Voices of Silence Read online

  I always come out strong.

  And though I truly am not one

  As generally brags,

  I ‘do my bit’ – oh, cursèd fate,

  Selling those plaguey flags

  For:

  There’s the country’s Indispensable

  Who snubs you with a stare,

  And the gallant Major-Gen’ral

  With a pulverising glare.

  There’s the over-dressed young person

  Who’s ‘afraid she’s got no change’,

  And the lady with the powerful tongue

  Who thinks it very strange

  They haven’t had a flag-day yet

  For (Blank) – could I arrange?

  There’s the worthy maiden-auntie

  Whose flag’s been left at home,

  And the rather stingy gentleman

  Who’s almost heard to groan.

  There’s the naughty little villain

  Who thinks it very nice

  To wear his flag well out of sight

  And hear you ask him twice,

  And the ‘strong and silent’ personage

  Who freezes you to ice.

  And though it sometimes happens

  That amidst the gloom may flash

  A patriotic Christian who

  Doles smiles out with his cash,

  When all is said and done I doubt

  I’d better wear a gag

  Next time I’m pounced upon to vend

  The everlasting flag.

  [The Women’s Volunteer Reserve]

  The Women’s Volunteer Reserve

  Parade the streets and do deserve

  Official recognition.

  Myself, I strive to recognise

  My Aunt in military guise,

  Amazing apparition!

  But up till now I’ve met with no success.

  I wish I could remember her address.

  * * *

  I want my puttees back.

  Hampden Gordon

  Route March Sentiments

  I’m happy from the ankles up

  How happy I can’t tell,

  But, from the ankles down, alas!

  I do not feel so well.

  A frieze of sticking-plaster winds

  Around each wounded heel,

  And words of mine can not describe

  The feelings that they feel.

  But from the ankles up my joy

  Is glowing and complete.

  How sad it is that we must have

  Those gentle things called feet!

  I. Grindlay

  His ‘Bit’

  What have you done in the War, my son?

  Look in my face and say!

  You have grasped no gun, nor a risk have run,

  In the heart of the red-hot fray.

  You have ne’er a foe on the earth below,

  Nor a scar on that rose-leaf skin;

  So what have you done in the War, my son?

  And how have you helped us win?

  What have you done in the War, my son?

  Oh, you came on a darksome day,

  And you turned a heart from the coward’s part

  When it all but had crept away:

  For the Hope and Cheer that can persevere

  Were your gift to that soul brought low;

  And a Faith, half-dead, raised its faltering head

  At the sound of your triumph-crow.

  What have you done in the War, my son?

  You have grown as the lilies do;

  You have made sad eyes scan the far blue skies

  And rejoice in the sun with you;

  You have day by day by the desert-way

  Been a well-spring of bubbling joy:

  Say, what further task has the Realm to ask

  At the hands of my Baby-Boy?

  These Little Ones!

  Oh, guard them well, their heritage is goodly,

  They have a line of splendour to uphold,

  Theirs are the names that shall be traced in glory

  On stainless pages with a pen of gold.

  Oh, guard them well, their forebears are so wondrous,

  And they so young, so tender and so small,

  God’s angels o’er them smile in blessings ever,

  God from His Heaven looks down and loves them all.

  Oh, guard them well, such storm-clouds dim their childhood,

  Such dark forebodings fill each mother’s breast,

  And yet they bloom like flowers amid the greyness,

  And in their smile the weary hearts find rest.

  Oh, guard them well, for them the far horizon

  Holds such vast promise of a brighter day,

  Of a new world – united – re-created,

  With strife and enmity all swept away.

  Oh, guard them well – yours is the work unceasing,

  Yours is the vigil to be watched at home,

  Yours the great guardianship that tireless ever

  Holds these dear hosts ’gainst dangers that may roam.

  Women of England – keepers of rich treasure –

  Guide well these little feet in case they fall;

  To you, with you, the children’s weal is trusted,

  While God from Heaven looks down and loves them all.

  Augusta Hancock

  National Service Lyrics

  (or, square pegs in round holes)

  (‘A Correspondent writes: “A City man, aged about fifty, with three sons officers in the Army, volunteered for National Service. He was asked to take over a milk round.”’ – Evening News)

  Father’s in the City, he is fifty-five and fat,

  I think it is a pity they didn’t think of that.

  He’s really rather clever

  Though you’d never think it – never,

  So he volunteered; he thought it was his duty,

  And he’s got a situation

  In the Service of the Nation

  Running errands for a ‘Specialist in Beauty!’

  Uncle Tom’s an Architect, an F.R.I.B.A.,

  And his profession, I expect, is not much catch to-day;

  But he thought it was a rum thing

  If he couldn’t tackle something,

  So he filled a form and sent it in on Friday.

  But he’s not just overjoyed with

  Messrs Smith, whom he’s employed with,

  For his job’s to sweep the shop and keep it tidy!

  Uncle Jim, an Engineer, and rather proud of it,

  Made up his mind to volunteer (‘man must do his bit’);

  But I fancy, poor old chappie,

  He is far from being happy

  In a Government Department full of flappers,

  Where from 10 to 6 he lingers

  Getting ink upon his fingers,

  Writing names upon interminable wrappers!

  Cousin Fred’s a ne’er-do-well, his strong point’s not his brain,

  He’s never punctual at a meal and cannot catch a train;

  But he sent an application

  With his usual hesitation

  And the answer made the others gnash their molars,

  For he’s got a well-paid billet,

  Though I don’t know how he’ll fill it,

  And his title is CONTROLLER OF CONTROLLERS!

  How It Takes You

  When the Zepps above us hover,

  They’ve a curious effect,

  And make people take to cover

  In a way you don’t expect.

  Papa sits in the cellar

  With the Pommery and Schweppes,

  For he says it helps a feller

  When he has to dodge the Zepps.

  And the children in the store-room

  Play the deuce with the preserves,

  And eat on till they’ve no more room,

  Just to fortify their nerves.

  And uncle, though a dug-out,

  Has no notions all the same,


  For he takes his flask and rug out

  To our best cucumber frame.

  While aunty, à la Hubbard,

  To avoid a chance mishap,

  Seeks for safety in the cupboard

  With the poodle and a wrap.

  And Sis a sight to kill is,

  For when Zepps are in the wind,

  She gets up and puts on frillies

  Of a most provoking kind.

  Yes, when Zepps above are strafing,

  And the bombs begin to blaze,

  You see all your friends behaving

  In a lot of funny ways.

  [I know a blithe blossom in Blighty]

  I know a blithe blossom in Blighty

  Whom you (I’m afraid) would call flighty

  For when Zepps are about

  She always trips out

  In a little black crêpe de chine nighty.

  Model Dialogues for Air-Raids

  (A few specimen conversations are here suggested as suitable for the aerial conditions to which we have been subjected. The idea is to discourage the Hun by ignoring those conditions or explaining them away. For similar conversations in actual life blank verse would not of course be obligatory.)

  I

  A. Beautiful weather for the time of year!

  B. A perfect spell, indeed, of halcyon calm,

  Most grateful here in Town, and, what is more,

  A precious gift to our brave lads in France,

  Whose need is sorer, being sick of mud.

  A. They have our first thoughts ever, and, if Heaven

  Had not enough good weather to go round,

  Gladly I’d sacrifice this present boon

  And welcome howling blizzards, hail and flood,

  So they, out there, might still be warm and dry.

  II

  C. Have you observed the alien in our midst,

  How strangely numerous he seems to-day,

  Swarming like migrant swallows from the East?

  D. I take it they would fain elude the net

  Spread by Conscription’s hands to haul them in.

  All day they lurk in cover Houndsditch way,

  Dodging the copper, and emerge at night

  To snatch a breath of Occidental air

  And drink the ozone of our Underground.

  III

  E. How glorious is the Milky Way just now!

  F. True. In addition to the regular stars

  I saw a number flash and disappear.

  E. I too. A heavenly portent, let us hope,

  Presaging triumph to our British arms.

  IV

  G. Methought I heard yestere’en a loudish noise

  Closely resembling the report of guns.

  H. Ay, you conjectured right. Those sounds arose

  From anti-aircraft guns engaged in practice

  Against the unlikely advent of the Hun.

  One must be ready in a war like this

  To face the most remote contingencies.

  G. Something descended on the next back-yard,

  Spoiling a dozen of my neighbour’s tubers.

  H. No doubt a live shell mixed among the blank;

  Such oversights from time to time occur

  Even in Potsdam, where the casual sausage

  Perishes freely in a feu de joie.

  V

  J. We missed you badly at our board last night.

  K. The loss was mine. I could not get a cab.

  Whistling, as you’re aware, is banned by law,

  And when I went in person on the quest

  The streets were void of taxis.

  J. And to what

  Do you attribute this unusual dearth?

  K. The general rush to Halls of Mirth and Song,

  Never so popular. The War goes well,

  And London’s millions needs must find a way

  To vent their exaltation – else they burst.

  J. But could you not have travelled by the Tube?

  K. I did essay the Tube, but it was stuffed.

  The atmosphere was solid as a cheese,

  And I was loath to penetrate the crowd

  Lest it should shove me from behind upon

  The electric rail.

  J. Can you account for that?

  K. I should ascribe it to the harvest moon,

  That wakes romance in Metropolitan breasts,

  Drawing our young war-workers out of town

  To seek the glamour of the country lanes

  Under the silvery beams to lovers dear.

  Owen Seaman

  Beasts and Superbeasts

  (A German zoologist has discovered in German New Guinea a new kind of opossum to which he proposes to give the name of Dactylopsila Hindenburgi.)

  At the Annual convention of the Fishes, Birds and Beasts,

  Which opened with the usual invigorating feasts,

  The attention of the delegates of feather, fur and fin

  Was focussed on a wonderful proposal from Berlin.

  The document suggested that, to signalise the feats

  Of the noble German armies and the splendid German fleets,

  Certain highly honoured species, in virtue of their claims,

  Should be privileged in future to adopt Germanic names.

  To judge by the resultant din, the screams and roars and cries,

  The birds were most ungrateful and the quadrupeds like-wise;

  And the violence with which they ‘voiced’ their angry discontent

  Was worthy of a thoroughbred Hungarian parliament.

  The centipede declared he’d sooner lose a dozen legs

  Than wear a patronymic defiled by human dregs;

  And sentiments identical, in voices hoarse with woe,

  Were emitted by the polecat and by the carrion crow.

  The rattlesnake predicted that his rattle would be cracked

  Before the name Bernhardii on to his tail was tacked;

  And an elderly hyæna, famed for gluttony and greed,

  Denounced the suffix Klucki as an insult to its breed.

  Most impressive and pathetic was the anguish of the toad

  When he found the name Lissaueri had on him been bestowed;

  And a fine man-eating tiger said he’d sooner feed with SHAW

  Than allow the title Treitschkei to desecrate his jaw.

  But this memorable meeting was not destined to disperse

  Without a tragedy too great for humble human verse;

  For, on hearing that Wilhelmi had to his name been tied,

  The skunk, in desperation, committed suicide.

  C.L. Graves

  FOUR

  The New Armies go to France

  The Canadians, the New Armies begin to leave for France, trench life

  As soon as war was declared, young men from Canada, Australia, New Zealand and South Africa volunteered to fight. Meanwhile, Kitchener’s New Armies began to arrive in France in 1915. After crossing the Channel, they might experience a further period of intensive training at the Base Camp at Étaples before being transported in cattle trucks, marked ‘HOMMES 40 CHEVAUX 8’, to the railhead, from where they marched, heavily laden, often many miles to the line.

  The usual routine was for men to spend four days in the front line and four days in reserve in billets behind the line, then, after two weeks or so, to have six days’ rest away from the fighting area, although these times varied according to conditions. While in reserve, the troops carried out fatigues, carrying supplies up into the line or acting as covering parties; these times were often more exhausting than when they were in the front line.

  The line itself consisted of three lines of trenches – front line, support and reserve – linked by communication trenches built on a zigzag pattern to break the trajectory of enemy fire; the trenches were often given the names of familiar streets from home. The front-line trench was protected by earthworks forming a parapet, further built up with earth-filled sandbags. Against the front wal
l a firestep was constructed to enable men to view no man’s land, the strip of ground that separated the British and German trenches, which could be anything from 25 yards to half a mile wide. Immediately in front of the trench, barbed wire entanglements were laid. The floor of the dugout was covered with wooden duckboards, but shelter was primitive. Dugouts and fox holes, built into the wall of the trenches, were rarely elaborate constructions. This was different from the German lines, where more carefully constructed dugouts – often cut deep into the chalk downs – gave not only greater protection but also a sense of permanence. The British authorities discouraged this, for the men were meant to realise that they were holding their positions only temporarily and that the line would soon move on again.

  The day began and ended with ‘stand-to’, when the men lined the parapet, for this was the time most vulnerable to enemy attack. The first task once daylight had come was the cleaning and inspection of rifles, after which the men were given a tot of rum. Some of the day was spent cleaning up or sleeping, and much of it was spent waiting for something to happen – the discomfort and tedium were endless. Most of the work was done at night as men went out under cover of darkness into no man’s land to reconnoitre or to repair the wire. There was constant sniping, and shelling by ‘Jack Johnsons’ – heavy shells that were named after a celebrated black American boxer because they created a dense black smoke when they exploded – and ‘Minnies’, the formidable German trench mortar or Minenwerfer. Even in quiet parts of the line, a thousand-strong battalion could expect to lose thirty men a month from sniping, shelling or sickness.

  The plague of the trenches was rats, which multiplied and grew fat on the unburied dead, though there were also the beauties of birds, particularly the skylark, and of trench flowers.

  Canadians

  With arrows on their quarters and with numbers on their hoofs,

  With the trampling sound of twenty that re-echoes in the roofs,

  Low of crest and dull of coat, wan and wild of eye,

  Through our English village the Canadians go by.

  Shying at a passing cart, swerving from a car,

  Tossing up an anxious head to flaunt a showy star,

  Racking at a Yankee gait, reaching at the rein,