The Dyak chief, and other verses :: PART TWO AMERICAN ARMY BALLADS

PART TWO AMERICAN ARMY BALLADS

ON THE WATER-WAGON

ARMY OF PACIFICATION
Cuba 1907

I’ve hiked a trail where the last marks fail
And the vine-choked jungles yawn,
I’ve doubled-out on a dirty scout
Two hours before the dawn,
I’ve done my drill when the palms hung still
And the rations nearly gone.

I’ve soldier’d in Pinar del Rio—
In ’Frisco and Aparri—
I’ve lifted their lights through the tropic nights
O’er the breast of a golden sea,
But this is surely the craziest puzzle
That ever has puzzled me.

It’s this. I’m here in Cuba
Where the royal palms swing high,
And the White Man’s plantations of all o’ the Nations
Are scattered ahither and nigh
And the native galoot who must revolute
Though no one can tell you just why.

And when I go mapping the mountain and vale
Or a practice-march happens my way,
Each planter I meet is lovely and sweet
And setteth them up right away,
“And won’t I come in and how’ve I been?”
And—“How long do I think the troops stay?”

They never besprinkled my bosom
When I soldier’d over home,
Nor clasped me in glee when I came from the sea
Where the Seal Rock breakers comb,
Or stamped on a strike and scattered them wide
Like the scud of the back-set foam.

When I saved ’em their stinking Islands
They cursed me for being rough:
(They wouldn’t dare to have soldier’d there
But they called me brutal and tough.
I had done their work and the land was theirs,
Which I reckon was nearly enough).

They never enthuse over khaki or “blues”
Anywhere else I’ve been.
They never go wild and bless the child
And say “Oh Willie come in.”
Though on my soul, I’m damned if I see
Just where is the Cardinal Sin.

I’m only a buck o’ the rank and file
As stupid as I can be,
So this is the craziest puzzle
That ever has puzzled me.
(I’m perfectly dry but I must bat an eye,
For you think that I cannot see.)

SOLITARY

We’re walking our post like a little tin soldier,
Backward and forward we go,
By the Solitary’s cell, which assuredly is hell—
It’s five foot square you know.

The boy was all right but he would get tight
When pay-day came around;
And the non-com he hated was thereupon slated
To measure 5-10 on the ground.

Oh yes, we’ve been in the calaboose,
We’ve done our turn in the jug;
’Cause the fellow we lick must go raise a kick—
The dirty, cowardly mug.

His heart was all right and his arm was all right,
But it’s fearful what drink will do:
And the corporal he hit with the butt of a gun
And nigh put the corporal through.

It’s way against orders, it’s awful, I know,
They’d jug me myself—what’s more—
But I must slip the beggar a chew and a smoke
Just under the jamb of the door.

He’s bound to get Ten and a Bob for sure
Abreaking stone on the Isle,
So they fastened ’im fair in a five foot square
Till the day that they give ’im a trial.

Oh the Corporal o’ the Guard is a wakeful man—
My duty is written plain,
But the Solitary there in his cramped and lonely lair,
It’s enough to drive a man insane.

He’s time to repent for the money that he spent
And the temper that cursed him too,
When he’s breaking rock all day by the shores o’ ’Frisco Bay
Where he sees the happy homeward-bounds come through.

Shall we risk it—shall we risk it—heart o’ mine?
Oh damn the Corporal of the Guard.
While we slip “the makings” under to the Solitary’s wonder,
And the whispered thanks come back—“God bless you, pard.”

THE SULTAN COMES TO TOWN
A Philippine Reminiscence of 1900

The Sultan of Jolo has come to town—
Do tell!
The Sultan of Jolo has come to town—
The Sultan of Jolo of great renown—
And he’s dressed like a general and walks like a clown
As well.

The Sultan of Jolo’s a mighty chief—
My word!
The Sultan of Jolo’s a mighty chief—
(Don’t call ’im a grafter or chicken-thief,
For you’ll surely come to your grief,
If heard).

The Sultan of Jolo’s such a stride,
And style!
The Sultan of Jolo’s such a stride,
And his skin’s the color of rhino hide,
And he cheweth betel-nut beside:
(Oh vile!)

The Sultan of Jolo’s a swell galoot—
You bet.
The Sultan of Jolo’s a swell galoot,
So we line the scorching streets and salute,
(“Presenting Arms” to the royal boot),
And sweat.

The Sultan of Jolo’s a full-fledged king—
I say
The Sultan of Jolo’s a full-fledged king
As down the regiment’s front they swing,
He and his Escort—wing and wing:
Hurray!

The Sultan of Jolo feels his weight,
In truth.
The Sultan of Jolo feels his weight
As he marches by in regal state
With Major Sour and all The Great,
Forsooth.

The Sultan proudly treads the earth
With “cuz.”
The Sultan proudly treads the earth
O’ershadowed by the Major’s girth,
But he knows just what the Major’s worth:
He does.

The Sultan of Jolo’s a haughty bun—
(Don’t quiz).
The Sultan of Jolo’s a haughty bun—
An honest, virtuous gentleman—
And he’s rated high in Washington—
He is.

The Sultan of Jolo’s a splendid bird—
Whoopee!
The Sultan of Jolo’s a splendid bird,
But we in our ignorance pledge our word
His asinine plumage is absurd
To see.

The Sultan and Major Sour are
Such chums:
The Sultan and Major Sour are
So wrapped in love exceeding par,
That war shall never war-time mar—
—what comes.

(The Sultan of Jolo guesseth right—
Yo ho!
The Sultan of Jolo guesseth right,
As sure as daytime follows night,
That Major Sour wouldn’t fight:
Lord—no!)

The Sultan of Jolo is pretty wise—
(And weeds).
The Sultan of Jolo is pretty wise,
In spite of innocent, bovine eyes,
And the soothing tongue o’ the Eastern skies
And creeds.

The Sultan of Jolo passeth by—
Oh Lor’!
The Sultan of Jolo passeth by,
But we in the ranks can’t wink an eye,
Though we think we know the Reasons Why,
And more.

The Sultan of Jolo walketh flat—
(Have a care!)
The Sultan of Jolo walketh flat,
But Nature’s surely the cause of that;
And he’s salaried high—and sleek and fat—
So there!

The Sultan of Jolo laughs in glee—
Why not?
The Sultan of Jolo laughs in glee
As his wages come across the sea
From those who hate polygamy—
God wot!

Oh the Sultan of Jolo’s gold and gilt—
He is.
Oh the Sultan of Jolo’s gold and gilt,
His chest and his sleeves and his good sword hilt,
And he knows the lines on which are built—
His biz.

PHILIPPINE RANKERS

Clear down the thin-thatched barrack-room
The varying voices rise—
The shrill New England teacher’s—
(The wisest of the wise)—
And the Cowboy cleaning cartridges
And telling fearful lies.

The Bowery Boy is fast asleep
Performing Bunk-fatigue,
The Kid who simply can’t keep still
Is pounding through a jig,
And a plain darn fool just sits and sings
And sneaks another swig.

A bouncing bargain-counter clerk
Dilates to Private Brown,
The lordly top-notch swell he is
When he is back in town,
And the scion of an ancient name
Just yawns and hides a frown.

The mountain-riding Parson talks
T’ his Y. M. C. A. band,
And mine Professor’s turning Keats
With hard and grimy hand,
And Johnny’s reading football news
When baseball fills the land.

And some they pull together—
And some won’t gee at all—
And some are looking for a fight
And riding for a fall—
And some, they ran from prison bars;
And some, just heard The Call.

And some are simply “rotters”—
And some the Country’s best:
And some are from the cultured East—
And some the sculptured West:
And some they never heard of Burke—
And some they sport a crest.

(“The Backbone of the Army”—
“The Chosen of the Lord”—
The Faithful of the Fathers—
The Wielders of the Sword—
The hired of the helpless—
The bruisers and the bored.)

The east-sides of the cities
Are aye foregathered here;
The best sides of the cities
Are come from far and near,
To mix their books and Bibles
With oaths and rotten beer.
. . . . . . . . . .
Clear down the mud-browed, blood-plowed ranks
The thin, tanned faces lift;
The long, lean line that hears the whine
Of the bamboo’s silken sift,
And the sudden rush and the chug and the hush
Where the careless bullets drift.

The Parson’s up and shooting
And cursing like a fool;
The Bowery Boy is bleeding fast
In a red and ragged pool;
And mine Professor gags the wound—
(Which he didn’t learn in school).
. . . . . . . . . .
Nor creed nor sign nor order—
Nor clan nor clique nor class:
Never a mark to brand him
As he chokes in the paddy grass:
Only the tide of Bunker Hill,
That ebbs, but may not pass.

DOBIE ITCH

Tell about the fever
And all y’ tropic ills,
Tell about the cholera camp
Over ’mong the hills;
Tell about the small-pox
Where the bamboos switch,
But close y’ face and let me tell
About the Dobie Itch.

It isn’t erysipelas—
It isn’t nettle-rash;
It isn’t got from eating pork,
Or drinking native trash.
You smear your toes with ointment,
And think you’re getting well,
And then the damn thing comes again
And simply raises hell.

You’ve hiked all day in sun and rain
Through hills and paddy mire,
Abaft the slippery googoos
Who shoot—and then retire:
And now you’ve taken off your shoes
And settled for a rest,
When suddenly your feet they start
To itch like all possessed.

(Better take your socks off
And then see how it goes....
“Ouch! m’ bloody stockin’s
Stickin’ to m’ toes.”)

Scratching, scratching, scratching,
Burning scab and sore,
(“Stop, you fool, you’ll poison ’em!”
Hear your bunkie roar).
Never mind the poison—
Ease the maddening pain,
Till your poor old tired feet
Start to bleed again.

THE SERVICE ARMS

Clear from clotted Bunker Hill
And frozen Valley Forge,
To the Luzon trenches
And the fern-choked gorge:
All the Service—all the Arms—
Horse and Foot and Guns—
East and West who gave your best—
Stand and pledge your Sons!

The Infantry:

As the Juggernaut slow rolls
Ringing red with reeking tolls,
Crushing out its Hindu souls
In Vishnu’s name:
As the unrelenting tide
Sweeps the weary wreckage wide,
Bidding all men stand aside
Or rue the game:

Meeting front and flank and rear,
Charge on charge with cheer on cheer,
Where the senseless corpses leer
Against the sun:
Sure as fate and faith and sign
I o’erwhelm them—they are mine;
And I pause where weeps the wine
Of battle won.

The Artillery:

As the slumbering craters wake,
And the neighboring foot hills shake,
As in shotted flame they break
Athwart the sky:
As the swollen streams of Spring
Meet their river wing and wing,
Till it sweeps a monstrous thing
Where cities die:

With a cold sardonic smile,
At a range of half a mile,
I—I lop them off in style
By six and eights:
As they come—their Country’s best—
Like a roaring, seething crest,
And I knock them Galley West
Where Glory Waits.

The Cavalry:

As the tidal wave in spate
Batters down the great flood gate
Where the huddled children wait
Behind the doors:
As the eagle in its flight
Sweeps the plain to left and right,
Strewing carnage, wreck and blight
And homeward soars:

As the raging, wild typhoon,
’Neath a white and callous moon,
Lifts the listless low lagoon
Into the sea:
In my tyranny and power
I have swept them where they cower,
I have turned the battle-hour
To the cry of Victory!

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