Voices of Silence Read online

  News from the Front

  (With apologies to the Censor)

  The Army has suffered an awful rout

  In the terrible battle of (place left out),

  But the enemy’s hordes have been defeated

  On the banks of the River (name deleted).

  The Austrians, under General Dank,

  Attacked the Russians at (name left blank).

  On the road near (cut) they fled in fear,

  But they turned and fought at (blue-pencilled here).

  Our men have had but little rest

  Since the fighting began at (name suppressed).

  But a funny thing happened – we had to laugh –

  When (word gone) we (missing paragraph).

  If the Censor destroys this letter, well –

  I wish the Censor would go to ---------

  (Deletion by Censor).

  [There once was a Man, Kaiser Will]

  There once was a Man, Kaiser Will, who seldom, if ever, stood still;

  He ran up and down with a horrible frown,

  And his ideas of culture were nil.

  Where are the Russians?

  A Plea to the Censor

  Oh! where are those Russians,

  Those hairy-faced Russians,

  That sailed from Archangel and landed in Leith;

  Who came o’er in millions,

  Some say, sir, in trillions,

  With big furry caps on and armed to the teeth?

  Explain, Mister Censor,

  And end our suspense, sir,

  And don’t keep us all in this horrible stew,

  Pray say where you’ve trained them,

  Or where you’ve detained them,

  We know for a fact that these Russians passed through.

  For uncles, aunts, cousins,

  In scores and in dozens,

  From all over England have written to say,

  They gave them hot coffee,

  ‘Chocks’, fruit and mint toffee,

  And bade them God-speed as their train steamed away.

  Besides, and moreover,

  From Leith down to Dover,

  Guards, drivers, and pointsmen could tell us all but,

  They’d quickly get sacked, sir,

  And so with great tact, sir,

  They wink at our questions and keep their mouths shut.

  And in ‘Dispatch’ daily,

  And news ‘Daily Maily’,

  We’ve heard of these Russians, but much news we lack,

  For somehow or other,

  We cannot discover,

  Where Kitchener’s put them, and we’re on the rack.

  And it’s really most horrid,

  The way we are worried,

  And humbugged and bothered and kept in a stew,

  So drop, sir, this mystery,

  For you know ’tis history,

  These hairy-faced Russians stopped two hours at Crewe.

  Pray say where you’ve put them,

  Or shipped them or shut them,

  In England, France, Belgium, or in Timbuctoo,

  For ’tis tantalizing,

  Thus daily surmising,

  Come, dear Mr Censor, pray tell us, now do.

  T. Clayton

  The German Herr

  This is the round-eyed German Herr,

  Still found in England here and there.

  His ears are long, and I’ll be bound

  That they can catch the slightest sound.

  He’s timid and elusive too;

  But mischief he contrives to do,

  And so of him we should beware,

  And first must catch – then cook our Herr!

  St John Hamund

  The Traitor

  ‘Down with the Teutons!’ rose the people’s cry;

  ‘Who said that England’s honour was for sale?’

  Myself, I hunted out the local spy,

  Tore down his pole and cast him into jail.

  ‘An English barber now,’ said I, ‘or none!

  This thatch shall never fall before a Hun!’

  And all was well until that fateful morn

  When, truss’d for shearing in a stranger’s shop,

  ‘Be careful, please,’ I said, ‘I want it shorn

  Close round the ears, but leave it long on top’;

  And, thrilling with a pleasant pride of race,

  I watched the fellow’s homely British face.

  An optimist he was. ‘Those German brutes,

  They’ll get wot for. You mark my words,’ he said,

  And dragged great chunks of hair out by the roots,

  Forgetting mine was not a German head.

  ‘Oh, yes, they’ll get it in the neck,’ said he,

  And gaily emphasized his prophecy.

  Ah me, that ruthless Britisher! He scored

  His parallel entrenchments round and round

  My quivering scalp. ‘Invade us ’ere?’ he roared;

  ‘Not bloomin’ likely! Not on British ground!’

  His nimble scissors left a row of scars

  To point the prowess of our gallant Tars.

  I bore it without movement, save a start

  Induc’d by one shrewd gash behind the ear.

  With silent fortitude I watch’d him part

  The ruin on my skull. And then a tear,

  A fat, round tear, well’d up from either eye –

  O traitorous tribute to the local spy!

  R.A. Thorold

  Ten Little Germans

  Ten little Germans marching in a line,

  Thought they’d march thro’ Belgium – then there were nine;

  Nine little Germans gave vent to their hate,

  Tommy A. got on their track – then there were eight;

  Eight little Germans, generalled from Heaven,

  Chased the Allies to the Marne – then there were seven;

  Seven little Germans, in a nasty fix

  Had to fight a battle there – then there were six;

  Six little Germans, only just alive,

  Made a dash for Calais – then there were five;

  Five little Germans thro’ the French line tore,

  Ran against the British – then there were four;

  Four little Germans, sniping in a tree,

  One was soon located – then there were three;

  Three little Germans, in a fearful stew,

  Thought they’d have a right bust up – then there were two;

  Two little Germans, tired of all the fun,

  Desperately tried again – then were was one;

  One little German, whose little game is done,

  Send him to the hangman – then there will be none;

  No little Germans to make our lives a pest,

  Peace will once more reign supreme – then we can have a rest.

  [There once was a Ruler enraged]

  There once was a Ruler enraged, when his troops in retreat were engaged;

  He tore off his boots, and subsisted on roots,

  That irascible Ruler enraged.

  Kaiser Bill

  Tune: Jack and Jill

  Kaiser Bill once climbed a hill

  And saw the cliffs of Dover.

  Said he: ‘What fun

  To get a gun

  And send some big shells over.

  It will be grand with my German Band

  To occupy these islands’.

  He forgot for a second,

  Or never had reckoned,

  He’d meet with some men from the Highlands.

  So with his son and a great big gun

  He started off for Calais.

  He smiled a smile,

  He thought by guile

  He’d keep the Belgians pally;

  But King Albert swore by the crown he wore

  To fight his people’s cause.

  So the Kaiser found

  He’d to go to ground,

  And there he’s had to pause.


  Old Von Kluck, who was sent to chuck

  The French all out of Paris,

  Met General French,

  With some men in a trench,

  And got stuck up at Arras.

  Von Hinderman said, ‘I’ll not rest in my bed,

  Till at Warsaw I call a halt’;

  But he’s not there yet,

  Nor likely to get,

  But he says it’s the Russians’ fault.

  Von Tirpitz, they say, is an Admiral gay,

  And commands the German Navy.

  But somehow they feel,

  When they come out from Kiel,

  They will go down to Jones – first name Davy.

  A ship or two came into view,

  In the seas off Falkland Island;

  But Sturdee was there

  And took good care

  To blow them up to Skyland.

  The Kaiser’s dream, so it would seem,

  To be Lord of all creation,

  Was stopped quite short

  By a loud report

  When he got to Ypres Station.

  For there he found his men half drowned,

  And it nearly made him balmy,

  To find that the trenches

  That stopped him held French’s

  Contemptible little army.

  The Kaiser thought that if he fought,

  We would stand by – and watch him.

  But now he knows,

  And our Army shows,

  We’re British, and we’ll Scotch him.

  And when we’re done there’ll be no Hun

  To kill our Allies’ babies.

  Our flag will fly

  ’Neath every sky,

  And there’ll be no German Navies.

  Ypres Cathedral

  Hope and mirth are gone. Beauty is departed.

  Heaven’s hid in smoke, if there’s Heaven still.

  Silent the city, friendless, broken-hearted,

  Crying in quiet as a widow will.

  Oh for the sound here of a good man’s laughter,

  Of one blind beggar singing in the street,

  Where there’s no sound, except a blazing rafter

  Falls, or the patter of a starved dog’s feet.

  I have seen Death, and comrades’ crumbled faces,

  Yea, I have closed dear eyes with half a smile,

  But horror’s in this havoc of old places

  Where driven men once rested from their hurry,

  And girls were happy for a little while

  Forgiving, praying, singing, feeling sorry.

  William G. Shakespeare

  Ypres

  City of stark desolation,

  Infinite voices of silence,

  Crying aloud in the daytime,

  Whispering shrill in the moonlight,

  Ask of the world, appealing,

  ‘What are you now but a name?’

  Hushed are your streets, and the rumble

  Of lorries and wagons and limbers

  And low, dull tread of battalions,

  Moving stubbornly cheerful

  Back of invisible fighters

  Muddily bedded in Flanders –

  These alone for your roadways,

  And these for the hours of darkness.

  Wide to inscrutable heaven

  Lie, in their ruin all equal,

  Houses and hovels abandoned,

  Windowless yawnings and pillars,

  Chasms and doorways and gables,

  Tottering spectres of brickwork

  Strewn through the naked chambers –

  Never a home for the seeking,

  Not through the whole of the city,

  Save for the spirit-fled body.

  And over the breakage and rubble,

  Furious wastage of warfare,

  Rise in their piteous grandeur,

  Oaks, still battling the tempest,

  Riven and broken Cathedral,

  Shattered, half-pinnacled Cloth-Hall,

  Towers of solemn, grey greatness

  Calling on heaven to witness,

  Listening, steadfastly watchful

  For boom that will herald disaster

  Down on their remnants of glory,

  Asking the world, appealing,

  ‘What are we now but a name?’

  City of wanton destruction

  Standing nakedly awful,

  Token of agonized country,

  When was an answer demanded

  In so relentless a silence?

  How can the asking be empty?

  Name and nought else in your ruins,

  Crowned in the hearts as an emblem,

  Child of the ravenous booming,

  Page of heroical story

  Greatest in still desolation,

  Never in all your peace-slumber

  Garnered you fame as in fury.

  Silent mother of splendour,

  Stand when your ruins have crumbled

  And, sinking to soul of Flanders,

  Merged with the valiant sleepers;

  And after that and for always,

  As long as the breath of men’s honour

  Is to the earth as the springtime,

  Speak with your voices undying; –

  How in the anguish and glory

  Belgium and Britain you stood for,

  World of men’s honour undaunted

  Just in the lines round your city,

  Where the fierce waves of ambition,

  Ruthlessly seeking their purpose,

  Sank with the dead into Flanders.

  Desolate spirit unconquered,

  Here where the fury lingered,

  Here where the graves of the honoured

  Around your ruins are clustered,

  Rise in your triumph eternal,

  Built in the heart of man.

  R. Gorell Barnes

  The Refugees

  Past the marching men, where the great road runs,

  Out of burning Ypres, three pale women came.

  One was a widow (listen to the guns!) –

  She wheeled a heaped-up barrow. One walked lame

  And dragged two tired children at her side,

  Frightened and coughing with the dust. The third

  Nestled a dead child on her breast, and tried

  To suckle him. They never spoke a word . . .

  So they came down along the great Ypres road.

  A soldier stayed his mirth to watch them pass,

  Turned, and in silence helped them with their load,

  And led them to a field and gave them bread . . .

  I saw them hide their faces in the grass

  And cry, as women cried when Christ was dead.

  William G. Shakespeare

  To the Kaiser – Confidentially

  I met a man – a refugee,

  And he was blind in both his eyes, Sir,

  And in his pate

  A silver plate

  (’Twas rather comical to see!)

  Shone where the bone skull used to be

  Before your shrapnel struck him, Kaiser,

  Shattering in the self same blast

  (Blind as a tyrant in his dotage)

  The foolish wife

  Who risked her life,

  As peasants will do to the last,

  Clinging to one small Belgian cottage.

  That was their home. The whining child

  Beside him in the railway carriage

  Was born there, and

  The little land

  Around it (now untilled and wild)

  Was brought him by his wife on marriage.

  The child was whining for its mother,

  And interrupting half he said, Sir.

  I’ll never see the pair again . . .

  Nor they the mother that lies dead, Sir.

  That’s all – a foolish tale, not worth

  The ear of noble lord or Kaiser,

  A man un-named,

  By shrapnel m
aimed,

  Wife slain, home levelled to the earth –

  That’s all. You see no point? Nor I, Sir.

  Yet on the day you come to die, Sir,

  When all your war dreams cease to be,

  Perchance will rise

  Before your eyes

  (Piercing your hollow heart, Sir Kaiser!)

  The picture that I chanced to see

  Riding (we’ll say) from A to B.

  F.W. Harvey

  All Souls, 1914

  On All Souls’ night a year ago

  The gentle, ghostly dead

  Beat at my thoughts as moths beat low,

  Near to my quiet bed,

  Upon the pane; I did not know

  What words they would have said.

  They were remote within my mind

  Remote beyond the pane;

  Whether with evil wills or kind,

  They could not come again –

  They had but swerved, as things resigned

  To learn return was vain.

  To-night the young uneasy dead

  Obscure the moonless night;

  Their energies of hope and dread,

  Of passion and delight,

  Are still unspent; their hearts unread

  Surge mutinous in flight.

  The life of earth beats in them yet,

  Their pulses are not done;

  They suffer by their nerves that fret

  To feel no wind nor sun;

  They fade, but cannot yet forget

  Their conflicts are not won.

  Gordon Bottomley

  The School at War – 1914

  We don’t forget – while in this dark December

  We sit in schoolrooms that you know so well,

  And hear the sounds that you so well remember –

  The clock, the hurrying feet, the chapel bell:

  Others are sitting in the seats you sat in:

  There’s nothing else seems altered here – and yet

  Through all of it, the same old Greek and Latin,

  You know we don’t forget.

  We don’t forget you – in the wintry weather

  You man the trench or tramp the frozen snow;

  We play the games we used to play together

  In days of peace that seem so long ago;

  But through it all, the shouting and the cheering,