With the Colors | Page 8

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 the street;?Coal men and plumbers?(If they have good feet);?Showmen and film stars,?All have mislaid fear.?Funny crowd; but we should fret--?We're all right here!
Keen men and dull men,?Razor-edged or dumb,?High-grade and low-grade,?Some, plain medium;?Feet upon the drill-ground,?Hearts all beating high;?_You_ are glad that you are here,?And so, old top, _am I!_
That's the meaning of the call; ev'ry man is proud?He is in the common cause, with a bunch of men?Fighting for democracy, lined up with this crowd--?God! It's pretty nifty _just to be a man again!_
REPRISAL
Sister Susie's sittin' knittin'?Sweaters, wristlets, scarfs, an' socks;?She ain't "sewin' shirts for soldiers"?'Cause she got so many knocks?From th' papers 'bout her sewin'--?Now she's knittin' pounds of yarn?Into things to send away.... Well,?I don't care,?Don't care a darn!
Hasn't knit no scarf or sweater,?Hasn't made no socks for me;?Little brother, he can rustle?For himself alone, you see!?Maw is on the Help Committee,?Paw is drillin' with th' Guard;?Brother's soldierin'--and sister's?Knittin' fast?An' awful hard!
No, they won't pay me no 'tention,?So I'm goin' to run away,?Join th' army as a--as a?Bellboy, may be, without pay.?Then I'll get a scarf an' sweater?And some socks, soon as I go,?From some _other_ feller's sister?That I do not?Even _know_.
THE SOUL OF SERGEANT TODD
"I wasn't so much of a soldier," said the soul of Sergeant Todd, (Fumbling at his medal, that statement sounded odd.)?"I wasn't so much of a fighter, but when they came, and came, Yelling and shooting, I just got mad, and I reckon I did the same. Into my trench they piled--just boys--?Making a most outlandish noise."
A Corporal's soul beside him nodded and mustered a smile:?"You handled a dozen at once," he said; "they didn't come single file. If you