speak what tales ye'd tell Of honor, death and pain.

Could ye speak, what tales ye'd tell Of shame and golden worth, To the glory and d.a.m.nation Of the sp.a.w.n of all the Earth.

BARB-WIRE POSTS.

Five o 'clock; the shadows fall In mist and gloom and cloud; And No Man's Land is a sullen waste, Wrapped in a sodden shroud; And the click of Big Mac's moving foot Is a dangerous noise and loud.

Ten o'clock; the wind moans low- Each tree is a phantom gray: And the wired posts are silent ghosts That move with a drunken sway; (But never a gleam in No Man's Land Till the dawn of another day).

Twelve o 'clock; the heavens yawn Like the mouth of a chasm deep; And see-that isn't the fence out there- It's a Boche-and he stoops to creep- I'll take a shot-oh h.e.l.l, a post- (Oh G.o.d, for a wink o' sleep).

Two o 'clock; the cold wet fog Bears down in dripping banks: Ah, here they come-the dirty hounds- In swinging, serried ranks!

Why don't the automatics start? ...

Or do my eyes play pranks?

It doesn't seem a column now, But just two sneaking there: And one is climbing over, While the other of the pair Is clipping at the wires With exasperating care.

(I'm sober as a gray-beard judge I'm calm as the morning dew- I'm wide awake and I'll stake My eyes with the best of you; But I can't explain just how or why Posts do the things they do.)

Three o'clock; they're on the move- Well, let the beggars come... .

A crash - a hush - a spiral shriek- And a noise like a big ba.s.s drum- (I hope that Hun shot hasn't found Our kitchen and the slum).

Five o'clock; the first faint streak Of a leaden dawn lifts gray; And the barb-wire posts are sightless ghosts That swagger, click and sway, And seem to grin, in their blood-stained sin, In a most unpleasant way.

FEET.

Some say this war was fought and won With gleaming bayonets, That lift and laugh with Death's own chaff And leave no fond regrets: Some, by the long lean foul-lipped guns Where the first barrages meet, But I, by the poor old weary limping Tired broken feet.

Some say this war was fought and won By the crawling, reeking gas; Some, by the flitting birdmen, That dip and pause and pa.s.s: Some, by the splitting hand-grenades- But I, I hear the beat Of the poor old faithful worn limping Tired broken feet.

Some say the war was fought and won By This or That or Those- But I, by heel and sunken arch And blistered, bleeding toes.

Drag on, drag on, oh weary miles, Through mire, slush and sleet, To the glory of the rhythm Of the poor old broken feet.

YOUR GAS-MASK.

When over your shoulders your "full-field" you fling, And you curse the whole load for a horrible thing, What is it you reach for, as outward you swing?

Your gas-mask.