Voices of Silence Page 16

  Lieutenant Tattoon, M.C.

  The case of Lieutenant Tattoon, M.C.

  Is worthy of some remark.

  He thought (and one should not think, you see)

  That the War which was to make people free

  Was now being fought in the dark.

  For at first (he said) our aims were clear,

  Men gave their lives with gladness

  To save small nations from the fear

  Of Tyrants who would domineer

  And doom mankind to madness.

  Our rulers had claimed – and rightly I ween –

  That the Germans must be ‘broken’;

  But afterwards, What that word might mean,

  And what sort of peace was to supervene,

  Were things which they left unspoken.

  And no one knew whatever on Earth

  Our present objective and aim were,

  And whether the loss and deadly dearth

  Of another Million of lives was worth

  Some gains in Mesopotamia.

  These were the thoughts of Lieutenant Tattoon. –

  Of course it was very improper,

  But he actually gave them expression, and soon

  Found out he was trying to jump the Moon

  And only coming a cropper!

  For to say what you mean is all right as a rule

  In a far oversea Dominion,

  But at home or under the Prussian school

  It is not safe – and a man is a fool

  Even to have an opinion.

  A Medical Board sat on him, in state

  (No wonder they looked so solemn);

  His sins were entered upon the slate

  With every lapse detailed to date –

  And they added up the Column.

  He thought – which for a Lieutenant was rash;

  He spoke, but should have kept silence;

  He treated Imperial talk as trash,

  And considered the honour before the cash

  Which might come to the British Islands.

  ’Twas insubordination, they said,

  And he surely must be crazy –

  Yet there he stood, in mien well-bred;

  Collected and calm, with clean-cut head,

  And looking as fit as a daisy.

  An M.C. too – so what could they do?

  ’Twas a most provoking and strange craze.

  Yet to put him in prison a storm would brew

  Of wrath – the mere proposal to mew

  A hero in Woking or Strangeways!

  For half an hour (as once in Heaven)

  Silence fell on the folk assembled;

  Till by one inspired the stillness was riven:

  ‘’Twas nervous shock’. The cue was given –

  And the whole Court gaily dissembled.

  ‘Poor fellow!’ they said, ‘’Twas nervous strain,

  He’s a subject for our pity;

  Let him to Hospital go, till his brain

  Is healed, and there’s no danger again

  That he will repeat that ditty.’

  To a Shell-shock ward then he was sent,

  And there he was kindly treated

  And even indulged to the top of his bent; –

  But there ever since he has safely been pent,

  And his words have not been repeated.

  Edward Carpenter

  The Pacifist

  Thou art the Disillusioner. Thy words

  Are desolate winds and jagged spurs of rock,

  Whereon they urge the frigate of our pride

  To cast herself. How cruel is thy blade

  To strip the sword of glory, leaving steel

  Naked, and wounds, undecked of laurels, bare!

  O still, small voice, the louder roars the whirl,

  More clear thou comest, and more terrible!

  E.H. Physick

  To a Pacifist

  Do you fail, even now, to realise

  That not for this, our land we hold most dear

  Alone, nor for the freedom that we prize;

  Not for the love that wells in loyal eyes

  To nerve our spirits; – not alone, you hear

  For these; – but for yourself and for your breed, –

  You, with your turgid soul and venomous tongue,

  You who have ever flung

  Gibes at our sacrifice, –

  For you, too, must we suffer, must we bleed?

  This thing is plain, altho’ your lips deny;

  When Honour calls, – for you we answer her;

  When Death claims dues, – for you we go to die;

  You thrive by virtue of our agony.

  A saprophyte upon the sepulchre,

  Lapping the spilt blood of the crucified,

  This is your meed of thanks and recompense, –

  With pompous eloquence

  To prate interminably,

  Sland’ring the sacred cause of those who died.

  Geoffrey F. Fyson

  To any Pacifist

  You, who make clamour for a speedy peace,

  Who bid us pause, and think, and count the cost,

  And reckon up the lives and treasure lost

  In this wild, senseless devil’s orgy; Cease!

  We may not listen to your treacherous word,

  Unless we would be traitors to our dead,

  And forfeit all for which their blood was shed,

  And lose the prize for which we drew the sword.

  We must fight on, whate’er the sacrifice,

  Till we have reaped the fruits of victory;

  We must fight on, however stern the price,

  Till we have planted in Gallipoli,

  On the grim, blood-stained slopes of Sedd-ul-Bahr,

  The freedom-bringing banner of the Czar.

  W.N. Ewer

  The True Pacifist

  Come at me with your scorn,

  Strike me with your rod –

  Though I be slain a thousand times,

  I will not fight my God.

  Witter Bynner

  To the Followers of Christ among the Belligerent Nations

  ‘Unum Corpus sumus in Christo.’

  In Christ we all are one – we who believe,

  And worship Him as Lord – and shall this War,

  Wherever lies the blame, make us forget

  That bless’d relationship? Shall gods like Thor,

  And Mars, control our hearts to such extent

  That Christ in us shall be o’erthrown? Oh, say!

  If hated, shall we give back hate for hate?

  If wronged, shall we with bitterness repay?

  And so, because men’s passions rage, let love

  And all the highest duties be forgot? –

  Discard the very things Christ values most,

  And speak and act, as though we knew Him not?

  Nay, God forbid! For we His children are –

  His equal children, brothers all, in Christ;

  And Christ hath said: ‘As God is perfect, so

  Be ye, His children’. Would it had sufficed –

  His teaching so divine! And that we each

  Had seen and clung to – years back – once for all –

  His purpose and His will! – and lived our lives

  In deeper heart-obedience to His call!

  Too late, is it? Nay, nay! With broken heart,

  And flooded eyes – that dare not look above,

  Let us, confessing, smite upon our breast,

  And beg for grace that we may learn to love!

  H.J. Preece

  A New Hymn

  There’s the blood of many martyrs on our banner;

  There are heroes – named and nameless – dead, behind.

  There are many fights before us,

  There are dark clouds looming o’er us,

  But we’ll win, because our fight’s for mankind.

  We have fought the fight so long, and we are winning;
/>
  We have fought against the ignorant and blind.

  But though death itself were in it,

  We will fight the fight and win it,

  For we must not lose the cause of humankind.

  All the martyrs of the ages have been with us;

  All have fought upon the battle-field of mind,

  And their fight we will continue

  With our muscle, brain, and sinew,

  For, like theirs, our cause is that of humankind.

  And at last we’ll reach the goal for which we’ve striven,

  And our dreams of earthly paradise we’ll find;

  Then with purpose high before us,

  We will sing the stirring chorus

  Of our glorious fight for freedom and mankind.

  Song of the Friends Ambulance Unit

  Tempo di Marcia.

  Oh! the autumn sun on Jordans woods,

  And the orchard’s scarlet glow,

  When Penn sleeps by the meeting-house,

  And the beech-trees, shadows grow.

  CHORUS.

  But afar the world’s need calls us,

  Can we stay lingering? No!

  Then up, lads, now, and pack your kits!

  From land and sea the Red Cross calls –

  In Christ’s name let us go!

  Oh! grass grows green in Ypres streets

  That once were fair to see;

  The Sacré Cœur’s a ruin now,

  But it’s there that we would be.

  The shrapnel screams o’er Nieuport Ville,

  The Eastern sky is bright

  With flashes – driver, start her up!

  They’re wanting you to-night.

  The wards are full on Richmond Hill,

  And Uffculme’s busy too.

  Another convoy! Lend a hand,

  There’s work for us to do.

  ’Neath the shadow of the Minster towers

  Lie the sick beds, row on row.

  They need stout hearts and gentle hands,

  And it’s there that we must go.

  On the trains – in every stifling coach,

  In the ships’ wards, crowded too –

  From Rouen to the isles of Greece –

  We’ll see the unit through!

  CHORUS

  For afar the world’s need calls us,

  Can we stay lingering? No!

  Then up, lads, now, and pack your kits!

  From land and sea the Red Cross calls –

  In Christ’s name let us go!

  C.O.s in Prison

  Who PUT them in Prison?

  ‘We’ say the Court Martial –

  ‘Our judgement is partial, –

  Our job will be gone,

  And we can’t carry on

  If we listen to conscience

  And that sort of nonsense.

  Away with their tale!

  Just clap them in jail, –

  At the horrors we hear of the stoutest will quail!’

  Who’ll STARVE them, in prison?

  ‘Oh, we!’ say the warders,

  ‘For such is our orders, –

  Reducing the ration

  Is now all the fashion,

  And ill-flavoured gruel

  Is left, – something cruel!

  Blackbeetles and Mice

  Spoil the oatmeal and rice,

  And the “Objects” ob-ject, they’re fearfully nice!’

  Who sees them DIE?

  ‘Not I’, says the Nation,

  ‘A pure fabrication!

  They’ve lost weight, we know –

  A few stones, or so, –

  And some have gone mad

  With the tortures they’ve had –

  But if some have died

  Such cases we hide –

  And no one, you’ll notice, for Murder is tried!’

  Who’ll HELP the C.O.s?

  ‘I can’t’, says the Church –

  ‘My ’scutcheon ’twould smirch, –

  All war I abhor, it is not in my line,

  But this war is diff’rent, it’s holy, it’s fine!

  Now I can’t quite explain, but you’ll see, in a minute –

  Although it’s so holy, – why I am not in it;

  The Government thought it would look very ill

  The Cause notwithstanding, for Clergy to kill!

  So this kind exemption of course I requite

  By ‘talking up’ fighting, – although I don’t fight!

  Thus you will perceive, though I feel for their woes,

  That I can’t say a word for the poor dear C.O.s!’

  I Lived a Year in London

  I lived a year in London,

  But I never saw St Paul’s;

  All famous stunts left undone,

  Nor visited the ‘Halls’.

  I lodged in Royal quarters,

  At Majesty’s expense:

  All round, the walls of Wormwood’s halls

  Were reared for my defence.

  O, the Palace of Wormwood Scrubs!

  The snarling, the sneers, the snubs,

  And the long, dreary days spent in learning the ways

  Of the Palace at Wormwood Scrubs!

  In shoddy grey they dressed me,

  I didn’t dare refuse,

  Though shape and fit distressed me,

  I wasn’t asked to choose.

  My outspread ears supported

  The largest size in caps:

  My feet did cruise in shiplike shoes,

  While a breeze blew through the gaps.

  O, that court suit of Wormwood Scrubs!

  With its skin-chafing, irksome rubs,

  And the blush-raising shocks from its openwork socks

  As we wore ’em in Wormwood Scrubs!

  In dignified retirement

  I ate three meals a day,

  My very small requirement

  Was brought in on a tray.

  But though I grieve to say it,

  Nor gold nor silver plate,

  But vulgar tin my food came in,

  And I often had to wait.

  O, the dinner at Wormwood Scrubs!

  You people who dine at clubs,

  Try just once, for a treat, with a spoon to eat meat,

  And you’ll fight shy of Wormwood Scrubs!

  Each morn with others banded,

  I walked the palace ground,

  As etiquette demanded,

  We circled round and round.

  At time my dizzy senses

  Were soothed by slumb’rous spell,

  But when I woke I savage spoke

  And I wished I were in – Well! –

  It’s no matter. At Wormwood Scrubs

  There’s snarling and sneers and snubs,

  But if ’tweren’t so bad, one would not be so glad

  To bid farewell to Wormwood Scrubs!

  Allan M. Laing

  A Call from Prison

  Comrades, let us on together in the course we have begun,

  Fearless, tireless and unfaltering till our cause be won,

  Let us ever keep before us as our guiding polar star,

  Both in time of ease and plenty, and when warfare rages far,

  Those ideas of Love and Freedom and the Brotherhood of Man,

  Which alone can free the nations – bound since history began,

  In the chains of fear and hatred, in the bonds of strife and sin –

  Which alone can end war’s triumph, and the better age bring in.

  We are young in mind and body, strong in faith and high in hope,

  Eager with the hosts of error and of prejudice to cope,

  Mighty forces are against us, principalities and powers,

  Ancient customs, wealthy systems, but the victory shall be ours,

  For our cause is pure and holy, we are fighting for the right,

  And the Truth shall surely conquer as the morning follows night,

  Even now the dawn is breaking,
faintly in the eastern sky,

  Even now the light is spreading, and the ancient shadows fly.

  Forward then, let nothing daunt us, danger, poverty nor scorn,

  Forward, all we do or suffer brings more near that glorious morn

  When the age-long feuds shall perish, and the sounds of war shall cease,

  And one universal nation shall proclaim the reign of peace.

  Winchester Gaol, 6 June 1917

  Harold F. Bing

  From Prison

  Put out my eyes; but when you’ve done,

  See if you can put out the sun!

  Thrust me in gaol and turn the key –

  Freedom shall win, nor fail with me.

  Fetter these hands that wield the pen –

  The sword most feared by knavish men;

  Some hand, some pen renews the strife,

  While throbs one heart for God and life.

  What though my fire-touched lips were dumb,

  Sealed in the darkness of the tomb?

  Ten thousand voices thunder loud –

  Shall mine be missed in such a crowd?

  You think the Spring is dead, of course,

  Its light, its song, its sap, its force,

  Because your stupid hands prevail

  To strangle one poor nightingale!

  Father Tyrell

  Compensation

  What a beautiful gift is water

  To a throat that is parched with thirst!

  How inspiring a look that is kindly

  To one who is deemed accursed!

  The torrent that rushes so freely

  Down many a mountain-side

  Is not esteemed so greatly

  As a drop when rain is denied.

  The joy that it is to be living,

  To be vigorous, sturdy and well,

  Is felt with double keenness

  After being infirm for a spell.

  And those who have not lived in prison

  Scarce know what it feels to be free:

  To enjoy the full rapture of freedom

  A prisoner first one must be.

  To the captive the air seems more fragrant

  After being immured in a gaol,

  And before the pure pleasure of freedom

  All other enjoyments pale.

  Ben Taylor