Writ in Barracks

Edgar Wallace

Writ in Barracks

WAR

IA tent that is pitched at the base:A wagon that comes from the night:A stretcher – and on it a Case:A surgeon, who's holding a light.The Infantry's bearing the brunt —O hark to the wind-carried cheer!A mutter of guns at the front:A whimper of sobs at the rear.And it's War! 'Orderly, hold the light.You can lay him down on the table: so.Easily – gently! Thanks – you may go.'And it's War! but the part that is not for show.IIA tent, with a table athwart,A table that's laid out for one;A waterproof cover – and noughtBut the limp, mangled work of a gun.A bottle that's stuck by the pole,A guttering dip in its neck;The flickering light of a soulOn the wondering eyes of The Wreck,And it's War! 'Orderly, hold his hand.I'm not going to hurt you, so don't be afraid.A ricochet! God! what a mess it has made!'And it's War! and a very unhealthy trade.IIIThe clink of a stopper and glass:A sigh as the chloroform drips:A trickle of – what? on the grass,And bluer and bluer the lips.The lashes have hidden the stare…A rent, and the clothes fall away…A touch, and the wound is laid bare…A cut, and the face has turned grey…And it's War! 'Orderly, take It out.It's hard for his child, and it's rough on his wife,There might have been – sooner – a chance for his life.But it's War! And – Orderly, clean this knife!'

ARMY DOCTOR

Army Doctor! Army Doctor!'Ere's some 'cruities for inspection, —Some in rags, an' some in cuffs.Some in shirts, an' some without 'em,Wot a blessed strange collection!Served before? You needn't doubt 'em,Bloomin' muffs!Army Doctor! Army Doctor!Take your sword, an' drop your lancet,Teach your nurses 'ow to fight!'Ow to march the dead march – solemn!'Ow to route march – an' to dance it!Teach 'em 'ow to march in column,By the right!Army Doctor! Army Doctor!Gold an' velvet! 'broidered lacin's,'Oldin' 'igh your bloomin' 'ead!'Seen you peel that coat so winnin','Seen you stain them pretty facin's,'Seen your 'ighly glossy linen,Splattered red!Army Doctor! Army Doctor!'Sun is 'ot – an' we are learnin'Lessons in the cholera school,We're fear-sick, an' mad as 'atters,Throat a-parchin', 'ead a-burnin',Seems to me, you're takin' mattersRather cool!Army Doctor! Army Doctor!Spurs and swagger! Cuff an' collar!Up to ev'ry bloomin' trick!'Seen you – as I've seen none other —Go to – where I dursn't foller!'Seen you act the man and brotherTo the sick!Army Doctor! Army Doctor!Things by Engineers forgotten,You 'ave got to recollect.Tho' you're such a gilded dandy,When the meat is goin' rotten,Chances are, you're somewhere 'andyTo inspect!Army Doctor! Army Doctor!Where the firin' never ceases,Where the 'uddled soldier lies,Where the Mauser bullets shave 'im,Gawd! they're chippin' 'im to pieces!Git 'im out of fire an' save 'im…Well done, Guys!

NICHOLSON'S NEK

They gave their best at Waterloo,For the honour of England's name;They threw their best on a hundred fields,To put our foes to shame.'Tis good that England's soldier menTo-day can do the same.They have proved their worth,To the ends of the earth.They have striven and won, – and failed!They have shown their might,On the Dargai Height,When the mollah's bullets hailed.They have laid their dead,In the river bed,On the site of their last brave stand.They have buried at night,By a lantern light,In a grave that they scooped in the sand.And far and wide,They have done and died,By donga, and veldt, and kloof.And the lonely grave,Of the honoured brave,Is a proof – if we need a proof,They won – and died,And we glorifiedThe men of the barrack schools.They died – and failed,And in wrath we railedAt the fault of the bungling fools!And perhaps it is goodThat we change our mood,And perchance it is well to blame,And to seek elsewhere,For some men to bear,The weight of our foolish shame.But the fight hard fought,Must it go for noughtBecause of its hapless turn?Must we then withhold,For the life hard sold,The Honour it died to earn?When hot and tired,With the last round fired,And never a ray of hope —What then the shame?They were just the sameWho charged Talana's slope!You may give and take,As the shrapnels rake,When your batt'ry has replied;But you cannot liveWhen there's too much give,From the guns on the open side.Good men are they,Who gain the day, —And victory is sweet, —And just as braveWho do not raveAt every small defeat.For the fight hard foughtMust not go for nought,Because of its hapless turn;Nor we withhold,For the life hard sold,The Honour it died to earn.We gave our best at Waterloo,For the honour of England's name;We threw our best on a hundred fieldsTo put our foes to shame.'Tis good that England's soldier menTo-day can do the same.

MY PAL, THE BOER

We met without appointment on an 'ill,I comed upon the beggar without warnin';Layin' down be'ind a boulder,With 'is rifle to 'is shoulder,He sent along wot's Dutch for a 'Good-mornin'.''E missed me with a fair amount of skill,An' 'fore 'e'd time to mount, an' get from danger,I was takin' of my rest,By a sittin' on 'is chest,An' a sayin' to the welcome little stranger: —'My pal, the Boer!You're a prisoner of war'('E tried to break my jaw, but that's a trifle);'You can't escape me, can yer?In the name of Rule Britannia,I commandeer your 'orse an' Mauser rifle!'You wouldn't call 'is manners over bright,An' you wouldn't term 'is disposition sunny,An' 'e 'ad a silly notionThat the cause of the commotionWas Chamberlain a-fightin' for 'is money;An' 'e fancied that the British flag was white —'Twas a silly fancy – still we must excuse it,When the Lancers came along'E felt a trifle bong!'E soon found out the proper way to use it!My pal, the Boer,Ain't used to proper war,But tho' 'e scorns the flag an' does the grandy,The 'igh an' mighty scorner,When we get 'im in a corner,'E FINDS A FLAG OF TRUCE IS MIGHTY 'ANDY!

SONG OF THE FIRST TRAIN THROUGH

Line Clear to Witteputs! I wind around the guarded hill,And thunder o'er the lean long bridge that spans the sombre stream;No uptorn rail to devastate, no culvert gap to fill,And where the outpost feared to ride, I gather up my steam.(I passed a little mound of earth that bore the cross's sign, —A Colonel, and a dozen men, who fell to clear the line.)Line Clear to Belmont: and I feel the ballast shaking down:My flanges bite the new-laid rail and prove the new-thrust pin.On either side the purple ridge, the veldt land sickly brown,The 'distant off' says 'Welcome,' and the 'Home' says 'Come ye in.'(Two thousand guardsmen rushed the Kop – a score are buried here,And here are laid some Fusiliers – they fell to give Line Clear.)Line Clear to Graspan: so I run adown the gentle grade,Nor notice in my joyful haste the kopje stubble grown,And wildly bouldered foot to crest where fell a half brigade,What time the bristling mountain-side with segment shell was sown.(The mess-deck and the ward-room thinned to give the line pratiqueLine Clear from Graspan – so, half-mast the Ensign at the Peak.)Line Clear: along the new-spliced wires that droop from pole to pole,By Enslin, where the helio glared fitfully and fleet,The word is passed across the plain to where the rivers roll, —To where, tree-fringed in eddying swirls, the Modder meets the Riet.(In heat and thirst and weariness a hundred dying lay,A hundred bloody forms grew stiff to give me Right Away.)Line Clear: I face the grim gaunt range that stretches east and west('Twas by its base, near Magers farm, that Wauchope's men went down):I skirt the ridge that hid the guns, and gleefully I breastThe easy rise that brings in view the long-beleaguered town.(Line Clear: o'er blood, and sweat, and pain, and sorrow'sroad I ran,And every sleeper was a wound, and every rail a man.)

THE NAVAL BRIGADE

When you're pickin' your men for a fight,When choosin' the corps that'll serve,It's only quite proper an' rightTo fix upon muscle an' nerve,An' so, to your heavy Dragoons —Your Granny-dear Guards an' their band —To your Sappers with bridgin' pontoons,You can buckle the Lower Deck Hand!(The Lower Deck HandDoesn't want any band;He's grit, an he's sandIs the Lower Deck Hand.)His march is a go-as-you-please;He most keeps step with hisself!For his boots ain't conducive to ease,Bein' mostly kept packed on a shelf!Tho' he isn't so span or so spic —Tho' his marchin' ain't what you'd call grand —He gets to the front just as quickDoes the elegant Lower Deck Hand!(The Lower Deck HandWasn't reared in the Strand;But he's good to command,Is the Lower Deck Hand.)You may swear by the jolly marines,'Per marey, per tarey' they fight —Not speakin' for them in their 'teens —I don't mind admittin' your right.But all that the Joey has got,As I'd have all the world understand,He's learnt – well, he's learnt quite a lotFrom his tooter – the Lower Deck Hand!(The Lower Deck HandIs a mine that's unpanned;An' he's yours to command,Is the Lower Deck Hand.)He doesn't shape well at Reviews,I've known him to spit in the ranks;But we've never been asked to excuseA fault, when he's guarding the flanks.An' when there's a break in the squareOr a place where the Line cannot stand,I'll tell you the chap to put there —'Jack Mullow' – the Lower Deck Hand.(The Lower Deck HandWill die as he 'll stand;He's tempered an land,Is the Lower Deck Hand.)When you're hemmed in a tight little hole,By a greatly outnumbering foe,It's a matter of stokin' an' coalHow far we're away from the foe.When the Infantry's needin' some aid,When the 'tillery gets under-man'd, —Make way for the Naval Brigade! —His Highness the Lower Deck Hand!(The Lower Deck HandWith his guns he can land,An he'll kick up some sand,Will the Lower Deck Hand.)

THE ARMOURED TRAIN

There's risk on the ballasted roadway,There's death on the girdered bridge,Red ruin from sleeper to sleeper,And wreck on the bouldered ridge.No signal to herald my coming,No whistle to waken the plain;Stand clear – I am out for patrolling!Make way for the Armoured Train!I run not to time, nor to table,I'm neither an 'Up' nor a 'Down,'But 'Full speed ahead' is my order,When skirting the enemy's town.My mails have a backing of cordite,My luggage is powder and shell,With smoke-stack a-blazing I thunder,A traveller's sample of Hell!They have laid me a mine by a culvert,They have loosened a bolt by a curve,But thrice-tested steel is my muscle,And thrice-tested brass is my nerve.A curse for their bungling folly,A laugh for the death-trap that fails,A hang for the enemy's miner,So long as I keep to the rails.A cheer – and I pull from the townshipTo spy out the enemy's line;A plunge – and I rush into darknessAs reckless of wreckage as mine.And what if a rail has been lifted?And what if a river's unspanned?I fail, but I know in the failingI strove at the Empire's command.They were men who at Badajos conquered,They were men who for Wellington struck,And a Man is the Man at the Throttle,And a Man is the Man on the Truck.Undismayed I may go to destruction.For I know at the end I may feelI die with the men on the footplate,I pass with my brothers in steel.

MAKE YOUR OWN ARRANGEMENTS

When the depôt soldier's dinin' on three-quarters of a pound,If there's too much bone to please 'im, or the meat is extry tough,'E 'as got a chance of grousin' when 'is orficer goes round,'E can draw upon the mess-book, if 's rations ain't enough.But it's make your own arrangements! Make your own arrangements!When you're cut orf from the column, an' supplies are runnin' low,It ain't no 'too much fat, sir!'But it's bread – an' glad of that, sir!O it's bake your own arrangements – out of flour – as you go!When the depôt soldier's on parade 'e sparkles an' 'e shines.When the depôt soldier's drillin' 'e must make each motion 'tell.'When the depôt soldier's marchin' 'e must march on drill-book lines.'E 'as got a drill-instructor, an' 'e does it very well.But it's make your own arrangements! Make your own arrangements!When the camp is rushed at midnight, an' you're fallin' in – to die!O there ain't no drill-rules set there,But it's take your gun – an' get there!When you make your own arrangements, you must grab your belt an' fly.The depôt soldier's grounded in a systematic drill;'E also knows wot's 'rendezvous' an' what is 'bivouac.''E knows the use of rifle-pits, the proper way to kill —'E understands the principles an' the'ries of attack.But it's make your own arrangements! Make your own arrangements!When you're dodgin' tons of boulder, climbin' mount'ins under fire,An' the drill-book won't assist youTill the fallin' rocks 'ave missed you!So you make your own arrangements – an' you climb a little 'igher!When the depôt soldier's wantin' with 'is orficer to speak,'E must 'alt two paces from 'im, an' salute before the start.An' 'e mustn't try to argue, an' 'e mustn't give no cheek;An' if 'is Captain slangs 'im – 'e must take it in good part.But it's make your own arrangements! Make your own arrangements!When you see 'im lying wounded, all the circumstances change.An' you don't 'eed no instructions;An' you don't need introductions;But you make your own arrangements – an' you get 'im out of range.When the depôt soldier sickens, when the depôt soldier dies,'E is buried by 'is comrades in the regulation style.'E is covered by an ensign of the regulation size,An' 'e gets a firin' party made of thirteen rank an' file.But it's make your own arrangements! Make your own arrangements!When the Colonel reads the service by a guard-room lantern light.When in silent rows you've laid 'emIn a trench your bay'nets made 'em,O, it's make your own arrangements when you bury in the night!

GINGER JAMES

A spell I 'ad to waitOutside the barrick gate,For Ginger James was passin' out as I was passin' in;'E was only a recruit,But I give 'im the salute,For I'll never git another chance of givin' it agin!'E'd little brains, I'll swear,Beneath 'is ginger 'air,'Is personal attractions, well, they wasn't very large;'E was fust in ev'ry mill,An' a foul-mouthed brute, but stillWe'll forgive 'im all 'is drawbacks – 'e 'as taken 'is discharge.'E once got fourteen days,For drunken, idle ways,An' the Colonel said the nasty things that colonels sometimes say;'E called him to 'is faceThe regiment's disgrace —But the Colonel took 'is 'at off when 'e passed 'im by to-day.For days 'e used to dwellInside a guard-room cell,Where they put the darbies on 'im for a 'owlin' savage brute;But as by the guard 'e wentThey gave 'im the present,The little bugler sounded off the 'General Salute.'The band turned out to playPoor Ginger James away;'Is Captain an' 'is Company came down to see 'im off;An' thirteen file an' rank,With three rounds each of blank;An' 'e rode down on a carriage, like a bloomin' city toff!'E doesn't want no pass,'E's journeying first-class;'Is trav'lling rug's a Union Jack, which isn't bad at all;The tune the drummers playIt ain't so very gay,But a rather slow selection, from a piece that's known as 'Saul.'

'HER MAJESTY HAS BEEN PLEASED – '

Wot a crowd of people!Wot a sea of faces!'Ow the ladies' parasols are glist'nin' in the sun!Troops in 'open order,'Captains in their places.Wish the day was over, and I wish the job was done!Wot a lot of civvies!Mus' be 'arf the city!Like a mob on Boxing-night outside Drury Lane!Ain't it perfect weather?More's the blessed pity!Wish instead of sunshine it was pourin' 'ard o' rain!Comes of bein' famous —Mentioned in despatches!Comes of me a-carrying the Major to the rear!Empty stomach fighting —Getting sleep by snatches! —'Ow the troops must cuss me for a-keeping them out 'ere!'Ow the people eye me,Like a choice chrysanth'um!'Ow this collar's chokin' me! – Lord! I'm feelin' sick!Troops are at the 'shoulder' —'Pre-sent' – there's the anthem!'Ow I 'ope 'er Majesty will get it over quick!Wonder if I'm dusty?'Elmet feels lopsided!Chuck a chest for 'Eaven's sake! Lord, I'm feelin' queer!Twenty times they've brushed me,Twice 'ave I been tidied,Yet I'm feelin' mucky still. Private Jawkins? 'ERE!Face the lan-dow panels,Dumbly; likewise blindly,Seein' in a sorter mist a lady dressed in black:'Ear 'er sof'ly talkin'.Thanks, mum, thank you kindly!Saw the Major fallin', and I 'ad to take 'im back!Thank you, mum – your 'Ighness —Majesty, I mean, mum!'M sure I'm much obliged to you for this 'ere pretty Cross!Bless you, you're a lady!Mean you are the Queen, mum!On'y picked the Major up an' shoved 'im on an 'orse!'Saw our Sub go under,'Alf 'is men around 'imCut to bits – an' 'im so young, – yes mum, very sad.Yes mum, 'e was buriedIn the place we found 'im.Thank you, mum, – your Majesty (God, I'm feelin' bad!)

ARTHUR

'Oo's the Gen'ral 'ere? sez I;'Oo's the Gen'ral 'ere?'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, so you 'aven't gotnothin' to fear.'But 'e marched me 'ere, an' 'e marched me there,To burn blank cartridges everywhere;An' 'e made me sweat, an' 'e made me swear —Did Arthur!Wot can the Gen'ral do? sez I;Wot can the Gen'ral do?'O, 'e 's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, an' 'e don't knowmuch about you!'But 'e doubled me round on a big field day:An' 'e checked me for loafin' – a mile away!An' I found there's a time for work an' playWith Arthur!Wot 'as the Gen'ral done, sez I?Wot 'as the Gen'ral done?'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, an' they chucked 'im 'isrank for fun!'But that was a lie, for I found out since'E's ninepence a soldier an' thruppence a prince!'E stood fire in Egypt, an' 'e didn't wince!Not Arthur!Wot does the Gen'ral know? sez I;Wot does the Gen'ral know?'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, an' 'e 's on'ygot up for show!'But I 'chanced' kit inspection, an' thought it a 'cert.';But 'e put me down, smart, for a tunic an' shirt!An', insult to injury – checked me for dirt!Did Arthur!'Ow is 'e liked by you? sez I;'Ow is 'e liked by you?'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, but I reckonsome'ow 'e'll do!'I'm willin' to risk, as I've done before,A Fox 'Ills fight, or a native war,Or front rank man in an Army Corps,With Arthur!Wot is 'e, after all? sez I;Wot is 'e, after all?'O, 'e's a swaddle, the same as you, an' 'e goes to the"orficers' call"!''E's a gentleman, Tommy, when all's said an' done!'Is ma is the lady 'oo 's second to none,An' we love 'er the better because of 'er son —That's Arthur!

LEGACIES

The dog is yours; and so's the photo frames,Them pictures wot I cut, an' my new box.The pack of cards, the dominoes, an' games,The knittin' needles, an' the knitted socks,An' all, except the letters and the ring —You'll find them all together tied with string.My public clothin' – that goes back to stores —My kit'll sell by auction on the square;An' other fellers will be 'formin' fours'An' 'markin' time' in boots I used to wear.They're welcome; but you won't forget to sendThe ring an' all the letters to my – friend?The pain ain't near so bad as wot it wereThe day they dragged me from the limber wheels;Ain't I a wreck! for God's sake don't tell 'er;Say it was fever – peaceful – in the 'ills;An' write about the wreaths, the 'Jack,' and band,An' – send a bit of hair: you understand?The ring – Oh no, the doctor lets me talk,I ain't a-tirin' – 'cept a funny light,An' just a feelin' that I'd like to walkTo where it seems to flicker in the night.Better for me to go with aching 'ead,Than go in trouble with my say unsaid.The ring – it ain't long since she sent it back;I never meant no 'arm, God only knows,But things – I can't tell now – looked very black,And she believed the others – I suppose,I'm sorry for 'er now – that cursed wheel! —You see she is a woman, an' she'll feel.* * * * *The dog is yours, I told you that before.The spurs you'll find 'em in my private kit.The letters, an' the ring, an' nothin' more, —An' hair – it's foolish – but a little bit.* * * * *'Our Father' – Lord, how strange! It's all – ri' – sir.The – lett – an – th' – ring – an' – hair – for – 'er!

T. A. IN LOVE

Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!Sittin' with my elbow on my knee.I orter be a polishin' the meat-dish an' the can —(I orter draw the groceries – for I am ord'ly man!But wot are bloomin' ration calls, an' wot's a pot or pan,When I'm dreaming O my darlin' one, of thee?)Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!Firin' at the rifle range I be.I've missed a fust-class targit – an' I've missed the 'ill be'ind!I nearly shot a marker once! (which wasn't very kind);The orficer 'e swears at me – but re'ly, I don't mind!I am dreamin', O my darlin' one, of thee!Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!Me, as was the smartest man in 'B'!My kit is all untidy, and it's inches thick in dust;An' my rifle's fouled an' filthy, an' my bay'nit's red with rust;They've tried to find the reason – but I've seen 'em furder fust!An' they never guess I'm dreamin', dear, of thee!Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!They can't make out wot's comin' over me.The fellows think I'm barmy, an' the Major thinks it's drink,The Sergeant thought it laziness, so shoved me in the clink!The Colonel called it 'thoughtlessness,' so gave me time to think,An' to dream again, my darlin' one, of thee!Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!Wot's two 'ours' sentry-go to me?A sittin' in the sentry-box, a-thinkin' of your eyes,The ord'ly orficer come along, an' took me by surprise!'E said as I was sleepin' – an' the usual orfice lies!When I was on'y dreamin', love, of thee!Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!Rubbin' tarry oakum on my knee!Oh, when I weigh that oakum in, I know I'll cop it 'ot!I'll be 'auled before the Gov'nor, an' I'll git an 'our's shot;But whether I git punishment, or whether I do not,They can't prevent me dreamin', love, of thee!

TOMMY ADVISES

Take your rifle from the rack:Take your bay'nit from the shelf;Clean your straps for marchin' order,An' git ready for the Border.For it ain't no sham attack,So you needn't kid yourself.It's a ball an' bay'nit actionWith the perfect satisfactionOf a medal, an' a ribbon, and perhaps a clasp or two.For a-doin' of the little job your betters couldn't do.Pack your socks, an' fold your shirt,Wash your water-bottle out,It'll make your marchin' easyIf your boots are nice an' greasy, —An' some dubbin wouldn't 'urt.You can chuck your weight about;There's an 'appy day before you,When the civvies will adore you,And the things wot used to shock 'em will be favoured with a smile.And your little faults an' failin's won't be noticed for a while.Git a guernsey out of store —Winter's very cold above,An' the wind an' rain will find youIf you leave your clothes behind you!Trust your pretty self beforeAny Quartermaster's love;For there's no store to go untoAn' no tailors' shops to run to;For it ain't no ten days' skirmish these manoeuvres wot you're in,An' a little flannel weskit 'ides a multitood of skin!Write your letters for the mail;Tell your people all the news —For your folks'll prize the writin'Of 'my son who's out a-fightin'.'Don't you spin an awful tale,Just to give your mother blues,For the day the boys are cryin''List o' wounded, dead and dyin'!'Will be tons of time for them at 'ome to feel a trifle blue,When they see a dozen Smiths are killed – and wonder which is you!

THE NUMBER ONE

The number one, 'e's on the bridge,There's goin' to be a row,The Gold Coast is upon our port,An', 'ull down, on our bow;Makin' for 'ome for all she's worth —A slaver's bloomin' dhow!The number one is on the bridge,The buntin' tosser's aft;An' down below, in the 'eat an' glow,The men are at their graft.They've peeled their shirts, to get the steam,To over-'aul that craft.The number one is in command,The skipper's sick below,A touch o' fever from the coast,'As made the old man so;But 'e's passed the word to the engineer,'For Gawd's sake make 'er go!'The 'gen'ral quarters' sounded orf,The bugler's made a call(A call that means the 'red' marines,With fifty rounds of ball,Are goin' to git a medal an' clasp,Or an ensign for a pall!)The number one is on the bridge,The sun is low an' red!An' shot an' shell, like fiends of 'ell,Are shriekin' round 'is 'ead,An' three marines are crippled,An' their sergeant-major's dead!The number one is on the bridge,The dhow's a battered sight;'Er rascal chief 'as come to grief;'E's fought 'is final fight,But the number one lies on the bridge,An' 'is face is ghastly white.A smile is on 'is bloodless lips,'Is sword 'angs from 'is wrist,And a lock of 'air of a maiden fair.Is clasped in 'is bloodstained fist,But 'e'll meet 'er at the great roll-call,When they muster by 'open list'!