War poems

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It's getting close to Nov 11. Thought I would throw out a (I think) WW1 war poem. Add one or two till the day.

Author unknown

Rain
They say that spring time showers will bring forth flowers
I don't believe it
I can't conceive it
I know the thunder as a herald of doom to come
the sound of war and the dreadful drum
I see no sun or rainbow graceful
This God damned rain is so God damned hateful
Every day I trudge this sucking mud
My soldiers pack all splashed with blood
I see the leaves in the sodden muck
A fallen comrade in the wire is stuck
All is brown and stark and grey
All broken trees on an endless day
And all for what?
A few shillings pay
So keep your rain and keep your clouds
And keep your medals and your cheering crowds
And give me sun and give me peace
How I wish this God damned rain would cease
I can't conceive it
 
My Mom is 93 now and Halifax Pier 21 is where a lot of troops left Canada for the war. Mom was one of only 3 companies of Canadian Women's Army Corps to be sent overseas.
She was Signal Corps and worked in Canada House at Cdn. Army headquarters in London during the Blitz with a stint in Europe after D Day.

Below is her story and poem which are mounted on the wall at Pier 21 in Halifax today.

L. Helen Peck
WWII Veteran
Ile de France

1939, when World War two began I was a young girl on the Old Gray Farm on Prince Edward Island. I was born there and grew up longing the Country. As soon as Canada declared War, my brother Everett joined the Army, then a few days later, his twin brother Stewart joined up, Stewart went to Charlottetown as he was over six feet tall and said, "I’ve got to go and look after my little twin."

There was only World War One, old uniforms to try and fit these new soldiers. Stewart looked strange with sleeves and pant legs too short for him.

They trained at Petawawa in Ontario, both brothers got married and both wives were expecting when the twins were shipped overseas.

Then, my brother David also joined the Army in the Engineers branch. He trained in Alberta, before he too was shipped overseas.

Our Prime Minister Mackenzie King passed into law conscription, and so my brother William was called to join up too.

On the morning he was to report down at Charlottetown, my mother said, "Helen go upstairs and tell William to get up." My poor mother watched three sons volunteer to join now they were taking William too.

I went upstairs and found my brother in bed with tears running down his cheek. He said, "Helen, I don’t want to go, Everett and Stewart have got guts - I don’t". However he had no choice, he had to go, and after quick training he was sent overseas and was soon driving transport trucks around England in the Blackouts.

Next, my boyfriend, who had asked me to marry him before he was sent overseas, sent a letter to me to tell me he had married an English girl!

I was broken hearted and decided I was going to join the Army too. I wanted to go overseas and hoped that one of those bombs would fall on me that would end the heartache.

Mother consented if both my sister Ruth and I could join together, how difficult it must have been for Mother. How many prayers she must have said for her six children all doing their bit for King and country.

In Halifax I was a switchboard operator at the old Fortress beside Citadel Hill.

I loved my life, sharing billets with other Canadian girls who had volunteered in the Canadian Women’s Army Camps. While in Halifax, my brother William was sent home from overseas on the hospital ship Lady Nelson. He had an operation at Camp Hill Hospital to remove one of his kidneys. After he was well enough he was sent back home to Prince Edward Island to be discharged and he was happy as the war was over for him.

One day I was called into the Captains Office, and I wondered, "what have I done wrong?" However, it turned out my Captain told me, "Gray, you are on draft to go overseas!"

A quick leave home to P.E.I. and I was at Pier 21 walking up the gangplank to board the ship Ile de France.

In London, England I operated a switchboard at Canadian Military Headquarters. I was there when the first German 'doodle bugs' Pilotless planes, with a bomb on board were sent across the channel aimed at London, and later the V2 bombs.

After about two years the war in Europe was over. My brothers were all able to return home; we were so fortunate, all fine of us that went overseas returned home again.

I could not go home until January 1946 because as a telephone operator, our jobs were necessary until all administration was taken care of.

I never regretted my years in the service, my return across the Atlantic Ocean at the end of January was on the same Lle de France ship, and so Pier 21 means a lot to me.

Then I visited there I bought a picture of the old Lle de France ship in Wartime, and I will treasure it along with all my scrapbook items.

2005

I am 82 years old now; only my brother Everett and my sister Ruth are still living from my large family (nine of us).

C.W.A.C. Wellington Barracks
Halifax, Nova Scotia

Rolled up in my blanket nice and cozy,
dreaming of the days that used to be.
When out of the dawn comes the bugle,
and I wake to hear him play Reveille.
Sleepily out of my bunk I roll,
to dress as quick as I can,
and with my 'silver' go to breakfast,
of bacon, eggs, coffee, bread and jam.

Out of the barracks then we go,
with a smile for the guard at the gate,
and patiently we wait for a streetcar,
maybe we will have to take an 'eight'.
Finally, it comes around the comer,
if you can get a seat it is grand,
then it only takes a few minutes,
to get to headquarters Atlantic command.

Then down to the telephone exchange I go,
to sit there plugging all day long,
I say "Atlantic Command! Number please?"
"Thank you, it’s busy, will you hold?"
Often we go on night shift,
but I really don’t mind at all,
you see, I’ve taken a mans place,
since I joined up, a year ago last fall.

I love my life in the Army,
I’m proud to a C.W.A.C.
and I want to help all I can,
to bring my brothers back to me.

The “twins” joined when war was declared,
and soon they were sent overseas,
another one is out in Alberta,
and my sister is in it with me.

Another brother was called in the Army,
he was sent overseas right away,
but got sick and went to the hospital,
now he is back in Canada to stay.
But he did his best over there,
and is now awaiting the day,
when he can leave the Camp Hill Hospital,
and go back home to stay.

We come from that 'little' province,
the smallest one of them all,
but it has the greatest record,
our boys answered Canada’s call.
So these boys from up in Ontario,
and those that come from out West,
can brag all they like about “Canada”,
we “Islanders” still love P.E.I. the best!
 
"And yes, it's true what they say
of war and war's alarms;
but oh, that I was young again
and held her in my arms."

anonymous
 
THE BATTLING BOYS OF BENGHAZI

We're the battling boys of Benghazi,
No fame, no glory, no paparazzi.
Just a fiery death in a blazing hell,
Defending our country we loved so well.
It wasn't our job, but we answered the call,
Fought to the Consulate and scaled the wall.
We pulled twenty countrymen from the jaws of fate,
Led them to safety and stood at the gate.
Just the two of us and foes by the score,
But we stood fast to bar the door.
Three calls for reinforcement, but all were denied,
So we fought and we fought and we fought until we died.
We gave our all for our Uncle Sam,
But Barack and Hillary didn't give a damn.

Just two dead Seals who carried the load
No thanks to us ... we were just Bumps in the Road.
-- Anonymous
 
German poem
Argonne Forest, at midnight
A sapper's song from the World War, 1915

Argonne Forest, at midnight,
A sapper atands on guard.
A star shines high up in the sky,
bringing greetings from a distant homeland.

And with a spade in his hand,
He waits forward in the sap-trench.
He thinks with longing on his love,
Wondering if he will ever see her again.

The artillery roars like thunder,
While we wait in front of the infantry,
With shells crashing all around.
The Frenchies want to take our position.

Should the enemy threaten us even more,
We Germans fear him no more.
And should he be so strong,
He will not take our position.

The storm breaks! The mortar crashes!
The sapper begins his advance.
Forward to the enemy trenches,
There he pulls the pin on a grenade.

The infantry stand in wait,
Until the hand grenade explodes.
Then forward with the assault against the enemy,
And with a shout, break into their position.

Argonne Forest, Argonne Forest,
Soon thou willt be a quiet cemetary.
In thy cool earth rests
much gallant soldiers' blood.




Argonnerwald, um Mitternacht
Pionierlied aus dem Weltkrieg, 1915

Argonnerwald, um Mitternacht,
Ein Pionier stand auf der Wacht.
Ein Sternlein hoch am Himmel stand,
Bringt Grüße ihm aus fernem Heimatland.

Und mit dem Spaten in der Hand,
Er vorne in der Sappe stand.
Mit Sehnsucht denkt er an sein Lieb,
Ob er es wohl noch einmal wiedersieht.

Und donnernd dröhnt die Artill'rie,
Wir stehen vor der Infant'rie,
Granaten schlagen bei uns ein,
Der Franzmann will in uns're Stellung 'rein.

Und droht der Feind uns noch so mehr,
Wir Deutschen fürchten ihn nicht mehr.
Und ob er auch so stark mag sein,
In uns're Stellung kommt er doch nocht 'rein.

Der Sturm bricht los! Die Mine kracht!
Der Pionier gleich vorwärts macht.
Bis an den Feind macht er sich ran
Und zündet dann die Handgranate an.

Die Infant'rie steht auf der Wacht,
Bis daß die Handgranate kracht,
Geht dann mit Sturm bis an den Feind,
Mit Hurra bricht sie in die Stellung ein.

Argonnerwald, Argonnerwald,
Ein stiller Friedhof wirst du bald.
In deiner kühlen Erde ruht
So manches tapfere Soldatenblut.
 
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Rudyard Kipling
Rudyard Kipling


Tommy

I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!
 
Dulce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen
Thought to have been written between 8 October 1917 and March, 1918
 
Dulce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen
Thought to have been written between 8 October 1917 and March, 1918

http://www.gradesaver.com/wilfred-owen-poems/study-guide/summary-dulce-et-decorum-est
A great summary of this poem
 
Wilfred Owen

The Sentry

We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew,
And gave us hell, for shell on frantic shell
Hammered on top, but never quite burst through.
Rain, guttering down in waterfalls of slime
Kept slush waist high, that rising hour by hour,
Choked up the steps too thick with clay to climb.
What murk of air remained stank old, and sour
With fumes of whizz-bangs, and the smell of men
Who'd lived there years, and left their curse in the den,
If not their corpses. . . .
########################There we herded from the blast
Of whizz-bangs, but one found our door at last.
Buffeting eyes and breath, snuffing the candles.
And thud! flump! thud! down the steep steps came thumping
And splashing in the flood, deluging muck —
The sentry's body; then his rifle, handles
Of old Boche bombs, and mud in ruck on ruck.
We dredged him up, for killed, until he whined
"O sir, my eyes — I'm blind — I'm blind, I'm blind!"
Coaxing, I held a flame against his lids
And said if he could see the least blurred light
He was not blind; in time he'd get all right.
"I can't," he sobbed. Eyeballs, huge-bulged like squids
Watch my dreams still; but I forgot him there
In posting next for duty, and sending a scout
To beg a stretcher somewhere, and floundering about
To other posts under the shrieking air.
Those other wretches, how they bled and spewed,
And one who would have drowned himself for good, —
I try not to remember these things now.
Let dread hark back for one word only: how
Half-listening to that sentry's moans and jumps,
And the wild chattering of his broken teeth,
Renewed most horribly whenever crumps
Pummelled the roof and slogged the air beneath —
Through the dense din, I say, we heard him shout
"I see your lights!" But ours had long died out.
 
When you’re wounded out on Afghanistan’s plains
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Then just roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
And die like a good British soldier!
– Rudyard Kipling

And they are still at it a century and a half later
 
The Screw Guns; Kipling,

http://www.kiplingsociety.co.uk/rg_screwguns_notes.htm

Song

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sM1l3teGaaM

Poem

http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/kipling/screw_guns.html

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hxr-obi3sQQ

British 10lb mountain screw gun images

https://www.google.ca/search?q=brit...X&ved=0ahUKEwipop_qr4rQAhVFylQKHTb_AcIQsAQIGg

The bulge in the tube ( barrel ) is where it unscrews into to pieces to make a lighter load for the mules. The British had a similiar muzzle loading mountain gun if I remember correctly.

http://www.bocn.co.uk/vbforum/threads/88068-10-Pounder-Mountain-Gun-walkaround
 
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Here's a favourite of mine:

The Next War, By Wilfred Owen:

War's a joke for me and you,
Wile we know such dreams are true.
- Siegfried Sassoon

Out there, we've walked quite friendly up to Death,-
Sat down and eaten with him, cool and bland,-
Pardoned his spilling mess-tins in our hand.
We've sniffed the green thick odour of his breath,-
Our eyes wept, but our courage didn't writhe.
He's spat at us with bullets and he's coughed
Shrapnel. We chorussed when he sang aloft,
We whistled while he shaved us with his scythe.

Oh, Death was never enemy of ours!
We laughed at him, we leagued with him, old chum.
No soldier's paid to kick against His powers.
We laughed, -knowing that better men would come,
And greater wars: when each proud fighter brags
He wars on Death, for lives; not men, for flags.
 
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