[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
An Idyll of the War

He came into the billet,
A captain worn with care,
For two weeks' rest from Ypres,
Then on, he knew not where.

He greeted her so gently
And smiled through tired eyes,
When all that homely comfort
He saw with glad surprise.

She met him at the doorway
And gave him welcome true,
For she had two dear brothers
At Verdun, fighting too.

She watched his needs and tended
With willing cheerful face,
Her brown eyes shone with kindness,
Her lithe form moved with grace.

He rode a gallant charger,
Like Launcelot of old,
His nickel shone like silver,
His brass-work gleamed like gold.

A sergeant followed after,
A batman waited near,
He seemed so strong and forceful,
So free from pride or fear.

And she was young and merry,
And full of winsome ways,
Yet with a heart beneath them
That shone with ruby rays.

Her voice was softest music,
Her laugh was like the stream,
Her sadness a deep symphony,
Her pensiveness a dream.

He tried to learn their language,
And touch the thought that blends,
He told her of his country,
His work, his home, his friends.

She spoke in broken English,
And wondered oft and sighed,
And found in him a comrade
In whom she might confide.

They played at draughts together,
But lingered o'er the game
To talk of times and places,
And thoughts they'd had the same.

The long war was forgotten
In nature, flowers, and skies,
And poetry, and laughter;
They walked in Paradise.

He came into the billet
With trouble on his brow,
The smile fled from her features,
She was the woman now.

She came and sat beside him,
He took her pretty hand,
And told her all his worry,
He knew she'd understand.

She was a gentle French girl,
He needed help that day,
So is it any wonder
That love should show the way ?

His worries seem to vanish,
And just for five days' flight
She was his gentle Marie,
He was her khaki knight.

Then out into the darkness
He rode before the train,
And all night through his Marie
Was at his side again.

While lonely as a widow
She wept the whole night through,
For he was gone for ever,
The first love that she knew.

Ah ! was it wasted pity ?
And was it broken troth ?
They loved without a future,
They kissed without an oath ;

Or were it Heaven-sent blessing
When exiled soldiers fight,
If every gentle Marie
Might find her khaki knight ?

by T.A. Girling
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
Dumb Heroes
(Written near Ypres, 1916)


There's a D.S.O. for the Colonel,
A Military Cross for the Sub,
A Medal or two when we all get through,
And a bottle of wine with our grub.

There's a stripe of gold for the wounded,
A rest by the bright sea- shore,
And a service is read when we bury our dead,
Then our country has one hero more.

But what of our poor dumb heroes,
That are sent without choice to the fight,
That strain at the load on the shell-swept road
As they take up the rations at night ?

They are shelling on Hell Fire corner,
Their shrapnel fast burst o'er the square,
And the bullets drum as the transports come
With the food for the soldiers there.

The halt till the shelling is over,
The rush through the line of fire,
The glaring light in the dead of night,
And the terrible sights in the rear :

It's the daily work of the horses,
And they answer the spur and rein,
With quickened breath 'mid the toll of death
In the mud and the holes and the rain.

There's a fresh-healed wound on the chestnut,
The black mare's neck has a mark,
The brown mules now mute, most keep the same gait,
As the one killed last night in the dark.

But they walk with the spirit of heroes.
They dare not for medals or cross,
But for duty alone, into perils unknown
They go, never counting their loss.

There's a swift, painless death for the hopeless,
With a grave in a shell-hole or field,
There's a hospital base for the casualty case,
And a vet. for those easily healed :

But there's never a shadow of glory,
A cheer or a speech in their praise,
As patient and true they carry us through
With the limbers on shot-riven ways.

So here's to dumb heroes of Britain
Who serve her as nobly and true
As the best of her sons, 'mid the roar of the guns,
And the best of her boys on the blue.

They are shell-shocked, they're bruised, and they're broken,
They are wounded and torn as they fall,
But they're true and they're brave to the very grave,
And they're heroes one and all.

by T.A. Girling
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
The Horse Allotted To 'X' Company

Oh! I am the Company's geegee,
The horse that belongs to the bunch,
The "Saddle him quick and lend me your stick,
For I must get to Bruce for lunch."

They wobble and bump in the saddle,
They trot me o'er cobbles and flint;
I'm theirs for a day, as we're off and away
To the places of bubbles and glint.

Oh! I'm the mechanical transport,
The thing that you race and you pound,
The way to get there, with a gallop and cheer
When the turn for the joy-ride comes round;

The slave left in bonds at the shed-post,
Till the longest of beanoes must end;
Then they jump on my back, and they cheer the way back
By a spirited race with a friend.

Oh! I am the syndicate cheval,
The creature that nobody owns,
A sub.'s for a day when a captain's away,
And the next day a series of loans.

I'm the pride of no horse-loving master,
The hero of no mess-room talk,
And if I go lame, why it's just a damned shame,
For the Company jockeys must walk.

Oh! I'm the disgrace of the transport,
The horse that's a constant menace;
The shoeing-smith swears, and the T.O. declares
That I'll have to be sent to the base.

My feet are a hotbed of bruises,
My tendons are bulging with sprains,
My coat's always dry, my digestion's awry,
Just my "Company" heart still remains.

By T.A. Girling
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
Mount St. Eloi

Twin towers crowned Mount St. Eloi,
Majestic side by side,
A landmark from the distance,
A monument of pride.
They gleamed through mist and shadow,
They caught the dying light,
And capped the hill with glory,
Twin towers of dazzling white.

Twin towers in all things equal
Stood forth, till they in war
The fury of bombardment
With equal grandeur bore,
As shrapnel hailed against them
And high explosives made
The very hill to tremble,
Wherein their strength was stayed.

Then side by side their splendour
Stooped to the bolts of hell,
As coping stone and pillar
Toppled and crashing fell.
Yet month by month, sore smitten,
They crowned the battered slope,
And flashed from suns of evening
Their signals white of hope.

Now that the foe is driven
Far from St. Eloi's hill,
They stand against the skyline
Broken but splendid still.
Though equal chance they breasted
And stood as twins before,
Yet war has laid the burden
On one to suffer more.

by T.A. Girling
19 February, 1918.
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
The Bond

Up from the cheerless billets,
From trenches and listening post,
From huts, and dugouts, and gunpits,
From the hearts of a watching host,
In the dark drear night of danger,
When the soul can hide its pain,
Comes the striving, yearning, longing
For the love of a home again.

Like the misty veil of morning,
When the sun draws back the dew,
The pure, bright, quickened memories
Turn back to home anew.
From lonely hearts of Britain
The love that made them brave,
Returns to seek communion
With those it left to save.

It heeds not the hungry waters,
Nor distance, nor time can pen,
From the longing call of their dear ones,
The love of a million men.
From husband, and father, and brother,
Companion, and lover, and son,
The love of a nation is passing
With the sound of the midnight gun.

In the treasured home of Britain,
In cottage, and villa, and hall,
With glistening eyes of watching,
Is an answer to the call ;
And the truth, and patience of woman,
In the pain that she bears alone,
Gives back to the heart that seeks it
The love that is all its own.

They vaunt of the power to conquer
In the massed and heated guns,
But the matchless might of Britain
Lies deep in the heart of her sons.
The hard, stern road of duty,
The unseen cloud above,
Are one in Britain's glory,
The conquering power of love.

by T.A. Girling
2lst January, 1917
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
Peace On Earth

The Christmas snows have hidden
The ruined town and fosse
With heaven-sent witness bidden
To cover wreck and loss.

A silver moon is sailing
'Mid stars up in the height,
Quiet and peace prevailing
On this fair Christmas night.

This hour no sound of battle
Troubles the tranquil air,
No fierce machine-guns rattle,
Shell burst or rocket flare.

A truce for Christmas greetings,
A peace for Christmas fare,
With warm and heartfelt greetings,
Is granted to us here.

And round the dugout table,
And in the trench before,
Each man as he is able
Utters this wish once more

To comrades tried in danger
And tested in the fire,
Or to the newcome stranger
To all this one desire,

That Christmas next returning
May find us with our own
By the dear " home-fire " burning
For all and each alone.

Though how to heal the breaches
We may not understand,
The peace that Christmas teaches
May dwell in every land.

And out beyond the wire,
And East, and North, and South.,
This one sincere desire
Is passed from every mouth.

The blessed Christmas season
Unites in mutual hope,
With neither fear nor treason,
All those within its scope.

Ah ! if a wish so fervent
Can rise from such a host,
All other thoughts subservient
To this they long for most,

E'en if no God in Heaven
Sent peace down to the earth,
Must not the spirit leaven
Awake it into birth?

Though Nature's laws be broken,
And " deeds of shame " be wrought,
Unpardoned words be spoken,
And honour set at nought;

Though hearts are hot with anger,
And others dead and cold,
While vengeance stirs from languor
The fiercest thoughts they hold,

Yet this one planted treasure,
Within the hearts of all,
Shall swell with mighty measure
And conquer over all.

by T.A. Girling
Christmas, 1917.
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
The Soldier's Home

A second storey bedroom,
Or a camp-bed in a tent,
In time of peace was satisfactory found,
But the thing that gives a soldier
The best feeling of content
Is a cushy little hole beneath the ground.

A tent is quickly riddled,
And a house is blown to bits,
Ere the occupant has time to get away
From superfluous attention
Of the persevering Fritz,
In his usual consid'rate little way.

So to get your usual slumber
When located near the Front,
If the shelling and the bombing give you qualms,
Don't consider ventilation,
Not for driest quarters hunt,
But rest content and free from all alarms,

In a hole of proper deepness,
With some sandbags overhead,
Or the heaviest material you can find,
And lay your army blanket
On the damp earth for a bed,
Then scatter all your worries to the wind.

The shells may burst around you,
The bombs drop close enough
To awake you from the pleasantest of dreams,
But the vital cause of worry
Is the chunky bits of stuff,
And they haven't learnt to burrow yet, it seems.

The quarters of a general,
The soldier's "home, sweet home,"
When in the fighting area they are found,
Is a six by six compartment
With the Mother Earth for dome,
Just a dinky little hole beneath the ground.

by T.A. Girling
25th October, 1917.
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
Far Away

With equipment strapped to my shoulders,
And my rifle close to my hand,
My head stretched out to the ridgeward,
I wait here in No Man's land
'Mid the litter and lumber of battle
On the shell-churned clay of France,
Where the craters and crumbling trenches
Bear the signs of the hoped advance.

I wait while the barrage lengthens,
While the rifles crack on the hill,
Then the bombs explode in the dugouts
And the first-line trench grows still
'Mid the crash of the answering shrapnel,
Lit my signal flakes of the Hun
As the final waves pass over
To the tat of the Lewis gun.

Out here in the rain and bluster,
Thick mud on my khaki form,
I wait through the long day's battle,
Through the night of the snow and the storm,
Till the fighting surges forward,
And the No Man's land of the past
Is a place of quiet and shelter,
And reaches its peace at last.

I wait till the burying party
Shall find me here in the clay,
Shall loose the disc from my bosom
And take my poor trinkets away,
Then dig a grave to lay me
Away from this weary war,
And the shell-torn crest of Vimy
Shall cradle me evermore.

And then in the roll of honour,
Just one feeble flicker of fame
E'er I sink in the great oblivion,
Will be written my humble name ;
And the fighting will still press Eastward
To the victory close at hand,
But I shall be dreamlessly sleeping
In the quiet of No Man's land.

by T.A. Girling
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
The Troubles of a Transport Officer

Yes,everything's a worry
In the life of a T.O.,
There's always so much hurry,
So much rushing to and fro,
There's always something pressing,
Some extra work to do,
And you never get a blessing
Whatever you put through.
From morning until evening,
In rain, and cold, and shine,
It is worry, hurry, scurry
In the Transport line.

The Q.M. wants a limber,
The Colonel wants his horse,
We've got to haul more timber,
And the usual work of course,
Send three men to headquarters,
Two kits to catch the train,
A team for the Trench Mortars,
Report your strength again.
From early morn till evening,
And even while I dine,
It's worry, hurry, scurry
In the Transport line.

The horses all need shoeing,
The grey has kicked his mate,
The harness wants renewing,
And the men get up too late;
The water cart is leaking,
The Sergeant's got the grippe,
The G.S.'s waggons squeaking,
There are twenty mules to clip.
There's always something needed,
And all the trouble's mine,
It's worry, hurry, scurry
In the Transport line.

Though the bullets whistled by me,
And the whiz-bangs made me sweat.
In the trenches wet and slimy,
Yet I wish I was there yet,
For they didn't always chase me,
By runner, wire or 'phone,
Or come in rage to face me,
Or speak in injured tone;
You're everybody's batman,
No work can you decline,
In the hurry, worry, scurry
Of the Transport line.

When this blessed war is over,
And I sit at home at ease,
I shall no more be a rover
With the Transport o'er the seas.
But the weather's most depressing,
And the whisky's getting low,
My cough gets more distressing,
So it's time for me to go;
Here's another message coming,
You can always tell the sign
Of the hurry, worry, scurry
In the Transport line.

by T.A. Girling
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
Antoinette Legru

Back to her ruined village home,
Came Antoinette Legru,
With eager steps and shining eyes,
Along the way she knew.

Over the hill and down the road,
The well-loved valley through,
But there, a weird and mournful sight
Broke on her wondering view.

Where red-tiled roof and gardened cot,
Nestled 'mid hill and wode,
Where hall and spire had towered above,
And trees had fringed the road,

A battered mass of broken walls,
And cellars gaping wide,
And trees all broken, scarred and dead,
Appeared on every side.

Upon the rise she saw the church
Where, in her childhood's day,
Her simple piety had taught
To go to Mass and pray.

A shapeless wreck, yet still in death
It tried its lore to tell,
For carven stone, and sacred sign,
Lay scattered where they fell.

And by the village cemetery
Where lay her kin who died,
Were wooden crosses grey and white,
A thousand side by side.

The near-by wood, with winding paths,.
Where, in her happiest hours,
With her young lover by her side,
She gathered fruit and flowers,

Was nothing but a tangled heap
Of wire and stumps and poles,
With trenches dug among the roots
And ugly yawning holes.

And he for three long weary years
A captive with the foe,
Yearning for home, hungry for bread,
With spirit dying slow.

At last she reached her father's home,
A heap of jumbled stones,
And cast-off kit and sandbagged cave,
And dirt and tins and bones.

Mutely she gazed across the ground
Where once she used to play,
The courtyard and the orchard trees
Had vanished all away.

Will nothing give a welcome home
To Antoinette Legru ?
Is there no token of the past,
No hope to grow anew ?

Yes, there beside a broken wall,
Among destruction dread,
A Crimson Rose of days gone by,
Rears up its glorious head.

It speaks of roots too deeply set
For even war to slay,
That raise again as from the dead
The Love of yesterday.

She saw, and, kneeling, kissed the flower,
The beauteous living sign,
'Mid desolation all around,
Of something yet divine.

With dimming eyes and heaving breast
She tried some prayer to say,
Then flung herself upon the ground
And sobbed her grief away.

by T.A. Girling
(In the field, 29th August, 1917)
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
Dumb Heroes
Written near Ypres, 1916

There's a D.S.O. for the Colonel,
A Military Cross for the Sub,
A Medal or two when we all get through,
And a bottle of wine with our grub.

There's a stripe of gold for the wounded,
A rest by the bright sea- shore,
And a service is read when we bury our dead,
Then our country has one hero more.

But what of our poor dumb heroes,
That are sent without choice to the fight,
That strain at the load on the shell- swept road
As they take up the rations at night ?

They are shelling on Hell Fire corner,
Their shrapnel fast burst o'er the square,
And the bullets drum as the transports come
With the food for the soldiers there.

The halt till the shelling is over,
The rush through the line of fire,
The glaring light in the dead of night,
And the terrible sights in the rear :

It's the daily work of the horses,
And they answer the spur and rein,
With quickened breath 'mid the toll of death
In the mud and the holes and the rain.

There's a fresh-healed wound on the chestnut,
The black mare's neck has a mark,
The brown mules now mute, most keep the same gait,
As the one killed last night in the dark.

But they walk with the spirit of heroes.
They dare not for medals or cross,
But for duty alone, into perils unknown
They go, never counting their loss.

There's a swift, painless death for the hopeless,
With a grave in a shell-hole or field,
There's a hospital base for the casualty case,
And a vet. for those easily healed :

But there's never a shadow of glory,
A cheer or a speech in their praise,
As patient and true they carry us through
With the limbers on shot-riven ways.

So here's to dumb heroes of Britain
Who serve her as nobly and true
As the best of her sons, 'mid the roar of the guns,
And the best of her boys on the blue.

They are shell-shocked, they're bruised, and they're broken,
They are wounded and torn as they fall,
But they're true and they're brave to the very grave,
And they're heroes one and all.

by T.A. Girling
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
The Salient

They come from Southern victories
Another tryst to keep,
They march along the well-known road
Where often through the night they trode
From Poperinghe to Ypres.

Down by the Gun Asylum
And past the famed Cloth Hall,
Old ruins now, more battered still,
Chateau, cathedral, hall and mill,
All tottering to their fall.

Out past their old entrenchments
To post just lately won,
And in the night they take their stand,
In concrete fort and shell-hole land,
Against the cowering Hun.

They march not on as strangers,
But those who bear the brief
To shed fresh glory on their sign,
Borne bravely in the fighting-line,
Canada's maple leaf.

The purpose of their coming
The graves of those shall speak
Who bore the first dread gas attack
And hurled the pressing foeman back
Or died at Zillebeke.

In Ypres' famous salient
They claim the right to share,
Whose most heroic deeds were done,
Most hardly wrested triumphs won,
Most losses suffered here.

And on the ridges forward
Canadian signals fly,
And in the lower land between,
Advancing through the fiery screen,
Canadian heroes die.

Yet forward, dauntless pressing,
The final goal assail,
And claim for Britain's Western sons
One more great victory 'mid the guns
The heights of Passchendaele.

by T.A. Girling
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
The Horse Allotted To 'X' Company

Oh! I am the Company's geegee,
The horse that belongs to the bunch,
The "Saddle him quick and lend me your stick,
For I must get to Bruce for lunch."
They wobble and bump in the saddle,
They trot me o'er cobbles and flint ;
I'm theirs for a day, as we're off and away
To the places of bubbles and glint.

Oh! I'm the mechanical transport,
The thing that you race and you pound,
The way to get there, with a gallop and cheer
When the turn for the joy-ride comes round;
The slave left in bonds at the shed-post,
Till the longest of beanoes must end;
Then they jump on my back, and they cheer the way back
By a spirited race with a friend.

Oh! I am the syndicate cheval,
The creature that nobody owns,
A sub.'s for a day when a captain's away,
And the next day a series of loans.
I'm the pride of no horse-loving master,
The hero of no mess-room talk,
And if I go lame, why it's just a damned shame,
For the Company jockeys must walk.

Oh! I'm the disgrace of the transport,
The horse that's a constant menace;
The shoeing-smith swears, and the T.O. declares
That I'll have to be sent to the base.
My feet are a hotbed of bruises,
My tendons are bulging with sprains,
My coat's always dry, my digestion's awry,
Just my "Company" heart still remains.

by T.A. Girling
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
The Battle

They are packed in the fresh-made trenches,
They have swallowed their ration of rum,
And they wait for the final signal,
For the zero hour has come.

They are there in the order of battle,
With ground-sheet and haversack,
Cartridges, rations and water,
And a shovel slung over the back.

The bayonets are fixed on the rifles,
The gas-masks are on the alert,
The Mills' grenades are handy,
So they scramble up over the dirt, and it's

Over the top to victory,
Over the top to pain,
Over the top where the H.E.'s drop
And the hissing bullets rain.

Stout hearts must keep them steady
And quiet their nerve-racked frames,
For they're willing and eager and ready
With a courage that other men shames.

All the world seems flung into chaos,
Full of crashing and humming and glare,
Solid earth and poor mangled creatures
Leap suddenly high in the air.

There are flares of artillery signals,
Dense smoke-clouds and pillars of flame,
But the long khaki line moves forward
With a valour no terrors can tame.

There's the short death-space to cover
Till they get to grips with the foe,
And the barrage is moving forward ;
So over the top they go.

Over the top to battle,
Over the top to kill,
Over the top as their comrades drop,
But they keep advancing still.

There's death in a hundred places
They must pass ere the goal is won,
But there's grim resolve in their faces
For the deadly work to be done.

There's no time for thoughts of the future,
But all the good in their lives
Is spent in one swift memory
Of mother, and children, and wives.
Then on with a courage unmeasured

To face, as they ne'er did before,
The barbarous modern inventions
That substitute murder for war.

The pride and strength of the nation,
Free offered at liberty's call,
True sons of the heroes that built her,
Pass over to conquer or fall.

Over the top for freedom,
Over the top for right,
Over the top with never a stop
To the goal that is always in sight.

The vanguard of honour, life-giving,
Defenders of all we hold dear,
God guard them in dying and living,
Our bravest and best that pass here!

by T.A. Girling
llth July, 1917.
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
An Idyll of the War

He came into the billet,
A captain worn with care,
For two weeks' rest from Ypres,
Then on, he knew not where.

He greeted her so gently
And smiled through tired eyes,
When all that homely comfort
He saw with glad surprise.

She met him at the doorway
And gave him welcome true,
For she had two dear brothers
At Verdun, fighting too.

She watched his needs and tended
With willing cheerful face,
Her brown eyes shone with kindness,
Her lithe form moved with grace.

He rode a gallant charger,
Like Launcelot of old,
His nickel shone like silver,
His brass-work gleamed like gold.

A sergeant followed after,
A batman waited near,
He seemed so strong and forceful,
So free from pride or fear.

And she was young and merry,
And full of winsome ways,
Yet with a heart beneath them
That shone with ruby rays.

Her voice was softest music,
Her laugh was like the stream,
Her sadness a deep symphony,
Her pensiveness a dream.

He tried to learn their language,
And touch the thought that blends,
He told her of his country,
His work, his home, his friends.

She spoke in broken English,
And wondered oft and sighed,
And found in him a comrade
In whom she might confide.

They played at draughts together,
But lingered o'er the game
To talk of times and places,
And thoughts they'd had the same.

The long war was forgotten
In nature, flowers, and skies,
And poetry, and laughter;
They walked in Paradise.

He came into the billet
With trouble on his brow,
The smile fled from her features,
She was the woman now.

She came and sat beside him,
He took her pretty hand,
And told her all his worry,
He knew she'd understand.

She was a gentle French girl,
He needed help that day,
So is it any wonder
That love should show the way ?

His worries seem to vanish,
And just for five days' flight
She was his gentle Marie,
He was her khaki knight.

Then out into the darkness
He rode before the train,
And all night through his Marie
Was at his side again.

While lonely as a widow
She wept the whole night through,
For he was gone for ever,
The first love that she knew.

Ah ! was it wasted pity ?
And was it broken troth ?
They loved without a future,
They kissed without an oath ;

Or were it Heaven-sent blessing
When exiled soldiers fight,
If every gentle Marie
Might find her khaki knight ?

by T.A. Girling
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
Blighted

A day in May,
Bright sunshine everywhere
And all the sweetness of returning spring,
Horses upon the hillside grazing near,
The tents of happy men who laugh and sing
For very joy of life and Nature's wakening,
Dear flowers in woods and fields and birds above
Carolling happy songs of spring and love,
Then suddenly a whistling, hurtling through the air,
A crash, death and destruction, pain and fear.

A moonlight night,
Sweet, fiery stars o'erhead,
Grey, hazy shadows over wood and vale,
The still, soft air a balmy peace has shed
O'er lines of drowsy horses and tents, like pale
Grey peaks where rest and sleep prevail,
So all the night breathes out in passion deep
The tender care of Nature while they sleep,
Then suddenly a hurrying whirring in the sky,
A bomb shrieks down, a terrifying burst, and peace must die.

A buoyant soul,
Warm, cherished by the spring,
To love for all creation in the glow
Of rapture that all Nature's beauties bring,
And hold a part in that from which they flow,
Spring air above, responding earth below ;
So holy seems the season in the heart.
No thought but love and joy can find a part
Until on man and beast barbaric wounds and death
Stifle with sudden blast the spring's inspiring breath.

by T.A. Girling
5th May, 1917

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