Voices of Silence (4 page)

The Sloth is of another kind;

He doesn’t
want
to stop behind;

He means to fight. ‘Some day’ perhaps

He’ll go and join the other chaps.

And when at last he’s at the Front

He’s just the sort to bear the brunt.

Let’s stick a pin in him to show

That now’s the proper time to go!

St John Hamund

Battles are won in the playing fields –

But won when the world’s at rest:

Not when the heart of the world is sore

And the soul of the world distressed.

Not when the score is a thousand score,

And a thousand score of the best!

Battles are won in the playing fields –

But won when the world’s at rest:

Battles are won in the playing fields –

But not in the time of strife:

Not when the eye of the world is stern,

And it’s war, my sons, to the knife!

Not when the call is for each and all,

And the Cause is your country’s life!

Battles are won in the playing fields –

But not in the time of strife.

Battles are won in the playing fields –

But not when your King’s umpire:

Not when the breath of your batsmen faints

And the arms of your bowlers tire;

Not when the runs are acclaimed by guns,

And the ball is a ball of fire!

Battles are won in the playing fields –

But not when your King’s umpire!

Battles are won in the playing fields –

But what of another place?

Throw off your white for the khaki cloth,

And a worthier wicket face!

And then if you win, by the grace of God,

Return to the God of Grace!

Battles are won in the playing fields –

But what of that other place?

Battles are won in the playing fields –

But won when the world’s at rest:

Not when the score is a thousand score,

And a thousand score of the best;

Not when the heart of the world is sore

And the soul of the world distressed.

Battles are won in the playing fields –

But won when the world’s at rest!

L. Godfrey-Turner

On Saturday I listed in the tartan boys brigade,

And said good-bye to all my pals, long hair, and lemonade.

’Twas Sunday night I kissed the girls I had to leave behind,

I only wept a pint or so – some more I’d sure to find.

On Monday I reported quite punctual at eight,

Got fitted out in khaki, and in kilts I felt first rate.

On Tuesday I encountered Sergeant Major’s fearsome glare,

And my knees they knocked like ninepins, they weren’t used to being bare.

On Wednesday I did squad drill and doubling by the hour,

Until everything inside me had turned completely sour.

On Thursday came a route march which I voted quite a treat,

Until the Friday morning when I had to dress my feet.

On Friday morn I stood in line to get my first week’s pay,

With Ripon Town so near at hand, it soon had gone astray.

On Saturday I had the time to dream of things I’d miss,

And cursed the blooming Kaiser who brought me into this.

In bowler hats, top coats,

With woollen mufflers round their throats,

They played at war,

These man I watched to-day.

Weary with office work, pinched-faced, depressed,

About the field they marched and counter-marched,

Halting and marking time and all the rest –

Meanwhile the world went on its way

To see the football heroes play.

No music, no applause,

No splendour for them but a Cause

Hid deep at heart.

They drilled there soberly,

Their one half-holiday – the various show

Of theatres all resisted, home renounced;

The Picture Palace with its kindly glow

Forgotten now, that they may be

Worthy of England’s chivalry.

Winifred M. Letts

Time:
7.30 p.m.
Scene: A large disused barn, where forty members of the local Volunteer Training Corps are assembled for drill. They are mostly men well over thirty-eight years of age, but there is a sprinkling of lads of under nineteen, while a few are men of ‘military age’ who for some good and sufficient reason have been unable to join the army. They are all full of enthusiasm, but at present they possess neither uniform nor arms. Please note that in the following dialogue the Sergeant alone speaks aloud; the other person
thinks,
but gives no utterance to his words.

The Sergeant.
Fall in! Fall in! Come smartly there, fall in

And recollect that when you’ve fallen in

You stand at ease, a ten-inch space between

Your feet – like this; your hands behind your back –

Your weight well poised on both feet, not on one.

Dress by the right, and let each rear rank man

Quick cover off his special front rank man.

That’s it; that’s good. Now when I say, ‘Squad, ’shun’,

Let every left heel swiftly join the right

Without a shuffling or a scraping sound

And let the angle of your two feet be

Just forty-five, the while you smartly drop

Hands to your sides, the fingers lightly bent,

Thumbs to the front, but every careful thumb

Kept well behind your trouser-seams. Squad, ’shun!

The Volunteer.
Ha! Though I cannot find my trouser-seams,

I rather think I did that pretty well.

Thomas, my footman, who is on my left,

And Batts, the draper, drilling on my right,

And e’en the very Sergeant must have seen

The lithe precision of my rapid spring.

The Sergeant.
When next I call you to attention, note

You need not slap your hands against your thighs.

It is not right to slap your thighs at all.

The Volunteer.
He’s looking at me; I am half afraid

I used unnecessary violence

And slapped my thighs unduly. It is bad

That Thomas should have cause to grin at me

And lose his proper feeling of respect,

Being a flighty fellow at the best;

And Batts the draper must not ——

The Sergeant.
                         Stand at ease!

The Volunteer.
Aha! He wants to catch me, but he ——

The Sergeant.
                           ’Shun!

The Volunteer.
Bravo, myself! I did not slap them then.

I am indubitably getting on.

I wonder if the Germans do these things,

And what they sound like in the German tongue.

The Germans are a ——

The Sergeant.
                                Sharply number off

From right to left, and do not jerk your heads.

                           [
They number off.

The Volunteer.
I’m six, an even number, and must do

The lion’s share in forming fours. What luck

For Batts, who’s five, and Thomas, who is seven.

They also serve, but only stand and wait,

While I behind the portly form of Batts

Insert myself and then slip out again

Clear to the front, observing at the word

The ordered sequence of my moving feet.

Come let me brace myself and dare ——

The Sergeant.
                     Form fours!

The Volunteer.
I cannot see the Sergeant; I’m obscured

Behind the acreage of Batts’s back.

Indeed it is a very noble back

And would protect me if we charged in fours

Against the Germans, but I rather think

We charge two deep, and therefore ——

The Sergeant.
                     Form two deep!

The Volunteer.
Thank Heaven I’m there, although I mixed my feet!

I am oblivious of the little things

That mark the due observance of a drill;

And Thomas sees my faults and grins again.

Let him grin on; my time will come once more

At dinner, when he hands the Brussels sprouts.

[
The drill proceeds.

Now we’re in fours and marching like the wind.

This is more like it; this is what we need

To make us quit ourselves like regulars.

Left, right, left, right! The Sergeant gives it out

As if he meant it. Stepping out like this

We should breed terror in the German hordes

And drive them off. The Sergeant has a gleam

In either eye; I think he’s proud of us.

Or does he meditate some stratagem

To spoil our marching?

The Sergeant.
                On the left form squad!

The Volunteer.
There! He has done it! He has ruined us!

I’m lost past hope, and Thomas, too, is lost;

And in a press of lost and tangled men

The great broad back of Batts heaves miles away.

[
The Sergeant explains and the drill proceeds.

The Volunteer.
No matter; we shall some day learn it all,

The standing difference ’twixt our left and right,

The bayonet exercise, the musketry,

And all the things a soldier does with ease.

I must remember it’s a long, long way

To Tipperary, but my heart’s ——

The Sergeant.
                      Dismiss!

A subaltern known as Colquhoun,

Was considered, at home, a buffoquhoun,

He would not have been

If his parents had seen

Him drilling his Scottish Platolquhoun.

‘Lights out’ has sounded long ago, and midnight must be near;

The wind without roars winterly, the moon shines cold and clear;

Each window on the ceiling casts a phantom window white,

Which o’er the long, bare, narrow room reflects an eerie light.

It shines on thirty wooden beds, six inches from the floor,

Where thirty fellows for a while the officers ignore;

The silent bugle gives them peace, and now, until the day,

Their bodies rest; their dreams may fly who knows how far away?

For scarcely two were of one trade, whom war’s demands unite,

Who left the office, study, plough, for one great cause to fight;

The veteran hard beside the boy who never drilled before,

Each with what little soldiers need ranged near him on the floor.

There’s cheeky Jimmy, the recruit, who does the shuffle dance,

He left his fifteen bob a week to capture Huns in France;

There’s Algy Somebody, Esquire, neglecting an estate,

And all the pheasant shooting, too, to learn ‘deliberate’.

There’s ‘Whistlefield’, the farmer chiel – find soldiering hard? Not he!

Who’d dance sometimes till two a.m., and yoke his cart at three;

There’s poor old Bill, the banker’s clerk, who started work at ten,

And thought he’d learn to ride a horse instead of drive a pen!

For each the work, the grub, the luck, the hope and fear the same,

Who comes for motives all diverse to learn the grimmest game;

And surely when, or soon or late, the weary war is done,

He’ll be more quick to see a pal in every mother’s son!

W. Kersley Holmes

Have you seen the Pals, sir?

As they swing out through the town,

There’s Tom and Dick and Harry,

Smith, Robinson and Brown.

A credit to their Colonel, sir,

In their uniforms so neat,

I’m sure we all are proud of them,

As they march along the street.

And don’t they look so smart,

When they’re out upon parade,

Men from every rank of life,

And every kind of trade.

Married men and single men,

All ready to face the foe.

God guard the Pals of Accrington,

Wherever they may go.

Their officers are proud of them,

These lads in navy blue,

All workers not shirkers,

[             ]

All volunteers, not conscripts,

Beloved by all the girls,

Give them a cheer when they appear,

They’re worth it are the Pals.

C. Wolstencroft

There’s a woman sobs her heart out,

With her head against the door,

For the man that’s called to leave her,

– God have pity on the poor!

But it’s beat, drums, beat,

While the lads march down the street,

And it’s blow, trumpets, blow,

Keep your tears until they go.