Voices of Silence (42 page)

But still it is their duty,

As everyone should know,

And though death should await them,

Forward they will go.

For our guns are always calling

For shells both night and day,

And as they near the place, sir,

They think of home and pray.

They pray to God in Heaven

To bring them safely back,

And give them strength and courage,

When once they are on the track.

’Tis now that they need that courage

As they gallop up that track,

Though the shells may fall like hail, sir,

There is no turning back.

Though tragic in its splendour

Is the scene that meets the eye,

The bravest and the best, sir,

Have gone there, alas! to die.

’Tis a scene of sterling courage

Most awful to behold,

And the bravest men amongst us

Felt their very blood run cold.

There are many roads in Flanders, where the horses slide and fall,

There are roads of mud and pavé that lead nowhere at all,

They are roads that finish at our trench; the Germans hold the rest.

But of all the roads in Flanders, there is one I know the best.

It’s a great road, a straight road, a road that runs between

Two rows of broken poplars, that were young and strong and green.

You can trace it from old Poperinghe, through Vlamertinghe and Wipers;

(It’s a focus for Hun whizz-bangs and a paradise for snipers);

Pass the solid Ramparts and the muddy moat you’re then in,

The road I want to sing about – the road that leads to Menin.

It’s a great road, a straight road, a road that runs between

Two rows of broken poplars, that were young and strong and green.

It’s a road that’s cursed by smokers, for you dare not show a light;

It’s a road that’s shunned by daytime and is mainly used at night;

But at dusk the silent troops come up, and limbers bring their loads

Of ammunition to the guns that guard the Salient’s roads.

It’s a great road, a straight road, a road that runs between

Two rows of broken poplars, that were young and strong and green.

And for hours and days together I have listened to the sound

Of German shrapnel overhead while I was underground

In a damp and cheerless cellar, continually trying

To dress the wounded warriors, while comforting the dying

On that muddy road, that bloody road, that road that runs between

Two rows of broken poplars, that were young and strong and green.

R[egimental] M[edical] O[fficer]

Their rugs are sodden, their heads are down, their tails are turned to the storm.

(Would you know them, you that groomed them in the sleek fat days of peace,

When the tiles rang to their pawings in the lighted stalls, and warm,

Now the foul clay cakes on britching strap and clogs the quick-release?)

The blown rain stings, there is never a star, the tracks are rivers of slime.

(You must harness-up by guesswork with a failing torch for light,

Instep-deep in unmade standings; for it’s active-service time,

And our resting weeks are over, and we move the guns to-night.)

The iron tyres slither, the traces sag, their blind hooves stumble and slide;

They are war-worn, they are weary, soaked with sweat and sopped with rain:

(You must hold them, you must help them, swing your lead and centre wide

Where the greasy granite
pavé
peters out to squelching drain.)

There is shrapnel bursting a mile in front on the road that the guns must take:

(You are thoughtful, you are nervous, you are shifting in your seat,

As you watch the ragged feathers flicker orange, flame and break)

But the teams are pulling steady down the battered village street.

You have shod them cold, and their coats are long, and their bellies gray with the mud;

They had done with gloss and polish, but the fighting heart’s unbroke . . .

We, who saw them hobbling after us down white roads flecked with blood,

Patient, wondering why we left them, till we lost them in the smoke;

Who have felt them shiver between our knees, when the shells rain black from the skies;

When the bursting terrors find us and the lines stampede as one;

Who have watched the pierced limbs quiver and the pain in stricken eyes –

Know the worth of humble servants, foolish-faithful to their gun.

Gilbert Frankau

The moon swims in milkiness,

The road glimmers curving down into the wooded valley

And with a clashing and creaking of tackle and axles

The train of limbers passes me, and the mules

Splash me with mud, thrusting me from the road into puddles,

Straining at the tackle with a bitter patience,

Passing me . . .

And into a patch of moonlight,

With beautiful curved necks and manes,

Heads reined back, and nostrils dilated,

Impatient of restraint,

Pass two grey stallions,

Such as Oenetia bred;

Beautiful as the horses of Hippolytus

Carven on some antique frieze.

And my heart rejoices seeing their strength in play,

The mere animal life of them,

Lusting,

As a thing passionate and proud.

Then again the limbers and grotesque mules.

Frederic Manning

There’s a D.S.O. for the Colonel,

A Military Cross for the Sub,

A medal or two, when we all get through,

And a bottle of wine with our grub.

There’s a stripe of gold for the wounded,

A rest by the bright sea-shore,

And a service is read as we bury our dead,

Then our country has one hero more.

And what of our poor dumb heroes

That are sent without choice to the fight,

That strain at the load on the shell-swept road

As they take up the rations at night.

They are shelling on Hell Fire Corner,

There’s shrapnel just burst in the Square,

And their bullets drum as the transports come

With the food for the soldiers there.

The halt till the shelling is over,

The rush through the line of fire,

The glowing light in the dead of night,

And the terrible sights in the mire.

It’s the daily work of the horses

And they answer the spur and rein,

With quickened breath, ’mid the toll of death,

Through the mud, and the holes, and the rain.

There’s a fresh treated wound in the chestnut,

The black mare’s neck has a mark,

The brown mule’s new mate won’t keep the same gait

As the one killed last night in the dark.

But they walk with the spirit of heroes,

They care not for medals or cross,

But for duty alone, into perils unknown,

They go, never counting the loss.

There’s a swift painless death for the hopeless,

With a grave in a shell-hole or field,

There’s a hospital base for the casualty case,

And a Vet. for those easily healed.

But there’s never a shadow of glory,

A cheer, or a speech, in their praise,

While patient and true they carry us through

With the limbers in shot-riven ways.

So here’s to ‘Dumb Heroes’ of Britain,

Who serve her as nobly and true,

As the best of her boys, ’mid the roar of the guns

And the best of her boys on the blue.

They are shell-shocked, they’re bruised, and they’re broken,

They are wounded and torn as they fall,

But they’re true and they’re brave to the very grave,

And they’re heroes, one and all.

T.A. Girling

Before the sun has shown himself, for your complacent sake,

Obedient to the bugle, I reluctantly awake;

Though hurricanes may whistle and though drenching torrents fall,

I’ve got to sacrifice my ease and stumble to your stall.

Is man creation’s master, O my beautiful, my bay?

Yet I must do you courtesies with each returning day:

You stand – impatient frequently – impassive at the best,

While like a lazy potentate you’re brushed and combed and dressed.

With rake and spade and haik and graip I serve you in the gloom;

For you I wheel the barrow, and for you I wield the broom;

That you may look your handsomest, I fling my tunic off,

And labour with a dandy-brush – you sybarite, you toff!

Sometimes, of course, my beautiful, you stand quite meekly by,

While others wait upon your wants – no wonder, so would I;

My very humble servant, eh? – my faithful, patient slave?

Just keep you waiting for your oats, and see how you behave!

I’m only chaffing you, old hoss, you needn’t mind my fun –

You pay me back a thousandfold for anything I’ve done.

I slip my saddle on your back – swing up myself, my own –

And every monarch on the earth is welcome to his throne!

W. Kersley Holmes

A few clouds float across the grand blue sky,

The glorious sun has mounted zenith-high,

Mile upon mile of sand, flat, golden, clean,

And bright, stretch north and south, and fringed with green,

The rough dunes fitly close the landward view.

All else is sea; somewhere in misty blue

The distant coast seems melting into air –

Earth, sky, and ocean, all commingling there –

And one bold, lonely rock, whose guardian light

Glistens afar by day, a spire snow-white.

Here, where the ceaseless blue-green rollers dash

Their symmetry to dazzling foam and flash,

We ride our horses, silken flanks ashine,

Spattered and soaked with flying drops of brine,

The sunny water tosses round their knees,

Their smooth tails shimmer in the singing breeze.

White streaks of foam sway round us, to and fro,

With shadows swaying on the sand below;

The horses snort and start to see the foam,

And hear the breaking roar of waves that come,

Or, pawing, splash the brine, and so we stand,

And hear the surf rush hissing up the sand.

W. Kersley Holmes

Above in the still and starlit sky

Smiles the full moon serene;

When a sound we hear that all men fear –

The pulse of the bomb machine.

The Hun rides on his raid tonight,

Death runs wild and free;

And terror wakes and cold fear shakes

The hearts of the soldiery.

Silent, ghostly cottages

Huddle beneath the skies,

And the frantic glare of rockets there

Glows fitfully and dies.

Silent are the moonlit streets,

Men seek the shadows there;

The awful breath of winnowing death

Is pulsing through the air.

Great God! To feel the helplessness

And the shame of naked fear!

To sit and wait in impotent hate

As the hawk of Hell draws near.

Suddenly the whirring stops

And thin high whistles sound;

There’s blinding flash, a final crash,

And then silence all around.

And a little man in blue lies low

Under the moon’s pale light;

In a pool of red he is lying, dead,

In the silence of the night.

Don White

Shrieking its message the flying death

Cursed the resisting air,

Then buried its nose by a battered church

A skeleton gaunt and bare.

The brains of science, the money of fools

Had fashioned an iron slave

Destined to kill, yet the futile end

Was a child’s uprooted grave.

H. Smalley Sarson

Gone is the spire that slept for centuries,

Whose image in the water, calm and low,

Was mingled with the lilies green and snow,

And lost itself in river mysteries.

The church lies broken near the fallen spire;

For here, among these old and human things,

Death swept along the street with feet of fire,

And went upon his way with moaning wings.

Above the cluster of these homes forlorn,

Where giant fleeces of the shells are rolled,

O’er pavements by the kneeling herdsmen worn,

The wounded saints look out to see their fold.

And silence follows fast, no evening peace,

But leaden stillness, when the thunder wanes,

Haunting the slender branches of the trees,

And settling low upon the listless plains.

Herbert Asquith

Belgium, I do not see thee with the eyes

Of poets, chaunting pæans upon thy state –

I view thee from a cattle-truck – a guise

Of locomotion really out of date.

Nor do I scan thee like some writing chap,

Who seeks to turn thy tragedies to pence;

Thy storied past don’t interest me a scrap –

My miseries are in the present tense!

Belgium, when no relief is in my reach,

Thou robb’st me shamefully. No pig would touch

The fruit thou sellest at three-halfpence each;

Then threepence halfpenny for
John Bull
– too much!