I've never had a fling at this thing I can only tell in a Doughboy's way, No artist, whether good or bad, So I lay no claim to the master's touch You'll know how a Doughboy feels when he fights,
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Six hundred strong, your boys and you, Six hundred souls travel apace, Six hundred men slowly bow their heads, Six hundred strong this message we send, |
From two short words, "Up There"
we glean, Telling many brave and daring tale, Who gave their all, as men have done, They fell for a cause just and true, |
See the sky line glowing deep crimson red,
The gleam of a watch on some one's wrist, The roar of the plane and tinkle of rain, The hushed stillness as we stopped near a road, Cries for first aid, the shrieks of the mules, The sea of red mud thru which we hike, The clammy dampness of rain on the skin, The trip all alone from a runner's post, The waiting for dawn with heart dulled by pain, The men continually bunching together, The double-whirred roar of Jerry's plane, Then the solemn promise to see his folks, |
Have you ever had your stomach, With the mud up to your knee-caps, Had your Serg' come runnin' yelling, Madly tore the tough old lid off, It ironed out all the wrinkles, |
While you're standing at attention, Ever have that itchy army, Or in your helmet-sweated hair, In the "lines" big Generals had 'em, You can have my flock of grey ones, |
Ever since I landed here, My face and hands badly peeled, Tomorrow we'll be on our way, The guy who wrote 'bout Sunny France, Clouds a-skootin' fast overhead, Earth seems to be a-quiver with fright,
Been in the lines near thirty days, Relieved from the "lines" last
night, Been soaking wet since September, Boys are not talking much today, |
I've gone all day in sort of a daze, It feels like a ball of red-hot fire, I can feel myself go crumpling, Doctor says I'll pull thru all right, I've paid the debt that manhood brings, |
Some day you'll be in your "civies," Then you'll snap up to attention, So your thots will quickly wander, So you'll bring your hand up smartly, The Lieutenant's face will redden, |
They say I'm mad, crazed by the war; Fighting for what? "We don't know," Numb from cold with our youth gone old, Fed on hate that we may see red, What is war, stripped of it's sheen? |
How do it feel to be solduah, Fust off you joins up de colahs, Den you gets youh mahchin' ordahs, You lay in de trench all night long, Den de sergean' blow his whistle, |
'Tis not the bit of bronze and metal, Nor are the colored ribbons, Nor do gold stripes upon the arm These are outward indications They will tarnish with the weather, Did you do your best when called on, No bit of bronze or ribbon bright, Telling the tale as long as you live, |
One day in the rain, in quaint Cirfontaine With big coy eyes, as blue as the skies, "Parlevou Franca?" was the best I could say, "Bonjour Monsieur, but you're a dear, So wet as a goat, I took off me coat, You know how you feel when through a good meal, 'Monsieur please doan'"---"I know you're Tres Bon," "Mon brave Soldat, stay right where you at, Then out of that room a big voice boomed, "Oh pardoan me . . . your fren' I no se She hugged me tight then bid me good-night |
Most my pals are still around me, My blood boils up in red, red rage, I rage and mutter all the night, You're gone old pal, "May God rest you," I'll try my best to square the debt, |
Of three Pals of mine I would tell, First time I used him (well I remember), I pictured myself lying "Out There" dead Next comes "Jim," my old "diggin' in"
tool We dug thru rock and sometimes ground, Last but not least, comes "Jack," that boy, I've used him as a writing pad, Battered and scarred, shelltorn and marred, He nestled close to my kinky head, So if perhaps they seem a bit proud, |
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