Rhymes of a Red Cross Man | Page 8

that wounded 'Un?'E rolls to 'is gun,?And 'e plugs me pal in the back.
Now what would you do? I arst you.?There was me slaughtered mate.?There was that 'Un?(I'd collered 'is gun),?A-snarlin' 'is 'ymn of 'ate.?Wot did I do? 'Ere, whisper . . .?'E'd a shiny bald top to 'is 'ead,?But when I got through,?Between me and you,?It was 'orrid and jaggy and red.
"'Ang on like a limpet, Eddy.?Thank Gord! you ain't dead after all."?It's slow and it's sure and it's steady?(Which is 'ard, for 'e's big and I'm small).?The rockets are shootin' and shinin',?It's rainin' a perishin' flood,?The bullets are buzzin' and whinin',?And I'm up to me stern in the mud.?There's all kinds of 'owlin' and 'ootin';?It's black as a bucket of tar;?Oh, I'm doin' my bit,?But I'm 'avin' a fit,?And I wish I was 'ome wiv Mar.
"Stick on like a plaster, Eddy.?Old sport, you're a-slackin' your grip."?Gord! But I'm crocky already;?My feet, 'ow they slither and slip!?There goes the biff of a bullet.?The Boches have got us for fair.?Another one -- WHUT!?The son of a slut!?'E managed to miss by a 'air.?'Ow! Wot was it jabbed at me shoulder??Gave it a dooce of a wrench.?Is it Eddy or me?Wot's a-bleedin' so free??Crust! but it's long to the trench.?I ain't just as strong as a Sandow,?And Ed ain't a flapper by far;?I'm blamed if I understand 'ow?We've managed to get where we are.?But 'ere's for a bit of a breather.?"Steady there, Ed, 'arf a mo'.?Old pal, it's all right;?It's a 'ell of a fight,?But are we down-'earted? No-o-o."
Now war is a funny thing, ain't it??It's the rummiest sort of a go.?For when it's most real,?It's then that you feel?You're a-watchin' a cinema show.?'Ere's me wot's a barber's assistant.?Hey, presto! It's somewheres in France,?And I'm 'ere in a pit?Where a coal-box 'as 'it,?And it's all like a giddy romance.?The ruddy quick-firers are spittin',?The 'eavies are bellowin' 'ate,?And 'ere I am cashooly sittin',?And 'oldin' the 'ead of me mate.?Them gharstly green star-shells is beamin',?'Ot shrapnel is poppin' like rain,?And I'm sayin': "Bert 'Iggins, you're dreamin',?And you'll wake up in 'Ampstead again.?You'll wake up and 'ear yourself sayin':?`Would you like, sir, to 'ave a shampoo?'?'Stead of sheddin' yer blood?In the rain and the mud,?Which is some'ow the right thing to do;?Which is some'ow yer 'oary-eyed dooty,?Wot you're doin' the best wot you can,?For 'Ampstead and 'ome and beauty,?And you've been and you've slaughtered a man.?A feller wot punctured your partner;?Oh, you 'ammered 'im 'ard on the 'ead,?And you still see 'is eyes?Starin' bang at the skies,?And you ain't even sorry 'e's dead.?But you wish you was back in your diggin's?Asleep on your mouldy old stror.?Oh, you're doin' yer bit, 'Erbert 'Iggins,?But you ain't just enjoyin' the war."
"'Ang on like a hoctopus, Eddy.?It's us for the bomb-belt again.?Except for the shrap?Which 'as 'it me a tap,?I'm feelin' as right as the rain.?It's my silly old feet wot are slippin',?It's as dark as a 'ogs'ead o' sin,?But don't be oneasy, my pippin,?I'm goin' to pilot you in.?It's my silly old 'ead wot is reelin'.?The bullets is buzzin' like bees.?Me shoulder's red-'ot,?And I'm bleedin' a lot,?And me legs is on'inged at the knees.?But we're staggerin' nearer and nearer.?Just stick it, old sport, play the game.?I make 'em out clearer and clearer,?Our trenches a-snappin' with flame.?Oh, we're stumblin' closer and closer.?'Ang on there, lad! Just one more try.?Did you say: Put you down? Damn it, no, sir!?I'll carry you in if I die.?By cracky! old feller, they've seen us.?They're sendin' out stretchers for two.?Let's give 'em the hoorah between us?('Anged lucky we aren't booked through).?My flipper is mashed to a jelly.?A bullet 'as tickled your spleen.?We've shed lots of gore?And we're leakin' some more,?But -- wot a hoccasion it's been!?Ho! 'Ere comes the rescuin' party.?They're crawlin' out cautious and slow.?Come! Buck up and greet 'em, my 'earty,?Shoulder to shoulder -- so.?They mustn't think we was down-'earted.?Old pal, we was never down-'earted.?If they arsts us if we was down-'earted?We'll 'owl in their fyces: `No-o-o!'"
A Song of Winter Weather
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 melee 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,