You may talk about your voitures
When you're sitting round the quarters,
But when it comes to getting blesses in,
Take a little tip from me
Let those heavy motors be:
Pin your faith to Henry F's. old Hunka Tin.
Give her essence and l'eau;
Crank her up and let er go;
You back-firin', spark-plug foulin', Hunka Tin.

The paint is not so good,
And no doubt you'll find the hood
Will rattle like a boiler shop en route;
The cooler's sure to boil,
And perhaps she's leakin' oil;
Then oftentimes the horn declines to toot,
But when the night is black
And there's blesses to take back,
And they hardly give you time to take a smoke,
It's mighty good to feel,
When you're sitting at the wheel
She'll be running when the bigger cars are broke.

After all the wars are past,
And we're taken home at last
To our reward of which the preacher sings,
When these ukulele sharps
Will be strumming golden harps,
And the aviators all have reg'lar wings;
When the Kaiser is in hell,
With the furnace drawing well,
Paying for his million different kinds of sin;
If they're running short of coal,
Show me how to reach the hole,
And I'll cart a few loads in with Hunka Tin.

Yes, Tin, Tin, Tin;
You exasperating puzzle, Hunka Tin;
I've abused you and I've flayed you,
But by Henry Ford, who made you,
You are better than a -----, Hunka Tin.

Why do they look so sad?
They have a right to be
As they have fought all day,
And won a great victory.
They pushed the huns back,
Put flats in the Hymn of Hate!
Why do they look so sad?
The pinard boat is late.

W. B. O'B. --- D. McL., Sec. 544

Absolute knowledge I have none,
But my aunt's washerwoman's sister's son
Heard a policeman on his beat
Say to a laborer on the street
That he had a letter just last week
(Written in Latin--- or was it Greek?)
From a Chinese coolie in Timbuckto
Who said the fellars in China knew
Of a colored man in a Texas tow
Who got it straight from a circus clown
That a man in Klondike heard the news
From a gang of South American Jews
About somebody in Borneo
Who heard of a man who claimed he knew
Of a swell society female rake
Whose mother-in-law will undertake
To prove that her husband's seventh niece
Has stated in a printed piece,
That she has a son who has a friend
Who knows when the war is going to end.

E.A.C. #7

Down Mt. Grappa's crowded road we grope,
With our shot up load of hope,
Leaving behind us Mt. Boro Or'---
Where the high explosives thunder and roar.
"Piano, piano, Mia Madre," they cry,
As down the tortuous road we ply,
Past the batteries' flash and booms,
When below to our left the Piave looms,
Spread out like a map, this stubborn front---
Where now the enemy is getting the brunt.
With the flash of the guns along the line,
We know they are treating the Tedeschi fine.
"Passare, passare, per feritti," we cry---
And down the mountainous grade we fly,
Past the mules with their patient gait,
Bringing supplies before it's too late.
Past the trucks bringing up the shells---
And well we know they are little man made hells;
A turn to the right---
And there in plain sight---
Across the Brenta River flow---
The Plateau of the Asiago, aglow.
With a shriek and a whine a one forty-nine
Goes over our heads marked for Fritz's line.
"Oh Dio, Oh Dio, Mia Madonna," they say
As down the last zig zag we make our way.
Now on to Crespan'
And our trip will be won.
As through the darkness we enter the town,
"What the devil," we say, "they are dropping them down."
There's a swish and a scream, while we're moving along, then---
Out of the blackness drops a bleedin' two-ten.
With a crash and a flash in a small back alley
And there in the light of it stands the Ospedalle.
A few minutes more and in through the door
We bring the Soldati, all covered with gore.
Well--- now that's over, we'll go back for some more.
Now that's the rhyme of the Ambulance Bloke---
Say--- who'n the outfit's got a smoke?

(The night of October 26th, 1918, Mt. Grappa, Italy)
B. M. D., Sec. 565

Out of the valley of Bethincourt, over the hill to Esnes,
The starshells gleam and the rockets glare,
And the shell turn road cries out, "Beware."
The darkening sky still drizzles rain
Out of the valley of Bethincourt, over the hill to Esnes,

Out of the valley of Bethincourt, over the hill to Esnes,
The opaque night that shrieks and glows
Is cursed by the cry of human woes;
A boom! a shriek! a crash, and pain!
Out of the valley of Bethincourt, over the hill to Esnes,

It's only a mile from Bethincourt over the hill to Esnes
But the dark, dank night that blots the road,
Four groaning patients---an ambulance load
By God! You'd swear 'twas ten to the main,
Out of the valley of Bethincourt, over the hill to Esnes,

It's a long, long road from Bethincourt, over the hill to Esnes
And inch by inch I measure the way,
And anxiously long for the break of day
That shall light these rocky bumps of pain;
Out of the valley of Bethincourt, over the hill to Esnes,

Out of the valley of Bethincourt, over the hill to Esnes,
The sky is lit with a canon's flare;
More mothers' sons lie bleeding there.
My God, we pay for all we gain,
Out of the valley of Bethincourt, over the hill to Esnes.

Out of the valley of Bethincourt, over the hill to Esnes,
Cold dawn at last creeps o'er the crest;
Esnes' shattered walls to us bring rest;
Thank God we've crossed that road of pain,
Out of the valley of Bethincourt, over the hill to Esnes,

Ray K. Imus, Sec. 571

Long lanes of trees,
Slim fingers beckoning
To the delight of roads---
To wondrous roads of France;
Golden and straight and far,
And shadow splotched by sun,
Or, in the night, by mystery of moon.
Blessed and warm in summer's peace
They lie.

Along the roads,
Shivering skeletons
And gaunt the trees are now;
Bitter with wind and rain,
The days blink by---so short---
That lead to endless nights
Of searing ice upon the roads;
Cruel in winter's war
The Roads of France.

J. W. D. Seymour, S.S.U. 17

What shall we say of them, the dead who died
Upon the fields of France to crush the foe?
How shall we show our pity, and our pride?
How shall we crown their glory and their woe?
Not by the means of futile words of praise
The nameless dead do never ask this gift
Not by the splendid monuments we raise,
Not by the half-mast flags we sadly lift;
But let this he their glory, be their due;
Let but this single thought speak for them here;
In that rich moment when they gave, each knew,
E-en as he lost the things he'd held most dear,
That, matter not what be life's unseen plan,
He'd played his part, and proved himself a man.

R.A.D., S.S.U. 70

Down the picket-guarded lane
Rolled the comfort-laden wain,
Cheered by shouts that shook the plain,
    Soldier-like and merry;
Phrases such as camps may teach
Saber-cuts of Saxon speech,
Such as "Bully!" "Them's the peach!"
    "Wade in, Sanitary!"

Right and left the caissons drew
As the car went lumbering through,
Quick succeeding in review
    Squadrons military;
Sunburnt men with beards like frieze,
Smooth-faced boys, and cries like these
"U.S. San. Com." "That's the cheese."
    "Pass in. Sanitary!"

In such cheer it struggled on
Till the battle front was won;
Then the car its journey done,
    Lo! was stationary;
And where bullets whistling fly
Came the sadder, fainter cry:
"Help us, brother, ere we die!
    Save us, Sanitary!"

Such the work. The phantom flies,
Wrapped in battle-clouds that rise;
But the brave --- whose dying eyes,
    Veiled and visionary,
See the jasper gates swung wide,
See the parted throng outside
Hears the voice to those who ride:
    "Pass in, Sanitary!"

Bret Hart

          IF THIS BE PEACE

If there be peace among the sons of men---
If there be peace--- come never war again.
But look abroad and look at home to see
How fares the shibboleth of Liberty.
A nation crushed beneath a tyrant's heel!---
Assassin's bullets and the clang of steel!
Some thousand miners in a foul black hole
Choose death to torture on a shrunken dole.
Black-shirted Duce bellows false alarms
While teaching babies how to carry arms.
A pseudo-Nordic makes a purge of blood
And drags religion through unholy mud,
Aggresive hordes with sinister intent
Bring yellow peril to a continent.
A people vowed to draw but Freedom's breath
Fills countless graves with peace-time violent death.
If this be peace among the sons of men---
If this be peace--- as well' have war again.

Gardner Earle, Sec. 525

Say, life was worth the taste of it in France
On leave at Menton when the war was done,
And there was nothing much a guy could do
But wait until the peace was tested out
And we'd be let go home. Down there at Nice,
And Monte Carlo, Menton---Cote d'Azur---
It surely seemed as if we'd dreamed the war.
The sea was bluer than a sea could be,
And there were mountains all gray rock and snow,
And in between the green hills and the town,
And just to help the color scheme, a troop
Of black Colonials in horizon blue,
Grinning large, white-toothed grins there in the sun
Among the orange trees and oleanders.
I perched up high and watched a dizzy brook
Come spilling down the rocks and singing loud,
And I thought then that if I didn't have
A home in North Dakota, why, I guessed
I'd never leave those hills and that blue sea.
France sure did have a way with her? Compree?

H. I. Gilchrist

My mind has built a palace grand for me
Where fancies gay attend to serve me well
And here withdrawn from daily cares I dwell
In peace of mind, and with my spirit free
Roam vaulted halls of hallowed memory,
Where echoes of the past resound to tell
Old tales retold, and joys that once befell
Are present now and bear me company.

I am the master, at my command
A thoughtful feast is spread, the minstrel plays;
Old songs are sung, old friendships grip my hand
While memories serve in by-gone days.

As ruler of my mind, my care shall be
To make this day a happy memory.

P. R. H. H., S.S.U. 554

We stood up and we didn't say a word,
It felt just, like when you have dropped your pack
After a hike, and straightened out your back
And seem just twice as light as any bird.

We stood up straight and, God! but it was good!
When you have crouched like that for months, to stand
Straight up and look right out toward No-Man's Land
And feel the way you never thought you could.

We saw the trenches on the other side
And Jerry, too, not making any fuss,
But prob'ly stupid---happy, just like us.
Nobody shot and no one tried to hide.

If you had listened then I guess you'd heard
A sort of sigh from everybody there,
But all we did was stand and stare and stare,
Just stare and stand and never say a word.

---by H. R. Baukhage, Pvt. A.E.F.

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