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Ballads of a Bohemian

<h2> BOOK FOUR ~~ WINTER </h2> <h2> I </h2> The Somme Front, January 1915. There is an avenue of noble beeches leading to the Chateau, and in the shadow of each glimmers the pale oblong of an ambulance. We have to keep them thus concealed, for only yesterday morning a Taube flew over. The beggars are rather partial to Red Cross cars. One of our chaps, taking in a load of wounded, was chased and pelted the other day. The Chateau seems all spires and towers, the glorified dream of a Parisian pastrycook. On its terrace figures in khaki are lounging. They are the volunteers, the owner-drivers of the Corps, many of them men of wealth and title. Curious to see one who owns all the coal in two counties proudly signing for his sou a day; or another, who lives in a Fifth Avenue palace, contentedly sleeping on the straw-strewn floor of a hovel. Here is a rhyme I have made of such an one: <h2> Priscilla </h2> Jerry MacMullen, the millionaire, Driving a red-meat bus out there— How did he win his Croix de Guerre? Bless you, that's all old stuff: Beast of a night on the Verdun road, Jerry stuck with a woeful load, Stalled in the mud where the red lights glowed, Prospect devilish tough. "Little Priscilla" he called his car, Best of our battered bunch by far, Branded with many a bullet scar, Yet running so sweet and true. Jerry he loved her, knew her tricks; Swore: "She's the beat of the best big six, And if ever I get in a deuce of a fix Priscilla will pull me through." "Looks pretty rotten right now," says he; "Hanged if the devil himself could see. Priscilla, it's up to you and me To show 'em what we can do." Seemed that Priscilla just took the word; Up with a leap like a horse that's spurred, On with the joy of a homing bird, Swift as the wind she flew. Shell-holes shoot at them out of the night; A lurch to the left, a wrench to the right, Hands grim-gripping and teeth clenched tight, Eyes that glare through the dark. "Priscilla, you're doing me proud this day; Hospital's only a league away, And, honey, I'm longing to hit the hay, So hurry, old girl. . . . But hark!" Howl of a shell, harsh, sudden, dread; Another . . . another. . . . "Strike me dead If the Huns ain't strafing the road ahead So the convoy can't get through! A barrage of shrap, and us alone; Four rush-cases—you hear 'em moan? Fierce old messes of blood and bone. . . . Priscilla, what shall we do?" Again it seems that Priscilla hears. With a rush and a roar her way she clears, Straight at the hell of flame she steers, Full at its heart of wrath. Fury of death and dust and din! Havoc and horror! She's in, she's in; She's almost over, she'll win, she'll win! Woof! Crump! right in the path. Little Priscilla skids and stops, Jerry MacMullen sways and flops; Bang in his map the crash he cops; Shriek from the car: "Mon Dieu!" One of the bless�s hears him say, Just at the moment he faints away: "Reckon this isn't my lucky day, Priscilla, it's up to you." Sergeant raps on the doctor's door; "Car in the court with couch�s four; Driver dead on the dashboard floor; Strange how the bunch got here." "No," says the Doc, "this chap's alive; But tell me, how could a man contrive With both arms broken, a car to drive? Thunder of God! it's queer." Same little bless� makes a spiel; Says he: "When I saw our driver reel, A Strange Shape leapt to the driving wheel And sped us safe through the night." But Jerry, he says in his drawling tone: "Rats! Why, Priscilla came in on her own. Bless her, she did it alone, alone. . . ." Hanged if I know who's right. As I am sitting down to my midday meal an orderly gives me a telegram: Hill 71. Two couch�s. Send car at once. The uptilted country-side is a checker-board of green and gray, and, except where groves of trees rise like islands, cultivated to the last acre. But as we near the firing-line all efforts to till the land cease, and the ungathered beets of last year have grown to seed. Amid rank unkempt fields I race over a road that is pitted with obus-holes; I pass a line of guns painted like snakes, and drawn by horses dyed khaki- color; then soldiers coming from the trenches, mud-caked and ineffably weary; then a race over a bit of road that is exposed; then, buried in the hill-side, the dressing station. The two wounded are put into my car. From hip to heel one is swathed in bandages; the other has a great white turban on his head, with a red patch on it that spreads and spreads. They stare dully, but make no sound. As I crank the car there is a shrill screaming noise. . . . About thirty yards away I hear an explosion like a mine-blast, followed by a sudden belch of coal-black smoke. I stare at it in a dazed way. Then the doctor says: "Don't trouble to analyze your sensations. Better get off. You're only drawing their fire." Here is one of my experiences: <h2> A Casualty </h2> That boy I took in the car last night, With the body that awfully sagged away, And the lips blood-crisped, and the eyes flame-bright, And the poor hands folded and cold as clay— Oh, I've thought and I've thought of him all the day. For the weary old doctor says to me: "He'll only last for an hour or so. Both of his legs below the knee Blown off by a bomb. . . . So, lad, go slow, And please remember, he doesn't know." So I tried to drive with never a jar; And there was I cursing the road like mad, When I hears a ghost of a voice from the car: "Tell me, old chap, have I 'copped it' bad?" So I answers "No," and he says, "I'm glad." "Glad," says he, "for at twenty-two Life's so splendid, I hate to go. There's so much good that a chap might do, And I've fought from the start and I've suffered so. 'Twould be hard to get knocked out now, you know." "Forget it," says I; then I drove awhile, And I passed him a cheery word or two; But he didn't answer for many a mile, So just as the hospital hove in view, Says I: "Is there nothing that I can do?" Then he opens his eyes and he smiles at me; And he takes my hand in his trembling hold; "Thank you—you're far too kind," says he: "I'm awfully comfy—stay . . . let's see: I fancy my blanket's come unrolled— My feet, please wrap 'em—they're cold . . . they're cold." There is a city that glitters on the plain. Afar off we can see its tall cathedral spire, and there we often take our wounded from the little village hospitals to the rail-head. Tragic little buildings, these emergency hospitals—town-halls, churches, schools; their cots are never empty, their surgeons never still. So every day we get our list of cases and off we go, a long line of cars swishing through the mud. Then one by one we branch off to our village hospital, puzzling out the road on our maps. Arrived there, we load up quickly. The wounded make no moan. They lie, limp, heavily bandaged, with bare legs and arms protruding from their blankets. They do not know where they are going; they do not care. Like live stock, they are labeled and numbered. An orderly brings along their battle-scarred equipment, throwing open their rifles to see that no charge remains. Sometimes they shake our hands and thank us for the drive. In the streets of the city I see French soldiers wearing the Fourrag�re. It is a cord of green, yellow or red, and corresponds to the Croix de Guerre, the M�daille militaire and the Legion of Honor. The red is the highest of all, and has been granted only to one or two regiments. This incident was told to me by a man who saw it: <h2> The Blood-Red Fourrag�re </h2> What was the blackest sight to me Of all that campaign? A naked woman tied to a tree With jagged holes where her breasts should be, Rotting there in the rain. On we pressed to the battle fray, Dogged and dour and spent. Sudden I heard my Captain say: "Voil�! Kultur has passed this way, And left us a monument." So I looked and I saw our Colonel there, And his grand head, snowed with the years, Unto the beat of the rain was bare; And, oh, there was grief in his frozen stare, And his cheeks were stung with tears! Then at last he turned from the woeful tree, And his face like stone was set; "Go, march the Regiment past," said he, "That every father and son may see, And none may ever forget." Oh, the crimson strands of her hair downpoured Over her breasts of woe; And our grim old Colonel leaned on his sword, And the men filed past with their rifles lowered, Solemn and sad and slow. But I'll never forget till the day I die, As I stood in the driving rain, And the jaded columns of men slouched by, How amazement leapt into every eye, Then fury and grief and pain. And some would like madmen stand aghast, With their hands upclenched to the sky; And some would cross themselves as they passed, And some would curse in a scalding blast, And some like children cry. Yea, some would be sobbing, and some would pray, And some hurl hateful names; But the best had never a word to say; They turned their twitching faces away, And their eyes were like hot flames. They passed; then down on his bended knee The Colonel dropped to the Dead: "Poor martyred daughter of France!" said he, "O dearly, dearly avenged you'll be Or ever a day be sped!" Now they hold that we are the best of the best, And each of our men may wear, Like a gash of crimson across his chest, As one fierce-proved in the battle-test, The blood-red Fourrag�re. For each as he leaps to the top can see, Like an etching of blood on his brain, A wife or a mother lashed to a tree, With two black holes where her breasts should be, Left to rot in the rain. So we fight like fiends, and of us they say That we neither yield nor spare. Oh, we have the bitterest debt to pay. . . . Have we paid it?— Look—how we wear to-day Like a trophy, gallant and proud and gay, Our blood-red Fourrag�re. It is often weary waiting at the little poste de secours. Some of us play solitaire, some read a "sixpenny", some doze or try to talk in bad French to the poilus. Around us is discomfort, dirt and drama. For my part, I pass the time only too quickly, trying to put into verse the incidents and ideas that come my way. In this way I hope to collect quite a lot of stuff which may some day see itself in print. Here is one of my efforts: <h2> Jim </h2> Never knew Jim, did you? Our boy Jim? Bless you, there was the likely lad; Supple and straight and long of limb, Clean as a whistle, and just as glad. Always laughing, wasn't he, dad? Joy, pure joy to the heart of him, And, oh, but the soothering ways he had, Jim, our Jim! But I see him best as a tiny tot, A bonny babe, though it's me that speaks; Laughing there in his little cot, With his sunny hair and his apple cheeks. And my! but the blue, blue eyes he'd got, And just where his wee mouth dimpled dim Such a fairy mark like a beauty spot— That was Jim. Oh, the war, the war! How my eyes were wet! But he says: "Don't be sorrowing, mother dear; You never knew me to fail you yet, And I'll be back in a year, a year." 'Twas at Mons he fell, in the first attack; For so they said, and their eyes were dim; But I laughed in their faces: "He'll come back, Will my Jim." Now, we'd been wedded for twenty year, And Jim was the only one we'd had; So when I whispered in father's ear, He wouldn't believe me—would you, dad? There! I must hurry . . . hear him cry? My new little baby. . . . See! that's him. What are we going to call him? Why, Jim, just Jim. Jim! For look at him laughing there In the same old way in his tiny cot, With his rosy cheeks and his sunny hair, And look, just look . . . his beauty spot In the selfsame place. . . . Oh, I can't explain, And of course you think it's a mother's whim, But I know, I know it's my boy again, Same wee Jim. Just come back as he said he would; Come with his love and his heart of glee. Oh, I cried and I cried, but the Lord was good; From the shadow of Death he set Jim free. So I'll have him all over again, you see. Can you wonder my mother-heart's a-brim? Oh, how happy we're going to be! Aren't we, Jim? <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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