“Salute me, stranger, as you pass! I mark a soldier who Gave up the joys of living here, to dare and die for you! This is the home that once he knew, who fought for you and fell; This is a shrine of sacrifice, where faith and courage dwell.”
From Bert Leston Taylor’s column, “A Line o’ Type or Two,” IN THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE
Bosun’s whistle piping, “Starboard watch is on” Sleepy army officer, waked at crack o’ dawn; In the forward crow’s nest, watchin’ out for subs; If they show a peeper, shoot the bloomin’ tubs.
Ocean black and shiny, silly little moon; Transports fore and aft of us--daylight comin’ soon; Sleeping troopers sprawling on the deck below; Something in the water makes the spindrift glow.
In the forward crow’s nest--ah! the day is here! Transports and destroyers looming far and near. Ours the great adventure--gone is old romance! Wake, ye new Crusaders! Look!--the shores of France!
I have a conversation book; I brought it out from home. It tells you the French for knife and fork and likewise brush and comb; It learns you how to ask the time, the names of all the stars, And how to order oysters and how to buy cigars.
But there ain’t no stores to buy in; there ain’t no big hotels, When you spend your time in dugouts doing a wholesale trade in shells; It’s nice to know the proper talk for theatres and such, But when it comes to talking, why, it doesn’t help you much. There’s all them friendly kind o’ things you’d naturally say When you meet a feller casual like and pass the time o’ day. Them little things that breaks the ice and kind of clears the air. But when you use your French book, why, them things isn’t there.
I met a chap the other day a-rootin’ in a trench. He didn’t know a word of ours, nor me a word of French; And how we ever managed, well, I cannot understand, But I never used my French book though I had it in my hand. I winked at him to start with; he grinned from ear to ear; An’ he says, “Bong jour, Sammy,” an’ I says “Souvenir”; He took my only cigarette, I took his thin cigar, Which set the ball a-rollin’, and so--well, there you are! I showed him next my wife and kids; he up and showed me his, Them funny little French kids with hair all in a frizz; “Annette,” he says, “Louise,” he says, and his tears begin to fall; We was comrades when we parted, though we’d hardly spoke at all.