With the Colors | Page 8

knew
He'd take it into
hell and back
If he was ordered to!
That night (he'd been right on the job
For twenty hours or more)

They telephoned again for him--
And as he cranked--he swore.
Half
dead for sleep, he drove too far,
Straight into No Man's Land,
And
there he gathered up four men
Who didn't understand
Or care what
happened.... Then a chap
Sagging with gobs of mud
He shoved into
his throbbing car
That smelled of drugs and blood.
The other roared, but Briggs, sleep-deaf,
Stared at the moon on high--

'Twas like some spent star-shell glued on
A blue-black, tired sky--

And didn't try to hear or think;
He only tried to keep
His car from
sliding off the road--
And not to fall asleep.
The ambulance went
skidding back
(His chains had lost themselves),
While now and
then a growl came from
Its stretcher-ladened shelves.
Briggs never
stopped, but when the groans
Were punctured with a curse
He told
the weary moon, "At least
This flivver is no hearse!"
And slowly
yawned again.... At last
They rounded Trouble Bend,
Base Eight
before them--and that ride
Was at a welcome end....
The
blood-stained orderlies came out

To take the wounded in,
Opened
the doors to lift the wrecks....
Before they could begin
There
tumbled out the mud-caked man,
Whose mouth was shot away;
A
man who stared like some wild beast
Finally brought to bay;
For
Briggs, Base Eight, American,
Had brought (beside his four)
A
German officer, half drunk
For need of rest! who swore
And cried,
and then sank back again
And fell asleep.... That's why
They've
decorated little Briggs--
Red-headed, tall, and shy!

"I didn't do a thing," he growls;
"'Twas just a fool mistake,
And he'd
have captured me, of course,
If _he_ had been awake.
He tried to
talk (his battered mouth
Was just a shredded scar);
But we were
wasting time, and so
I pushed him in the car
And came on back....
Now, what is there
About that sort of stuff
To make a fuss for? I am
not
A hero.... I'm a bluff!"
The surgeon smiles.... "If he can make

A capture in the night
When doing Red Cross work, what would
He
do if he should _fight_?"
He asks, and looks a long way off
To
where the pounding guns
Are making other harmless wrecks
Of
one-time hellish Huns.
I wonder if you know him? A slim and quiet kid,
Red-headed, tall,
and soft of speech and glance;
He doesn't like to have you talk about
the thing he did--
And yet he's got a medal from the Government of
France.
THE PENGUIN DRIVER
At home, he drove a taxi,
A job he'd now disdain;
He's learning (on
a queer machine)
To drive an aeroplane.
It doesn't fly--it glumps
along
And bumps him, ev'ry chance;
His tumbling, rumbling
"Penguin"
Out there--Somewhere in France.
It isn't fun to drive it,
But he's not out for fun;
He's going to learn to
drop good bombs
Upon the no-good Hun!
And so, until he
graduates,
He makes his Penguin prance--
His bumping, jumping
Penguin
Out there--Somewhere in France.
As soon as he's a pilot,
(And earned his Golden Wings)
He'll take
the air on high, you bet

And do some bully things!
The Prussians
will be sorry
He ever learned to dance
With a rearing, tearing
Penguin
Out there--Somewhere in France.
WAITIN'

Back of the Front in this durn trainin' camp,
Day after day we are
stuck, an' we swear
Whenever we hear th' regular tramp
Of th' men
who are through and are goin' somewhere.
We're all of us willin', but
why keep us drillin'
Forever?... Just waitin' for somethin' to do!
At home they are readin' th' outlandish name
Of a battle that's won or
a hero that's dead
Of a stunt that had won him a place in this Game--

But all that I've won is a cold in my head!
While others are fightin'
we're readin' or writin'--
An' the censors will see that it don't get to
you!
We long for a scrap that will sizzle the blood;
We hone for a chance
to bust in a head;
This marchin' an' diggin' in acres of mud
Ain't as
excitin' as bein' plain dead.
War may be a curse, but this here is
worse--
This dreamin' th' dreams that never come true.
All set for a mix-up that we can't begin;
Ready and anxious for
whatever comes,
We're linked to the side-lines.... Ain't it a sin,

Spendin' good hours a-twiddlin' thumbs?
Seems like a crime to waste
so much time
A-waitin'--an' waitin'! You'd find it so, too.
My bunkie is peevish, and I'm out of tune;
The Capting's a grouch
whenever we hike;
If we don't get into this muss pretty soon,
We
fellers are likely to go on a strike!
We signed for a scrap, not a tea or
a nap,
Or to wait,
And to wait,
And to wait--
Till it's _through!_
WE'RE ALL RIGHT HERE!
What's th' meanin' of the look you see in soldiers' eyes?
Some of
them you thought would kick an' stall around an' howl; But just listen
(if they'll talk) an' hear, to your surprise, A lot of laughs, a lot o'
tales--but never once a growl!

Business man and bell hop,
Farmer boy and clerk;
Easy-going
spendthrifts,
Men that have to work;
Firemen and brokers,

Chauffeurs still "in gear";
The army is the melting pot--
We're all
right here!
Desk men and road men,
Men who sweep