Voices of Silence (22 page)

Although our liberties are gone,

We’ve got a war for Freedom on!

In spite of each oppressive act,

The war for Freedom is a
FACT
:

So get it well into your head

That wars – for Freedom –
must
be fed

With conscript armies, vanish’d rights,

And all the Censorship’s delights;

Whilst, though the people lose their freedom,

The profiteers are free to bleed ’em!

For things like that, you know, must be,

In a great war for liberty:

For which, because it’s lost at home,

We have to fight, across the foam!

The case of Lieutenant Tattoon, M.C.

Is worthy of some remark.

He thought (and one should not think, you see)

That the War which was to make people free

Was now being fought in the dark.

For at first (he said) our aims were clear,

Men gave their lives with gladness

To save small nations from the fear

Of Tyrants who would domineer

And doom mankind to madness.

Our rulers had claimed – and rightly I ween –

That the Germans must be ‘broken’;

But afterwards, What that word might mean,

And what sort of peace was to supervene,

Were things which they left unspoken.

And no one knew whatever on Earth

Our present objective and aim were,

And whether the loss and deadly dearth

Of another Million of lives was worth

Some gains in Mesopotamia.

These were the thoughts of Lieutenant Tattoon. –

Of course it was very improper,

But he actually gave them expression, and soon

Found out he was trying to jump the Moon

And only coming a cropper!

For to say what you mean is all right as a rule

In a far oversea Dominion,

But at home or under the Prussian school

It is not safe – and a man is a fool

Even to have an opinion.

A Medical Board sat on him, in state

(No wonder they looked so solemn);

His sins were entered upon the slate

With every lapse detailed to date –

And they added up the Column.

He thought – which for a Lieutenant was rash;

He spoke, but should have kept silence;

He treated Imperial talk as trash,

And considered the honour before the cash

Which might come to the British Islands.

’Twas insubordination, they said,

And he surely must be crazy –

Yet there he stood, in mien well-bred;

Collected and calm, with clean-cut head,

And looking as fit as a daisy.

An M.C. too – so what could they do?

’Twas a most provoking and strange craze.

Yet to put him in prison a storm would brew

Of wrath – the mere proposal to mew

A hero in Woking or Strangeways!

For half an hour (as once in Heaven)

Silence fell on the folk assembled;

Till by one inspired the stillness was riven:

‘’Twas nervous shock’. The cue was given –

And the whole Court gaily dissembled.

‘Poor fellow!’ they said, ‘’Twas nervous strain,

He’s a subject for our pity;

Let him to Hospital go, till his brain

Is healed, and there’s no danger again

That he will repeat that ditty.’

To a Shell-shock ward then he was sent,

And there he was kindly treated

And even indulged to the top of his bent; –

But there ever since he has safely been pent,

And his words have not been repeated.

Edward Carpenter

Thou art the Disillusioner. Thy words

Are desolate winds and jagged spurs of rock,

Whereon they urge the frigate of our pride

To cast herself. How cruel is thy blade

To strip the sword of glory, leaving steel

Naked, and wounds, undecked of laurels, bare!

O still, small voice, the louder roars the whirl,

More clear thou comest, and more terrible!

E.H. Physick

Do you fail, even now, to realise

That not for this, our land we hold most dear

Alone, nor for the freedom that we prize;

Not for the love that wells in loyal eyes

To nerve our spirits; – not alone, you hear

For these; – but for yourself and for your breed, –

You, with your turgid soul and venomous tongue,

You who have ever flung

Gibes at our sacrifice, –

For you, too, must we suffer, must we bleed?

This thing is plain, altho’ your lips deny;

When Honour calls, – for you we answer her;

When Death claims dues, – for you we go to die;

You thrive by virtue of our agony.

A saprophyte upon the sepulchre,

Lapping the spilt blood of the crucified,

This is your meed of thanks and recompense, –

With pompous eloquence

To prate interminably,

Sland’ring the sacred cause of those who died.

Geoffrey F. Fyson

You, who make clamour for a speedy peace,

Who bid us pause, and think, and count the cost,

And reckon up the lives and treasure lost

In this wild, senseless devil’s orgy; Cease!

We may not listen to your treacherous word,

Unless we would be traitors to our dead,

And forfeit all for which their blood was shed,

And lose the prize for which we drew the sword.

We must fight on, whate’er the sacrifice,

Till we have reaped the fruits of victory;

We must fight on, however stern the price,

Till we have planted in Gallipoli,

On the grim, blood-stained slopes of Sedd-ul-Bahr,

The freedom-bringing banner of the Czar.

W.N. Ewer

Come at me with your scorn,

Strike me with your rod –

Though I be slain a thousand times,

I will not fight my God.

Witter Bynner

In Christ we all are one – we who believe,

And worship Him as Lord – and shall this War,

Wherever lies the blame, make us forget

That bless’d relationship? Shall gods like Thor,

And Mars, control our hearts to such extent

That Christ in us shall be o’erthrown? Oh, say!

If hated, shall we give back hate for hate?

If wronged, shall we with bitterness repay?

And so, because men’s passions rage, let love

And all the highest duties be forgot? –

Discard the very things Christ values most,

And speak and act, as though we knew Him not?

Nay, God forbid! For we His children are –

His equal children, brothers all, in Christ;

And Christ hath said: ‘As God is perfect, so

Be ye, His children’. Would it had sufficed –

His teaching so divine! And that we each

Had seen and clung to – years back – once for all –

His purpose and His will! – and lived our lives

In deeper heart-obedience to His call!

Too late, is it? Nay, nay! With broken heart,

And flooded eyes – that dare not look above,

Let us, confessing, smite upon our breast,

And beg for grace that we may learn to love!

H.J. Preece

There’s the blood of many martyrs on our banner;

There are heroes – named and nameless – dead, behind.

There are many fights before us,

There are dark clouds looming o’er us,

But we’ll win, because our fight’s for mankind.

We have fought the fight so long, and we are winning;

We have fought against the ignorant and blind.

But though death itself were in it,

We will fight the fight and win it,

For we must not lose the cause of humankind.

All the martyrs of the ages have been with us;

All have fought upon the battle-field of mind,

And their fight we will continue

With our muscle, brain, and sinew,

For, like theirs, our cause is that of humankind.

And at last we’ll reach the goal for which we’ve striven,

And our dreams of earthly paradise we’ll find;

Then with purpose high before us,

We will sing the stirring chorus

Of our glorious fight for freedom and mankind.

Oh! the autumn sun on Jordans woods,

And the orchard’s scarlet glow,

When Penn sleeps by the meeting-house,

And the beech-trees, shadows grow.

CHORUS
.

But afar the world’s need calls us,

Can we stay lingering? No!

Then up, lads, now, and pack your kits!

From land and sea the Red Cross calls
–

In Christ’s name let us go!

Oh! grass grows green in Ypres streets

That once were fair to see;

The Sacré Cœur’s a ruin now,

But it’s there that we would be.

The shrapnel screams o’er Nieuport Ville,

The Eastern sky is bright

With flashes – driver, start her up!

They’re wanting you to-night.

The wards are full on Richmond Hill,

And Uffculme’s busy too.

Another convoy! Lend a hand,

There’s work for us to do.

’Neath the shadow of the Minster towers

Lie the sick beds, row on row.

They need stout hearts and gentle hands,

And it’s there that we must go.

On the trains – in every stifling coach,

In the ships’ wards, crowded too –

From Rouen to the isles of Greece –

We’ll see the unit through!

CHORUS

For afar the world’s need calls us,

Can we stay lingering? No!

Then up, lads, now, and pack your kits!

From land and sea the Red Cross calls –

In Christ’s name let us go!

Who
PUT
them in Prison?

‘We’ say the Court Martial –

‘Our judgement is partial, –

Our job will be gone,

And we can’t carry on

If we listen to conscience

And that sort of nonsense.

Away with their tale!

Just clap them in jail, –

At the horrors we hear of the stoutest will quail!’

Who’ll
STARVE
them, in prison?

‘Oh, we!’ say the warders,

‘For such is our orders, –

Reducing the ration

Is now all the fashion,

And ill-flavoured gruel

Is left, – something cruel!

Blackbeetles and Mice

Spoil the oatmeal and rice,

And the “Objects” ob-
ject
, they’re fearfully nice!’

Who sees them
DIE
?

‘Not
I
’, says the Nation,

‘A pure fabrication!

They’ve lost weight, we know –

A few stones, or so, –

And some have gone mad

With the tortures they’ve had –

But
if
some
have
died

Such cases we hide –

And no one, you’ll notice, for Murder is tried!’

Who’ll
HELP
the C.O.s?

‘I can’t’, says the Church –

‘My ’scutcheon ’twould smirch, –

All war I abhor, it is not in my line,

But
this
war is diff’rent, it’s holy, it’s fine!

Now I can’t quite explain, but you’ll see, in a minute –

Although it’s so holy, – why
I
am not in it;

The Government thought it would look very ill

The Cause notwithstanding, for
Clergy
to kill!

So this kind exemption of course I requite

By ‘
talking up
’ fighting, – although I don’t fight!

Thus you will perceive, though I feel for their woes,

That I can’t say a word for the poor dear C.O.s!’

I lived a year in London,

But I never saw St Paul’s;

All famous stunts left undone,

Nor visited the ‘Halls’.

I lodged in Royal quarters,

At Majesty’s expense:

All round, the walls of Wormwood’s halls

Were reared for my defence.

O, the Palace of Wormwood Scrubs!

The snarling, the sneers, the snubs,

And the long, dreary days spent in learning the ways

Of the Palace at Wormwood Scrubs!

In shoddy grey they dressed me,

I didn’t dare refuse,

Though shape and fit distressed me,

I wasn’t asked to choose.

My outspread ears supported

The largest size in caps:

My feet did cruise in shiplike shoes,

While a breeze blew through the gaps.

O, that court suit of Wormwood Scrubs!

With its skin-chafing, irksome rubs,

And the blush-raising shocks from its openwork socks

As we wore ’em in Wormwood Scrubs!

In dignified retirement

I ate three meals a day,

My very small requirement

Was brought in on a tray.

But though I grieve to say it,

Nor gold nor silver plate,

But vulgar tin my food came in,

And I often had to wait.

O, the dinner at Wormwood Scrubs!

You people who dine at clubs,

Try just once, for a treat, with a spoon to eat meat,

And you’ll fight shy of Wormwood Scrubs!