Voices of Silence (11 page)

We’re just back to our huts

From ten hours in the trench,

[
Route march, at the butts,

Drilling, studying French
]

And my brain [
tongue, hand, eye
] is so weary I could fall asleep here on the bench.

This county of Kent

[
The valley of Dee
,

The banks of the Trent,

York, Salisbury
,

You’ve a copious choice of encampment
] is something I wish you could see.

At each moment one stops

With a gasp of surprise;

The most exquisite hops

[
Maidens, cowslip, pork-pies
] –

I gather them often by armfuls – furnish ever a feast for the eyes.

Down the green shady lanes

Of the neighbouring park

Float the tremulous strains

Of the cuckoo [
thrush, lark
,

Newt, medlar, tench, cairngorm, or lamprey
], and my cares fly away as I hark.

But this must be all,

For the bugles of camp

Blow [
any old call
]

And I’m hearing the tramp

Of the guard taking [
any old duty
], so remain, Yours, etc., J. S
AMP
.

With this bit of advice,

Which, unless I’m deceived,

Ought to have in a trice

Your pen-palsy relieved,

I remain, your fond cousin, P
RISCILLA
. P.S. – We have really been peeved.

F.C. Walker

Mother and Dad, I understand

At last why you’ve for ever been

Telling me how that way-off land

Of yours was Home; for since I’ve seen

The place that up to now was just a name

I feel the same.

The college green, the village hall,

St Paul’s, The Abbey, how could I

Spell out your meaning, I whose all

Was peaks that pricked a sun-down sky

And endless prairie lands that stretched below

Their pathless snow?

But now I’ve trodden magic stairs

Age-rounded in a Norman fane,

Beat time to bells that trembled prayers

Down spangly banks of country lane,

Throbbed with the universal heart that beats

In London streets.

I’d heard of world-old chains that bind

So tight that she can scarcely stir,

Till tired Old England drops behind

Live nations more awake than her,

Like us out West. I thought it all was true

Before I knew.

But England’s sure what she’s about,

And moves along in work and rest

Too big and set for brag and shout,

And so I never might have guessed

All that she means unless I’d watched her ways

These battle-days.

And now I’ve seen what makes me proud

Our chaps have proved a soldier’s right

To England; glad that I’m allowed

My bit with her in field and fight;

And since I’m come to join them Over There

I claim my share.

C. Conway Plumbe

To-day’s the kit inspection, and, Tommy, can you say,

If you’re complete in each detail, such as your two shirts grey,

Your table knife, your dressing field, your trousers service dress,

Your haversack, your cardigan, your useful tin for mess,

Your helmets smoke and satchels, your spoon, your body band,

Your braces, soap cake, puttees, and towel Turkish hand?

Have you got your rations iron, lad? and then your laces pair,

Your shaving brush, your razor, and the comb to do your hair;

Your disc identity with cord, oil bottle and pull-through,

Your little goggles anti-gas, knife clasp, and hussif too,

Socks worsted, hold all, fork, brush tooth, and jacket service dress,

Cap comforter, your titles shoulder – two pairs, more or less,

Your boots ankle, your pay-book, and heavy coat great drab,

Your woollen drawers, your badge cap, and little ration bag?

Then, or course, your rifle’s spotless, your bayonet sword is clean,

And your shrapnel helmet’s not mis-used – for cooking in, I mean?

Your scabbard is not rusty, and your ground sheet’s there as well,

And your water bottle’s cleansed and free from any funny smell,

All your pouches ammunition are packed with S.A.A.?

Up you go! and the best o’ luck – you’re ready for the fray.

Walter M. Bryden

The word went round the regiment with electrical effect –

Upon the morrow would arrive a General to inspect,

A very mighty General, whose ribbons knew no end,

Upon whose critical report our future would depend.

We vowed we’d turn the regiment out in perfect record style,

If extra polish meant a trip to Potsdam or the Nile;

We wolfed our simple soldiers’ tea – but not to go to town;

To five hard hours of furbishing the regiment settled down.

We blanco-ed head-ropes till they gleamed like freshly-fallen snow,

We polished buttons till they shone like stars set in a row;

Wherever anything of brass about our kit was seen,

With Soldier’s Friend and elbow-grease we worked till it was clean.

We took our saddles from the pegs and rubbed the soap therein

Until they wore the satin sheen of some old violin;

We burnished sword-hilts, stirrups, bits, to see the metal wink,

And toiled o’er curb-chains till they flashed – a jewel every link.

Lights Out might sound and be obeyed; we toiled on in the dark,

For every buckle ’neath the moon appeared a silver spark

Till, wearied ’midst our saddlery and polishes we lay,

And dreamed of buttons overlooked till bugles brought the day.

Now never mind the General’s praise (our horn let others blow),

What said the Major, whom we strove to dazzle with the show?

His fierce blue eye roved up and down, and then – what did he say?

‘Was that your horse that coughed, MacTurk? I heard him yesterday.’

W. Kersley Holmes

Whene’er I see some high brass-hatted man

Inspect the Depôt with his ribboned train,

When all seems spick and absolutely span

And no man spits and nothing gives him pain,

I think what blissful ignorance is theirs

Who only see us on inspection days,

And wonder, could they catch us unawares,

Would they be still so eloquent of praise?

They think the soldiers are a cleanly type,

For all their brass is bright with elbow-fat,

Burnished their bayonets and oiled their hyp;

Do they suppose they always look like that?

They see the quarters beautiful and gay,

Yet never realise, with all their lore,

Those bright new beds were issued yesterday

And will tomorrow be returned to store.

They doubtless say, ‘Was ever drill so deft?

Were ever rifles so precisely sloped?

Observe that section change direction left

So much, much better than the best we hoped’;

But little know with what grim enterprise

For week on week that clever-looking crew

Have practised up for their especial eyes

The sole manœvre they can safely do.

And I could tell where many a canker gnaws

Within the walls they fancy free from sin;

I know how officers infringe their laws,

I know the corners where the men climb in;

I know who broke the woodland fence to bits

And what platoon attacked the Shirley cow,

While the chill Staff, for all their frantic chits,

Know not the truth of that distressing row.

These are the things I think they should be taught,

But, since I know what ages must elapse,

What forms be filled, what signatures be sought,

Ere I have speech with such exalted chaps,

I here announce that they are much misled,

That they should see us when we think them far,

Should steal upon us, all unheralded,

And find what frauds, what awful frauds we are.

A.P. Herbert

So it is done – the calling and the counting,

The solemn mustering, the ritual care,

The fevered messages, the tempers mounting

For some old rogue who never can be there;

No more the Adjutant explodes and splutters

Because the rifles are too few by four;

No longer now the Quartermaster mutters

It’s time that bedding was returned to store;

But all is ship-shape, and, to cut it fine,

The draft has now departed down the line.

These were the men that we have trained from tyros;

We took them in, we dressed them for the wars;

For us they first arranged themselves in wry rows,

For us they formed their first unlovely fours;

We taught them cleanliness (by easy stages)

And cursed them daily by platoons and squads,

And they, unmoved by months of mimic rages,

Regarded us – most properly – as gods:

They were our very own and, being such,

For all our blasphemy we loved them much.

But strangers now will have them in their keeping,

Unfeeling folk who understand them ill,

Nor know what energies, what fires unsleeping

Inform the frames that seem so stupid still;

Who’ll share their struggles and curtail their slumbers,

And get conceited when the men do well,

Nor think of us who brought them up by numbers,

Save in the seasons when they don’t excel,

And then they’ll say, ‘The fellows should be strafed,

Whoever trained this blooming awful draft.’

But not the men: they will not slight so early

The mild-eyed masters who reviled them first,

But, mindful still of marches out to Shirley,

Wet walks at Hayes and romps round Chislehurst;

When in some ditch, untroubled yet though thinner,

They talk good days and feelingly refer

Over their bully to the Depôt dinner,

They’ll speak (I hope) about ‘the officer’,

And say at least, as Sub-Lieutenants go,

He was the most intelligent they know.

And now is life bereft of half its beauty,

Now the C.O., like some afflicted mare

Whose cherished colts have been detailed for duty,

Paws the parade where late his yearlings were;

We shall not lie with them in East-bound vessels,

Nor see new shores in sunlit sweeper-craft,

Nor (save in soul) be with them in their wrestles,

Nor wear the ribbons that shall deck the draft;

Not in our praise will laureates be loud;

We
must turn to and train another crowd.

A.P. Herbert

Slowly out of the siding the troop train draws away,

Into the dark it passes, heavily straining.

Shattering on the points the engine stutters.

Fires burn in every truck. Rich shadows play

Over the vivid faces . . . bunched figures. Some one mutters

‘Rainin’ again . . . it’s raining.’

Slammings – a few shouts – quicker

Each truck the same moves on.

Weary rain eddies after

Drifts where the deep fires flicker.

Into the dark with laughter

The last truck wags . . . it is gone.

Horns that sound in the night when very few are keeping

Unwilling vigil, and the moonlit air

Is chill, and everything around is sleeping –

Horns that call on a long low note – ah, where

Were you calling me last?

The ghastly huntsman hunts no more, they say

The Arcadian fields are drugged with blood and clay.

And is Romance not past?

The station in this watch seems full of ghosts.

Above revolves an opalescent lift

Of smoke and moonlight in the roof. And hosts

Of pallid refugees and children, shift

About the barriers in a ceaseless drift.

Forms sleeping crowd beneath the rifle-rack,

Upon the bookstall, in the carts. They seem

All to be grey and burdened. Blue and black,

Khaki and red, are blended, as a dream

Into eternal grey, and from the back

They stagger from this darkness into light

And move and shout

And sing a little, and move on and out

Unready, and again, into the night.

The windows in the Post Office are lit with olive gold.

Across the bridge serene and old

White barges beyond count

Lie down the cold canal

Where the lost shadows fall;

And a transparent city shines upon a magic mount.

Now fired with turkis blue and green

Where the first sunshine plays

The dawn tiptoes between

Waiting her signal from the woodland ways . . .

Carola Oman