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قراءة كتاب With the Colors Songs of the American Service
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
With the Colors Songs of the American Service
up a dish
Of doughnuts for Johnny, my son!
THE FIRST FLEET
We slid into the harbor here,
A line of battle-cruisers gray,
With hungry guns as silent as
The bands aboard that did not play.
The fog was soft, the fog was damp,
The hush was thick and wide as space,
But ev'ry man was standing at
Attention in his given place.
We'd made the port, with time to spare—
And Uncle Sam's first Fleet was there!
Then came those other navy men—
Our allies in this troubled cause—
Weary of holding back the Hun,
Clipping, too slow, his cruel claws.
Our Admiral, a few-words man,
Greeted the visitors.... "We're here,"
He said, and that was all. They smiled—
And said they hoped the weather'd clear.
But still those men with tired eyes
Felt mighty grateful, I surmise!
Around our Fleet—not very large—
We took them, thoughtful faces set;
And then back to the fog-soaked town
They went—uncomfortably wet;
But in those eyes a happier light,
That told him what they'd like to say—
That they were glad he had come back,
As he had hoped to do some day.
Another fleet, with fresher men,
Gave them a chance to breathe again!
Before they left to go ashore
(A crowd had gathered on the quay),
"When can you start to work?" they asked.
"How many hours will it be
Before you're ready?" With a smile
Our fighting Admiral replied
(And there was joy in what he said,
Mingled with pardonable pride):
"Soon as the enemy we meet!...
We're ready now—men, guns, and Fleet."
So that is how we started in
To do our share—the Navy's "bit";
They were surprised, but Admiral Sims
Had surely made a three-base hit
With what he said.... And now it's up
To us to do our hearty best
To make the seas the old-time seas;
Till that is done there'll be no rest.
It is a job to stop the Hun,
But—it's a job that must be done!
BRIGGS OF BASE No. 8
It may be that you know him. A slim and likely kid;
Red-headed, tall, and soft of speech and glance.
He never took a prize at school (his talents always hid),
And yet he's got a medal from the Government of France!
He didn't kill a lot of men;
He never injured one;
He didn't hold a trench alone;
He never manned a gun;
He drove an ambulance—that's all;
But those above him knew
He'd take it into hell and back
If he was ordered to!
That night (he'd been right on the job
For twenty hours or more)
They telephoned again for him—
And as he cranked—he swore.
Half dead for sleep, he drove too far,
Straight into No Man's Land,
And there he gathered up four men
Who didn't understand
Or care what happened.... Then a chap
Sagging with gobs of mud
He shoved into his throbbing car
That smelled of drugs and blood.
The other roared, but Briggs, sleep-deaf,
Stared at the moon on high—
'Twas like some spent star-shell glued on
A blue-black, tired sky—
And didn't try to hear or think;
He only tried to keep
His car from sliding off the road—
And not to fall asleep.
The ambulance went skidding back
(His chains had lost themselves),
While now and then a growl came from
Its stretcher-ladened shelves.
Briggs never stopped, but when the groans
Were punctured with a curse
He told the weary moon, "At least
This flivver is no hearse!"
And slowly yawned again.... At last
They rounded Trouble Bend,
Base Eight before them—and that ride
Was at a welcome end....
The blood-stained orderlies came out
To take the wounded in,
Opened the doors to lift the wrecks....
Before they could begin
There tumbled out the mud-caked man,
Whose mouth was shot away;
A man who stared like some wild beast
Finally brought to bay;
For Briggs, Base Eight, American,
Had brought (beside his four)
A German officer, half drunk
For need of rest! who swore
And cried, and then sank back again
And fell asleep.... That's why
They've decorated little Briggs—
Red-headed, tall, and shy!
"I didn't do a thing," he growls;
"'Twas just a fool mistake,
And he'd have captured me, of course,
If he had been awake.
He tried to talk (his battered mouth
Was just a shredded scar);
But we were wasting time, and so
I pushed him in the car
And came on back.... Now, what is there
About that sort of stuff
To make a fuss for? I am not
A hero.... I'm a bluff!"
The surgeon smiles.... "If he can make
A capture in the night
When doing Red Cross work, what would
He do if he should fight?"
He asks, and looks a long way off
To where the pounding guns
Are making other harmless wrecks
Of one-time hellish Huns.
I wonder if you know him? A slim and quiet kid,
Red-headed, tall, and soft of speech and glance;
He doesn't like to have you talk about the thing he did—
And yet he's got a medal from the Government of France.
THE PENGUIN DRIVER
At home, he drove a taxi,
A job he'd now disdain;
He's learning (on a queer machine)
To drive an aeroplane.
It doesn't fly—it glumps along
And bumps him, ev'ry chance;
His tumbling, rumbling "Penguin"
Out there—Somewhere in France.
It isn't fun to drive it,
But he's not out for fun;
He's going to learn to drop good bombs
Upon the no-good Hun!
And so, until he graduates,
He makes his Penguin prance—
His bumping, jumping Penguin
Out there—Somewhere in France.
As soon as he's a pilot,
(And earned his Golden Wings)
He'll take the air on high, you bet
And do some bully things!
The Prussians will be sorry
He ever learned to dance
With a rearing, tearing Penguin
Out there—Somewhere in France.