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Ballads of a Bohemian

<h2> II </h2> In Picardy, January 1915. The road lies amid a malevolent heath. It seems to lead us right into the clutch of the enemy; for the star-shells, that at first were bursting overhead, gradually encircle us. The fields are strangely sinister; the splintered trees are like giant toothpicks. There is a lisping and a twanging overhead. As we wait at the door of the dugout that serves as a first-aid dressing station, I gaze up into that mysterious dark, so alive with musical vibrations. Then a small shadow detaches itself from the greater shadow, and a gray-bearded sentry says to me: "You'd better come in out of the bullets." So I keep under cover, and presently they bring my load. Two men drip with sweat as they carry their comrade. I can see that they all three belong to the Foreign Legion. I think for a moment of Saxon Dane. How strange if some day I should carry him! Half fearfully I look at my passenger, but he is a black man. Such things only happen in fiction. This is what I have written of the finest troops in the Army of France: <h2> Kelly of the Legion </h2> Now Kelly was no fighter; He loved his pipe and glass; An easygoing blighter, Who lived in Montparnasse. But 'mid the tavern tattle He heard some guinney say: "When France goes forth to battle, The Legion leads the way. "The scourings of creation, Of every sin and station, The men who've known damnation, Are picked to lead the way." Well, Kelly joined the Legion; They marched him day and night; They rushed him to the region Where largest loomed the fight. "Behold your mighty mission, Your destiny," said they; "By glorious tradition The Legion leads the way. "With tattered banners flying With trail of dead and dying, On! On! All hell defying, The Legion sweeps the way." With grim, hard-bitten faces, With jests of savage mirth, They swept into their places, The men of iron worth; Their blooded steel was flashing; They swung to face the fray; Then rushing, roaring, crashing, The Legion cleared the way. The trail they blazed was gory; Few lived to tell the story; Through death they plunged to glory; But, oh, they cleared the way! Now Kelly lay a-dying, And dimly saw advance, With split new banners flying, The fantassins of France. Then up amid the melee He rose from where he lay; "Come on, me boys," says Kelly, "The Layjun lades the way!" Aye, while they faltered, doubting (Such flames of doom were spouting), He caught them, thrilled them, shouting: "The Layjun lades the way!" They saw him slip and stumble, Then stagger on once more; They marked him trip and tumble, A mass of grime and gore; They watched him blindly crawling Amid hell's own affray, And calling, calling, calling: "The Layjun lades the way!" And even while they wondered, The battle-wrack was sundered; To Victory they thundered, But . . . Kelly led the way. Still Kelly kept agoing; Berserker-like he ran; His eyes with fury glowing, A lion of a man; His rifle madly swinging, His soul athirst to slay, His slogan ringing, ringing, "The Layjun lades the way!" Till in a pit death-baited, Where Huns with Maxims waited, He plunged . . . and there, blood-sated, To death he stabbed his way. Now Kelly was a fellow Who simply loathed a fight: He loved a tavern mellow, Grog hot and pipe alight; I'm sure the Show appalled him, And yet without dismay, When Death and Duty called him, He up and led the way. So in Valhalla drinking (If heroes meek and shrinking Are suffered there), I'm thinking 'Tis Kelly leads the way. We have just had one of our men killed, a young sculptor of immense promise. When one thinks of all the fine work he might have accomplished, it seems a shame. But, after all, to-morrow it may be the turn of any of us. If it should be mine, my chief regret will be for work undone. Ah! I often think of how I will go back to the Quarter and take up the old life again. How sweet it will all seem. But first I must earn the right. And if ever I do go back, how I will find Bohemia changed! Missing how many a face! It was in thinking of our lost comrade I wrote the following: <h2> The Three Tommies </h2> That Barret, the painter of pictures, what feeling for color he had! And Fanning, the maker of music, such melodies mirthful and mad! And Harley, the writer of stories, so whimsical, tender and glad! To hark to their talk in the trenches, high heart unfolding to heart, Of the day when the war would be over, and each would be true to his part, Upbuilding a Palace of Beauty to the wonder and glory of Art . . . Yon's Barret, the painter of pictures, yon carcass that rots on the wire; His hand with its sensitive cunning is crisped to a cinder with fire; His eyes with their magical vision are bubbles of glutinous mire. Poor Fanning! He sought to discover the symphonic note of a shell; There are bits of him broken and bloody, to show you the place where he fell; I've reason to fear on his exquisite ear the rats have been banqueting well. And speaking of Harley, the writer, I fancy I looked on him last, Sprawling and staring and writhing in the roar of the battle blast; Then a mad gun-team crashed over, and scattered his brains as it passed. Oh, Harley and Fanning and Barret, they were bloody good mates o' mine; Their bodies are empty bottles; Death has guzzled the wine; What's left of them's filth and corruption. . . . Where is the Fire Divine? I'll tell you. . . . At night in the trenches, as I watch and I do my part, Three radiant spirits I'm seeing, high heart revealing to heart, And they're building a peerless palace to the splendor and triumph of Art. Yet, alas! for the fame of Barret, the glory he might have trailed! And alas! for the name of Fanning, a star that beaconed and paled, Poor Harley, obscure and forgotten. . . . Well, who shall say that they failed! No, each did a Something Grander than ever he dreamed to do; And as for the work unfinished, all will be paid their due; The broken ends will be fitted, the balance struck will be true. So painters, and players, and penmen, I tell you: Do as you please; Let your fame outleap on the trumpets, you'll never rise up to these— To three grim and gory Tommies, down, down on your bended knees! Daventry, the sculptor, is buried in a little graveyard near one of our posts. Just now our section of the line is quiet, so I often go and sit there. Stretching myself on a flat stone, I dream for hours. Silence and solitude! How good the peace of it all seems! Around me the grasses weave a pattern, and half hide the hundreds of little wooden crosses. Here is one with a single name: AUBREY. Who was Aubrey I wonder? Then another: To Our Beloved Comrade. Then one which has attached to it, in the cheapest of little frames, the crude water-color daub of a child, three purple flowers standing in a yellow vase. Below it, painfully printed, I read: To My Darling Papa—Thy Little Odette. And beyond the crosses many fresh graves have been dug. With hungry open mouths they wait. Even now I can hear the guns that are going to feed them. Soon there will be more crosses, and more and more. Then they will cease, and wives and mothers will come here to weep. Ah! Peace so precious must be bought with blood and tears. Let us honor and bless the men who pay, and envy them the manner of their dying; for not all the jeweled orders on the breasts of the living can vie in glory with the little wooden cross the humblest of these has won. . . . <h2> The Twa Jocks </h2> Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska tae Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye: "That's whit I hate maist aboot fechtin'—it makes ye sae deevilish dry; Noo jist hae a keek at yon ferm-hoose them Gairmans are poundin' sae fine, Weel, think o' it, doon in the dunnie there's bottles and bottles o' wine. A' hell's fairly belchin' oot yonner, but oh, lad, I'm ettlin' tae try. . . ." "If it's poose she'll be with ye whateffer," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye. Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "Whit price fur a funeral wreath? We're dodgin' a' kinds o' destruction, an' jist by the skin o' oor teeth. Here, spread yersel oot on yer belly, and slither along in the glaur; Confoond ye, ye big Hielan' deevil! Ye don't realize there's a war. Ye think that ye're back in Dunvegan, and herdin' the wee bits o' kye." "She'll neffer trink wine in Dunfegan," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye. Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "Thank goodness! the ferm-hoose at last; There's no muckle left but the cellar, an' even that's vanishin' fast. Look oot, there's the corpse o' a wumman, sair mangelt and deid by her lane. Quick! Strike a match. . . . Whit did I tell ye! A hale bonny box o' shampane; Jist knock the heid aff o' a bottle. . . . Haud on, mon, I'm hearing a cry. . . ." "She'll think it's a wean that wass greetin'," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye. Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "Ma conscience! I'm hanged but yer richt. It's yin o' thae waifs of the war-field, a' sobbin' and shakin' wi' fricht. Wheesht noo, dear, we're no gaun tae hurt ye. We're takin' ye hame, my wee doo! We've got tae get back wi' her, Hecky. Whit mercy we didna get fou! We'll no touch a drap o' that likker— that's hard, man, ye canna deny. . . ." "It's the last thing she'll think o' denyin'," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye. Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "If I should get struck frae the rear, Ye'll tak' and ye'll shield the wee lassie, and rin for the lines like a deer. God! Wis that the breenge o' a bullet? I'm thinkin' it's cracket ma spine. I'm doon on ma knees in the glabber; I'm fearin', auld man, I've got mine. Here, quick! Pit yer erms roon the lassie. Noo, rin, lad! good luck and good-by. . . . "Hoots, mon! it's ye baith she'll be takin'," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye. Says Corporal Muckle frae Rannoch: "Is that no' a picture tae frame? Twa sair woundit Jocks wi' a lassie jist like ma wee Jeannie at hame. We're prood o' ye baith, ma brave heroes. We'll gie ye a medal, I think." Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "I'd raither ye gied me a drink. I'll no speak for Private MacCrimmon, but oh, mon, I'm perishin' dry. . . ." "She'll wush that Loch Lefen wass whuskey," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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