BY
THE MEN OF
THE 1st. and 2nd. PROVISIONAL
TRAINING REGIMENTS
PLATTSBURG, NEW YORK
MAY 15—AUGUST 15
1917

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON

Rookie Rhymes
——————
Copyright, 1917, by Harper & Brothers
Printed in the United States of America
Published September, 1917

  Page Publication Committee 13 Foreword 15 Robert Tapley, Co. 5, 1st P. T. R.
PART I—POEMS Standing in Line 19 Morris Bishop, Co. 8, 1st P. T. R. The First Time 21 Onward Christian Science 22 D. E. Currier, 2d Battery, 1st P. T. R. They Believe in Us Back Home 24 Anch Kline, Co. 1, 1st P. T. R. Ode to a Lady in White Stockings 29 Robert Cutler, Co. 2, 1st P. T. R. "Avoirdupois" 31 D. E. Currier, 2d Battery, 1st P.T.R. Go! 35 J. S. O'Neale, Jr., Co. 4, 2d P. T. R. The Plattsburg Code 36 R. L. Hill, Co. 5, 2d P. T. R. A Conference 38 Donald E. Currier, 2d Battery, 1st P. T. R. Sunday in Barracks 41 Anch Kline, Co. 1, 1st P. T. R. The Ballad of Montmorency Gray 43 Pendleton King, Co. 6, 2d P. T. R. Girls 51 Robert M. Benjamin, Co. 3, 1st P. T. R. A Lament 52 H. Chapin, Co. 2, 1st P. T. R. The Manual 53 George S. Clarkson, Co. 4, 1st P. T. R. Those "Patriotic" Songs 55 Frank J. Felbel, Co. 2, 2d P. T. R. Saturday P.M. 58 Harold Amory, Co. 5, 1st P. T. R. How Things Have Changed 62 C. K. Stodder, Co. 9, 1st P. T. R. Arma Feminamque 63

Cover Illustration, C. L. Yates, Co. 1, 1st P. T. R. Let's Go!! Frontispiece Lieut. P. L. Crosby, O. R. C., Co. 2, 2d P. T. R. The First Time Page 21 R. K. Leavitt, Co. 2, 1st P. T. R. Right Dress—March! " 24 C. L. Yates, Co. 1, 1st P. T. R. A Test of Discipline " 27 C. L. Yates, Co. 1, 1st P. T. R. What's Your Name? " 33 R. K. Leavitt, Co. 2, 1st P. T. R. A Conference " 38 R. K. Leavitt, Co. 2, 1st P. T. R. Always With Another Fellow " 49 Mr. Sleeper, Co. 9, 1st P. T. R. There's a Hungry Surgeon Waiting " 58 R. K. Leavitt, Co. 2, 1st P. T. R. A Shadow-pointin' Boche " 63 R. K. Leavitt, Co. 2, 1st P. T. R. S. O. S. " 67 Mr. Baskerville, Co. 4, 2d P. T. R. A Miss at 5 O'clock " 75 C. L. Yates, Co. 1, 1st P. T. R. Mess? Yes!! " 81 R. K. Leavitt, Co. 2, 1st P. T. R. Title by Anch Kline, Co. 1, 1st P. T. R. When East is West " 90 R. K. Leavitt, Co. 2, 1st P. T. R. With the Rookie to the End " 139 Mrs. Gertrude Crosby, Wife of Lieut. P. L. Crosby, Co. 2, 2d P. T. R. The End of a Perfect Day End Papers Lieut. P. L. Crosby, O. R. C., Co. 2, 2d P. T. R.

Edward F. Dalton, Chairman Co. 2, 1st P. T. R.

1st P. T. R. W. Dyar, Co. 1 P. J. Field, Co. 2 G. B. Blaine, Co. 3 A. F. Woodies, Co. 4 J. C. McMullin, Co. 5 R. T. Frye, Co. 5 M. B. Phipps, Co. 6 D. Loring, Jr., Co. 7 C. H. Ramsey, Co. 8 W. W. Webber, Co. 9 S. S. Gordon, Tr. 1 R. B. Leake, Btry. 1 D. E. Currier, Btry. 2
2nd P. T. R. W. J. Littlefield, Btry. 3 T. C. Jessup, Co. 1 E. E. Henderson, Co. 1 F. J. Felbel, Co. 2 Lieut. Kenneth McIntosh, Co. 4 Capt. Richardson, Co. 5 Pendleton King, Co. 6 H. MacKay, Co. 7 Herbert Clock, Co. 9 E. S. Murphy, Btry. 1 C. G. Shaw, Btry. 2 M. N. Kernochan, Btry. 3

River that rolls to the restless deep
From sylvan-born placidity,
Stained issue of the undefiled
By your own wayward will exiled
From the crystal lap of a land-locked sea,

Read me the meaning of your mood.
The waters murmur as they flow,
"Strife is the law by which we live;
Stagnation, our alternative:
This is the only truth we know."

The tides of mortal toilers meet
To merge their rhythms in bloody fray,
And, wave to wave, their armies call—
Nay, summon us that we shall all
Assume the role we choose to play.

So, at the cry, in loyal breasts,
As smaller self-concern recedes,
Still burns the old Achillean fire,
Still eager questing souls desire
Not life but living, not days but deeds.

When I applied for Plattsburg I stood for hours in line
To get a piece of paper which they said I had to sign;
When I had signed I stood in line (and my, that line was slow!)
And asked them what to do with it; they said they didn't know.

And when I came to Plattsburg I had to stand in line,
To get a Requisition, from five o'clock till nine;
I stood in line till night for the Captain to endorse it;
But the Q. M. had one leggin' left; I used it for a corset.

We stand in line for hours to get an issue for the squad;
We stand in line for hours and hours to use the cleaning-rod;
And hours and hours and hours and hours to sign the roll for pay;
And walk for miles in double files on Inoculation day.

Oh, Heaven is a happy place, its streets are passing fair,
And when they start to call the roll up yonder I'll be there;
But when they start to call that roll I certainly will resign
If some Reserve Archangel tries to make me stand in line.

My legs are moving to and fro
I feel like a balloon;
How my head swims, first time I go
To boss the damn platoon.

My throat and mouth are full of paste
There's nothing in my hat;
My belt is winding round my waist
But where's my stomach at?

Our Christian Science Battery
Without a gun or horse,
Is just a simple oversight,
That will be changed, of course.

But while we're waiting patiently,
And longing for the day,
They have a funny little game
They make us fellows play.

Bill Hallstead simulates the gun
He's sort of short and fat
And doesn't look much like a gun,
But he's pretty good at that.

And they've elected me a horse,
Off-horse of the wheel pair;
I tie a white cloth on my arm
So they can see I'm there.

Then when the battery is formed
With each man in his place,
They line the "pieces" in a row
Just like a chariot race.

Bill Barnum's "Greatest Show on Earth"
Has not a thing on us;
We tear around the old parade
And kick up clouds of dust.

For it's gallop all the morning long,
They never let us walk.
Why, it gets so realistic
That I whinney when I talk.

I wouldn't be a bit surprised
If I should hear some day
That instead of mess they'd issue us
That 14 lbs. of hay.

And so I'm looking for the man
The one who said to me:
"You don't want to be a 'doughboy,'
Go and join the battery."

"Lots of love to our lieutenant,"
Writes my mother;
And the letters from my brother
Contain facetious remarks about "majors" . . .
He calls me "The Colonel" and laughs. . . .
But they mean it seriously,
Those back home.
They can't seem to realize
How shaky is our berth up here . . .
How every "Retreat" means a brief respite;
Each "Reveille" the dread
Of some more foolish blunder . . .
Some new bone-play.
And yet sometimes our timid vanity
Blossoms under the warmth of their regard;
Our hopes take strength from their confidence in us.

There came a blue envelope in the mail today.
A square envelope delicately scented with myrrh. . . .
And she ended with
"Adieu, cher Capitaine."

That very morning
I started even our sphinx-faced commander
By bawling out: "Right dress—MARCH!"

"Adieu, cher Capitaine,"
She had written,
And I can see the flecks of soft star dust in her eyes
As she thought it.

Bitterly I swore at my luck . . .
Then
Sent her that photograph taken of me
On July Fourth. . . .
Of me astride the horse of an officer.
I scrawled a jest under it.

But what else could I do?

Lady, in your stockings white,
As you flutter by the road,
You inspire me to write
An ode.

Though upon my manly back
There reposes half a ton,
Why repine against a pack
Or gun?

Though the fire-tressed orb
Makes mirage upon the street;
Though the baking soil absorb
My feet;

Though the Sergeants stamp and rave;
Though the Captain's eye is flame;
Pray, how should my heart behave—
The same?

I become a thing of steel,
Buoyant none the less as

I sing the song of a Fat Man
Out on the skirmish line,
With a pack chock full of lead and bricks
A'hanging on behind.

Maybe you think it's funny
When you're out there on the run,
Beside all that equipment
To be pullin' half a ton.

The Captain has a heart of stone
It makes no odds to him;
He's there to teach you to skirmish,
And you'll skirmish fat or thin.

D'you suppose he gives a tinker's damn
If when you're lying prone,
The pack comes up behind your ears
And whacks you on the dome?

He just hollers "fire faster,"
Though he knows you couldn't hit
The broad side of a barn door,
If you were fifty feet from it.

He doesn't care a little bit,
If you're gasping hard for breath,
He's there to teach you to skirmish,
If you skirmish yourself to death.

Oh, well, it's true about fat men
Being always full of fun,
Good Lord, they've got to be,
'Cause they can neither fight nor run.

WHAT'S YOUR NAME?

Your lips say "Go!"
Eyes plead "Stay!"
Your voice so low
Faints away
To nothing, dear—
God keep me here!

God end the war,
And let us two
Travel far
On Love's road, you
And I in peace,
Never to cease.

Your lips say "Go!"
Eyes plead "Stay"—
Ah, how I know
What price you pay.

1

By Lake Champlain, where Bourbon tossed
The dice of fortune and romance,
Where red-coats won and red-coats lost,
We soldiers train to fight in France.
Though with no pomp and elegance
Of gold-laced beaux, we have their same
Old code of pluck and nonchalance—
"God give us guts to play the game."

2

May winds that sing like troubadours
Of musket, sword and daring deed,
And ideals won in early wars,
Inspire each warrior to succeed;
To fight that nations may be freed,
And through all hardships make his aim
The punch of old-time heroes' creed—
God give us guts to play the game.

3

And if to-morrow—who can tell?—
We hike along a hot white French
Highway, exposed to shrapnel shell,
Or occupy a first-line trench,
'Midst poisoned gas and dead men's stench,
And hand grenades that burst and maim;
May not all hell our spirit quench—
God give us guts to play the game.

4

If through entangled wires and mud,
Charging the Boche, we madly run,
With comrades dropping, dyed with blood,
And sickening sights and sounds that stun,
And in death's duel meet the Hun
'Midst shell holes, smoke, and battle flame,
Steel clashing steel and gun to gun—
God give us guts to play the game.