Incidents and Aspects

I heard the rumbling guns. I saw the smoke. The unintelligible shock of hosts that still, Far off, unseeing, strove and strove again; And Beauty flying naked down the hill From morn to eve,: and the stern night cried Peace! And shut the strife in darkness: all was still, Then slowly crept a triumph on the dark -- And I heard Beauty singing up the hill.

John Freeman

I It was silent in the street. I did not know until a woman told me, Sobbing over the muslin she sold me. Then I went out and walked to the square And saw a few dazed people standing there. And then the drums beat, the drums beat! O then the drums beat! And hyrrying, stumbling through the street Came the hurrying stumbling feet. O I have heard the drums beat For war! I have heard the townsfolk come, I have heard hte roll and thunder of the nearest drum As the drummer stopped and cried, "Hear! Be strong! The summons comes! Prepare!" Closing he prayed us to be calm . . . And there was calm in my heart of the desert, of the dead sea, Of vast plans of the West before the coming storm, And there was calm in their eyes like the last calm that shall be. And then the drum beat, The fatal drum beat, And the drummer marched through the street And down to another square, And the drummer above took up the beat And set it onward where Huddled, we stood and heard the drums roll, And then a bell began to toll. O I have heard the thunder of drums Crashing into simple poor homes. I have heard the drums roll "Farewell!" I have heard the tolling cathedral bell. Will it ever peal again? Shall I ever smile or feel again? What was joy? What was pain? For I have heard the drums beat, I have seen the drummer striding from street to street, Crying, "Be strong! Hear what I must tell!" While the drums roared and rolled and beat For war!                                II Last night the men of this region were leaving. Now they are far. Rough and strong they are, proud and gay the are. So this is the way of war . . . The train was full and we all shouted as it pulled away. They sang an old war-song, they were true to themselves, they were gay! We might have thought they were going for a holiday -- Except for something in the air, Except for the weeping of the ruddy old women of Finistère. The younger women do not weep. They dream and stare. They seem to be walking in dreams. They seem not to know It is their homes, their happiness, vanishing so. (Every strong man between twenty and forty must go.) They sang an old war-song. I have heard it often in other days, But never before when War was walking the world's highways. They sang, they shouted, the Marseillaise! The train went and another has gone, but none, coming, has brought word. Though you may know, you, out in the world, we have not heard, We are not sure that the great battalions have stirred -- Except for something, something in the air Except for the weeping of the wild old women of Finistère. How long will the others dream and stare? The train went. The strong men of this region are all away, afar. Rough and strong they are, proud and gay they are. So this is the way of war . . .

Grace Fallow Norton

Dreary lay the long road, dreary lay the town, Lights out and never a glint o' moon: Weary lay the stragglers, half a thousand down, Sad sighed the weary big Dragoon. "Oh! if I'd a drum here to make them take the road again, Oh! if I'd a fife to wheedle, Come, boys, come! You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again, Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum! "Hey, but here's a toy shop, here's a drum for me, Penny whistles too to play the tune! Half a thousand dead men soon shall hear and see We're a band!" said the weary big Dragoon. Rubadub! Rubadub! Wake and take the road again, Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, Come, boys, come! You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again, Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum!" Cheerly goes the dark road, cheerly goes the night, Cheerly goes the blood to keep the beat; Half a thousand dead men marching on to fight With a little penny drum to lift their feet. Rubadub! Rubadub! Wake, and take the raod again, Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, Come, boys, come! You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again, Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum! As long as there's an Englishman to ask a tale of me, As long as I can tell the tale aright, We'll not forget the penny whistle's wheedle-deedle-dee And the big Dragoon a-beating down the night, Rubadub! Rubadub! Wake and take the road again, Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, Come, boys, come! You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again, Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife, and drum!

Henry Newbolt

Facing the guns, he jokes as well As any Judge upon the Bench; Between the crash of shell and shell His laughter rings along the trench; He seem immenseley tickled by a Projectile which he calls a "Black Maria." He whistles down the day-long road, And, when the chilly shadows fall And heavier hangs the weary load, Is he down-hearted? Not at all. 'Tis then he takes a light and airy View of the tedious route to Tipperary. His songs are not exactly hymns; He never learned them in the choir; And yet they brace his dragging limbs Although they miss the sacred fire; Although his choice and cherished gems Do not include "The Watch upon the Thames." He takes to fighting as a game; He does no talking, through his hat, Of holy missions; all the same He has his faith -- be sure of that; He'll not disgrace his sporting breed, Nor play what isn't cricket. There's his creed.

Owen Seaman

As I lay in the trenches Under the Hunter's Moon, My mind ran to the lenches Cut in a Wiltshire down. I saw their long black shadows, The beeches in the lane, The gray church in the meadows And my white cottage -- plain. Thinks I, the down lies dreaming Under the hot moon's eye, Which sees the shells fly screaming And men and horses die. And what makes she, I wonder, Of the horror and the blood, And what's her luck, to sunder The evil from the good? 'Twas more than I could compass, For how was I tothink WIthsuch infernal rumpus In such a blasted stink? But here's a thought to tally With t'other. That moon sees A shrouded German valley With woods and ghostly trees. And maybe there's a river As we have got at home With poplar-trees aquiver And clots of whirling foam. And over there some fellow, A German and a foe, Whose gills are turning yellow As sure as mine are so, Watches that riding glory Apparel'd in her gold, And craves to hear the story Her frozen lips enfold. And if he sees as clearly As I do where her shrine Must fall, he longs as dearly, With heart as full as mine.

Maurice Hewlett

Men of the Twenty-first Up by the Chalk Pit Wood, Weak with our wounds and our thirst, Wanting our sleep and our food, After a day and a night -- God, shall we ever forget! Beaten and broke in the fight, But sticking it -- sticking it yet. Trying to hold the line, Fainting and spent and done, Always the thud and the whine, Always the yell of the Hun! Northumerland, Lancaster, York, Durham and Somerset, Fighting alone, worn to the bone, But sticking it -- sticking it yet. Never a message of hope! Never a word of cheer! Fronting Hill 70's shell-swept slope, With the dull dead plain in our rear. Always the whine of the shell, Always the roar of its burst, Always the tortures of hell, As waiting and wincing we cursed Our luck and the guns and the Boche, When our Corporal shouted, "Stand to!" And I heard some one cry, "Clear the front for the Guards!" And the Guards came through. Our throats they were parched and hot, But Lord, if you'd heard the cheers! Irish and Welsh and Scot, Coldstream and Grenadiers. Two brigades, if you please, Dressing as straight as a hem, We -- we were down on our knees, Praying for us and for them! Lord, I could speak for a week, But how could you understand! How should your cheeks be wet, Such feelin's don't come to you. But when can me ar my mates forget, When the Guards came through? "Five yards left extend!" If passed from rank to rank. Line after line with never a bend, And a touch of the London swank. A trifle of swank and dash, Cool as a home parade, Twinkle and glitter and flash, Flinching never a shade, With the shrapnel right in their face Doing their Hyde Park stunt, Keeping their swing at an easy pace, Arms at the trail, eyes front! Man, it was great to see! Man, it was fine to do! It's a cot and a hospital ward for me, But I'll tell'em in Blighty, whereever I be, How the Guards came through.

Arthur Conan Doyle

She was binding the wounds of her enemies when they came -- The lint in her hand unrolled. They battered the door with their rifle-butts, crashed it in: She faced them gentle and bold. They haled her before the judges where they sat In their places, helmet on head. With question and menace the judges assailed her, "Yes, I have broken your law," she said. "I have tended the hurt and hidden the hunted, have done As a sister does to a brother, Because of a law that is greater than you have made, Because I could do no other." "Deal as you will with me. This is my choice to the end, To live in the life I vowed." "She is self-confessed," they cried; "she is self-condemned. She shall die, that the rest may be cowed." In the terrible hour of the dawn, when the veins are cold, They led her forth to the wall. "I have loved my land," she said, "but it is not enough: Love requires of me all. "I will empty my heart of bitterness, hating none." And sweetness filled her brave With a vision of understanding beyond the hour That knelled to the waiting grave. They bound her eyes, but she stood as if she shone. The rifles it was that shook When the hoarse command rang out. They could not endure That last, that defenceless look. And the officer strode and pistolled her surely, ashamed That men, seasoned in blood, Should quail at a woman, only a woman, -- As a flower stamped in the mud. And now that the deed was securely done, in the night When none had known her fate, They answered those that had striven for her, day by day: "It is over, you come too late." And with many words and sorrowful-phrased excuse Argued their German right To kill, most legally; hard though the duty be, The law must assert its might. Only a woman! yet she had pity on them, The victim offered slain To the gods of fear that they worship. Leave them there, Red hands, to clutch their gain. She bewailed not herself, and we will bewail her not, But with tears of pride rejoice That an English soul was found so crystal-clear To be the triumphant voice Of the human heart that dares adventure all But live to itself untrue, And beyond all laws sees love as the light in the night, As the star it must answer to. The hurts she healed, the thousands comforted -- these Make a fragrance of her fame. But because she stept to her star right on through death It is Victory speaks her name.

Laurence Binyon

My name is Darino, the poet. You have heard? Oui, Comédie Française. Perchance it has happened, mon ami, you know of my unworthy lays. Ah, then you must guess how my fingers are itching to talk to a pen; For I was at Soissons, and saw it, the death of twelve Englishmen. My leg, malheureusement, I left it behind on the banks of the Aisne. Regret? I would pay with the other to witness their valor again. A trifle, indeed, I assure you, to give for the honor to tell How that handful of British, undaunted, went into the Gateway of Hell. Let me draw you a plan of the battle. Here we French and your Engineers stood; Over there a detachment of German sharpshooters lay hid in a wood. A mitrailleuse battery planted on top of this well-chosen ridge Held the road for the Prussians and covered the direct approach to the bridge. It was madness to dare the dense murder that spewed from those ghastly machines. (Only those who have danced to its music can know what the mitrailleuse means.) But the bridge on the Aisne was a menace; our safety demanded its fall: "Engineers, -- volunteers!" In a body, the Royals stood out at the call. Death at best was the fate of that mission -- to their glory not one was dismayed. A party was chosen -- and seven survived till the powder was laid. And they died with their fuses unlighted. Another detachment! Again A sortie is made -- all too vainly. The bridge still commanded the Aisne. We were fighting two foes -- Time and Prussia -- the moments were worth more than troops. We must blow up the bridge. A lone soldier darts out from the Royals and swoops For the fuse! Fate seems with us. We cheer him; he answers -- our hopes are reborn! A ball rips his visor -- his khaki shows red where another has torn. Will he live -- will he last -- will he make it? Hélas! And so near to the goal! A second, he dies! then a third one! A fourth! Still the Germans take toll! A fifth, magnifique! It is magic! How does he escape them? He may . . . Yes, he does! See, the match flares! A rifle rings out from the woods and says "Nay!" Six, seven, eight, nine take their places, six, seven, eight, nine brave their hail; Six, seven, eight, nine -- how we count them! But the sixth, seventh, eighth and ninth fail! A tenth! Sacré nom! But these English are soldiers -- they know how to try; (He fumbles the place where his jaw was) -- they show, too, how heroes can die. Ten we count -- ten who ventured unquailing -- ten there were -- and ten no more! Yet another salutes and superbly essays where the ten failed before. God of Battles, look down and protect him! Lord, his heart is as Thine -- let him live! But the mitrailleuse splutters and stutters,and riddles him into a sieve. Then I thought of my sins, and sat waiting the charge that we could not withstand, And I thought of my beautiful Paris, and gave a last look at the land, At France, by belle France, in her glory of blue sky and green field and wood. Death with honor, but never surrender. And to die with such men -- it was good. They are forming, the bugles are blaring -- they will cross in a moment and then . . . When out of the line of the Royals (your island, mon ami, breeds men) Burst a private, a tawny-haired giant -- it was hopeless, but ciel! how he ran! Bon Dieu please remember the pattern, and make many more on his plan! No cheers from our ranks, and the Germans, they halted in wonderment too; See, he reaches the bridge; ah! he lights it! I am dreaming, it cannot be true. Screams of rage! Fusillade! They have killed him! Too late, though, the good work is done. By the valor of twelve English martyrs, the Hell-Gate of Soissons is won!

Herbert Kaufman

Shyly expectant, gazing up at Her, They linger, Gaul and Briton, side by side: Death they know well, for daily have they died, Spending their boyhood ever bravelier; They wait: here is not priest or chorister, Birds skirt the stricken tower, terrified; Desolate, empty, is the Eastertide, Yet still they wait, watching the Babe and Her. Broken, the Mother stoops: the brutish foe Hurled with dull hate his bolts, and down She swayed, Down, till she saw the toiling swarms below, -- Platoons, guns, transports, endlessly arrayed: "Women are woe for them! let Me be theirs, And comfort them, and hearken all their prayers.!"

George Herbert Clarke

Broken, bewildered by the long retreat Across the stifling leagues of southern plain, Across the scorching leagues of trampled grain, Half-stunned, half-blinded, by the trudge of feet And dusty smother of the August heat, He dreamt of flowers in an English lane, Of hedgerow flowers glistening after rain -- All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet. All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet -- The innocent names kept up a cool refrain -- All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet, Chiming and tinkling in his aching brain, Until he babbled like a child again -- "All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet."

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

I was out early to-day, spying about From the top of a haystack -- such a lovely morning -- And when I mounted again to canter back I saw across a field in the broad sunlight A young Gunner Subaltern, stalking along With a rook-rifle held at the read, and -- would you believe it? -- A domestic cat, soberly marching beside him. So I laughed, and felt quite well disposed to the youngster, And shouted out "the top of the morning" to him, And wished him "Good sport!" -- and then I remembered My rank, and his, and what I ought to be doing: And I rode nearer, and added, "I can only suppose You have not seen the Commander-in-Chief's order Forbidding English officers to annoy their Allies By hunting and shooting."                 But he stood and saluted And said earnestly, "I beg your pardon, Sir, I was only going out to shoot a sparrow To feed my cat with."            So there was the whole picture, The lovely early morning, the occasional shell Screeching and scattering past us, the empty landscape, -- Empty, except for the young Gunner saluting, And the cat, anxiously watching his every movement. I may be wrong, or I may have told it badly, But it struck me as being extremely ludicrous.

Henry Newbolt

A wingèd death has smitten dumb thy bells, And poured them molten from thy tragic towers: Now are the windows dust that were thy flowers Patterned like frost, petalled like asphodels. Gone are the angels and the archangels, The saints, the little lamb above thy door, The shepherd Christ! They are not, any more, Save in the soul where exiled beauty dwells. But who has heard within thy valuted gloom      That old divine insistence of the sea, When music flows along the sculptured stone In tides of prayer, for him thy windows bloom      Like faithful sunset, warm immortally! Thy bells live on, and Heaven is in their tone!

Grace Hazard Conkling