I T is the story of

Ensign Joy

And the obsolete

rank withal

That I love for each gentle English

boy

Who jumped to his country's

call.

By their fire and fun, and the

deeds they've done,

I would gazette them Second to

none

Who faces a gun in Gaul!)

IT is also the story of Ermyntrude

A less appropriate name

For the dearest prig and the

prettiest prude!

But under it, all the same,

The usual consanguineous squad

Had made her an honest child

of God—

And left her to play the game.

IT was just when the grind of

the Special Reserves,

Employed upon Coast Defence,

Was getting on every Ensign's

nerves—

Sick-keen to be drafted

hence—

That they met and played tennis

and danced and sang,

The lad with the laugh and the

schoolboy slang,

The girl with the eyes intense.

YET it wasn't for him that she

languished and sighed,

But for all of our dear deemed

youth;

And it wasn't for her, but her

sex, that he cried,

If he could but have probed

the truth !

Did she? She would none of his

hot young heart;

As khaki escort he's tall and

smart,

As lover a shade uncouth.

HE went with his draft. She

returned to her craft.

He wrote in his merry vein:

She read him aloud, and the

Studio laughed!

Ermyntrude bore the strain.

He was full of gay bloodshed and

Old Man Fritz:

His flippancy sent her friends

into fits.

Ermyntrude frowned with

pain.

HIS tales of the Sergeant who

swore so hard

Left Ermyntrude cold and

prim;

The tactless truth of the picture

jarred,

And some of his jokes were

grim.

Yet, let him but skate upon

tender ice,

And he had to write to her twice

or thrice

Before she would answer him.

YET once she sent him a

fairy's box,

And her pocket felt the brunt

Of tinned contraptions and

books and socks—

Which he hailed as "a sporting

stunt!"

She slaved at his muffler none

the less,

And still took pleasure in mur-

muring, "Yes!

For a friend of mine at the

Front.")

ONE fine morning his name

appears—

Looking so pretty in print!

"Wounded!" she warbles in

tragedy tears—

And pictures the reddening

lint,

The drawn damp face and the

draggled hair . . .

But she found him blooming in

Grosvenor Square,

With a punctured shin in a

splint.

IT wasn't a haunt of Ermyn-

trude's,

That grandiose urban pile;

Like starlight in arctic altitudes

Was the stately Sister's smile.

It was just the reverse with

Ensign Joy—

In his golden greeting no least

alloy—

In his shining eyes no guile!

HE showed her the bullet that

did the trick—

He showed her the trick,

x-ray'd;

He showed her a table timed to

a tick,

And a map that an airman

made.

He spoke of a shell that caused grievous loss—

But he never mentioned a certain

cross

For his part in the escapade!

SHE saw it herself in a list next

day,

And it brought her back to his

bed,

With a number of beautiful

things to say,

Which were mostly over his

head.

Turned pink as his own pyjamas'

stripe,

To her mind he ceased to em-

body a type—

Sank into her heart instead.

I WONDER that all of you

didn't retire!"

"My blighters were not that

kind."

"But it says you 'advanced un-

der murderous fire,

Machine-gun and shell com-

bined—'"

"Oh, that's the regular War

Office wheeze!"

"'Advanced'—with that leg!—

'on his hands and knees'!"

"I couldn't leave it behind."

HE was soon trick-driving an

invalid chair,

and dancing about on a crutch;

The haute noblesse of Grosvenor

Square

Felt bound to oblige as such;

They sent him for many a motor-

whirl—

With the wistful, willowy wisp of

a girl

Who never again lost touch.

THEIR people were most of

them dead and gone.

They had only themselves to

His pay was enough to marry

upon,

As every Ensign sees.

They would muddle along (as

in fact they did)

With vast supplies of the tertium

quid

You bracket with bread-and-

cheese.

please.

THEY gave him some leave

after Grosvenor Square—

And bang went a month on

banns;

For Ermyntrude had a natural

flair

For the least unusual plans.

Her heaviest uncle came down

well,

And entertained, at a fair hotel,

The dregs of the coupled clans.

A CERTAIN number of

cheques accrued

To keep the wolf from the

door:

The economical Ermyntrude

Had charge of the dwindling

store,

When a Board reported her

bridegroom fit

As—some expression she didn't

permit . . .

And he left for the Front once

more.

HIS crowd had been climbing

the jaws of hell:

He found them in death's dog-

teeth,

With little to show but a good

deal to tell

In their fissure of smoking

heath.

There were changes—of course

—but the change in him

Was the ribbon that showed on

his tunic trim

And the tumult hidden be-

neath!

FOR all he had suffered and

seen before

Seemed nought to a husband's

care;

And the Chinese puzzle of mod-

ern war

For subtlety couldn't compare

With the delicate springs of the

complex life

To be led with a highly sensitised

wife

In a slightly rarefied air!

YET it's good to be back with

the old platoon—

"A man in a world of men"!

Each cheery dog is a henchman

boon—

Especially Sergeant Wren!

Ermyntrude couldn't endure his

name—

Considered bad language no lien

on fame,

Yet it's good to—hear it

again!

BETTER to feel the Ser-

geant's grip,

Though your fingers ache to

the bone!

Better to take the Sergeant's tip

Than to make up your mind

alone.

They can do things together, can

Wren and Joy—

The bristly bear and the beard-

less boy—

That neither could do on his

own.

BUT there's never a word

about Old Man Wren

In the screeds he scribbles

to-day—

Though he praises his N.C.O.'s

and men

In rather a pointed way.

And he rubs it in (with a knitted

brow)

That the war's as good as a pic-

nic now,

And better than any play!

HIS booby-hutch is "as safe

as the Throne,"

And he fares "like the C.-in-

Chief,"

But has purchased "a top-hole

gramophone

By way of comic relief."

(And he sighs as he hears the

men applaud,

While the Woodbine spices are

wafted abroad

With the odour of bully-beef.)

HE may touch on the latest

type of bomb,

But Ermyntrude needn't

blench,

For he never says where you hurl

it from,

And it might be from your

trench.

He never might lead a stealthy

band,

Or toe the horrors of No Man's

Land,

Or swim at the sickly stench. . . .

HER letters came up by

ration-cart

As the men stood-to before

dawn:

He followed the chart of her

soaring heart

With face transfigured yet

drawn:

It filled him with pride, touched

with chivalrous shame.

But—it spoilt the war, as a first-

class game,

For this particular pawn.

THE Sergeant sees it, and

damns the cause

In a truly terrible flow;

But turns and trounces, without

a pause,

A junior N. C. O.

For the crime of agreeing that

Ensign Joy

Isn't altogether the officer boy

That he was four months ago!

AT length he's dumfounded

(the month being May)

By a sample of Ermyntrude's

fun!

"You will kindly get leave over

Christmas Day,

Or make haste and finish the

But Christmas means presents,

she bids him beware:

"So what do you say to a son and

heir?

I'm thinking of giving you

Hun!"

WHAT, indeed, does the

Ensign say?

What does he sit and write?

What do his heart-strings drone all day?

What do they throb all night?

What does he add to his piteous

prayers?—

"Not for my own sake, Lord, but

—theirs,

See me safe through ..."

THEY talk—and he writhes

—"of our spirit out here,

Our valour and all the rest!

There's my poor, lonely, delicate

dear,

As brave as the very best!

We stand or fall in a cheery

crowd,

And yet how often we grouse

aloud!

She faces that with a jest!"

HE has had no sleep for a day

and a night;

He has written her half a

ream;

He has Iain him down to wait for

the light,

And at last come sleep—and a

dream.

He's hopping on sticks up the

studio stair:

A telegraph-boy is waiting there,

And—that is his darling's

scream!

HE picks her up in a tender

storm—

But how does it come to pass

That he cannot see his reflected

form

With hers in the studio glass?

"What's wrong with that mir-

ror?"' he cries.

But only the Sergeant's voice

replies:

"Wake up, Sir! The Gas—

the Gas!"

IS it a part of the dream of

dread?

What are the men about?

Each one sticking a haunted

head

Into a spectral clout!

Funny, the dearth of gibe and

joke,

When each one looks like a pig

in a poke,

Not omitting the snout!

THERE'S your mask, Sir! No

time to lose!"

Ugh, what a gallows shape!

Partly white cap, and partly

noose!

Somebody ties the tape.

Goggles of sorts, it seems, inset:

Cock them over the parapet,

Study the battlescape.

ENSIGN JOY'S in the second

line—

And more than a bit cut off;

A furlong or so down a green

incline

The fire-trench curls in the

trough.

Joy cannot see it—it's in the bed

Of a river of poison that brims

instead.

He can only hear—a cough!

NOTHING to do for the

Companies there—

Nothing but waiting now,

While the Gas rolls up on the

balmy air,

And a small bird cheeps on a

bough.

All of a sudden the sky seems full

Of trusses of lighted cotton-wool

And the enemy's big bow-

wow!

THE firmament cracks with

his airy mines,

And an interlacing hail

Threshes the clover between our

lines,

As a vile invisible flail.

And the trench has become a

mighty vice

That holds us, in skins of molten

ice,

For the vapors that fringe the

veil.

IT'S coming—in billowy swirls

—as smoke

From the roof a world on fire.

It—comes! And a lad with a

heart of oak

Knows only that heart's de-

sire!

His masked lips whimper but one

dear name—

And so is he lost to inward shame

That he thrills at the word:

"Re-tire!"

WHOSE is the order, thrice

renewed?

Ensign Joy cannot tell :

Only, that way lies Ermyntrude,

And the other way this hell!

Three men leap from the pois-

oned fosse,

Three men plunge from the para-

dos,

And—their—officer—as well!

NOW, as he flies at their fly-

ing heels,

He awakes to his deep dis-

grace,

But the yawning pit of his shame

reveals

A way of saving his face:

He twirls his stick to a shep-

herd's crook,

To trip and bring one of them

back to book,

As though he'd been giving

chase!

HE got back gasping—

"They'd too much start!"

"I'd've shot 'em instead!"

said Wren.

"That was your job, Sir, if you'd

the 'eart—

But it wouldn't 've been you,

then.

I pray my Lord I may live to see

A firing-party in front o' them

three!"

(That's what he said to the

men.)

NOW, Joy and Wren, of

Company B,

Are a favourite firm of mine;

And the way they reinforced A,

C, and D

Was, perhaps, not unduly fine;

But it meant a good deal both to

Wren and Joy—

That grim, gaunt man, but that

desperate boy!—

And it didn't weaken the Line.

NOT a bad effort of yours,

my lad,"

The Major deigned to declare.

"My Sergeant's plan, Sir"—

"And that's not bad—

But you've lost that ribbon

you wear?"

"It—must have been eaten away

by the Gas!"

"Well—ribbons are ribbons—

but don't be an ass!

It's better to do than dare."

DARE! He has dared to de-

sert his post—

But he daren't acknowledge

his sin!

He has dared to face Wren with

a lying boast—

But Wren is not taken in.

None sings his praises so long

and loud—

With look so loving and loyal

and proud!

But the boy sees under his

skin.

DAILY and gaily he wrote to

his wife,

Who had dropped the beati-

fied droll

And was writing to him on the

Meaning of Life

And the Bonds between Body

and Soul.

Her courage was high—though

she mentioned its height;

She was putting upon her the

Armour of Light—

Including her aureole!

BUT never a helm had the lad

we know,

As he went on his nightly raids

With a brace of his Blighters, an

N. G O.

And a bagful of hand-grenades

And the way he rattled and

harried the Hun—

The deeds he did dare, and the

risks he would run—

Were the gossip of the Bri-

gades.

HOW he'd stand stockstill as

the trunk of a tree,

With his face tucked down

out of sight,

When a flare went up and the

other three

Fell prone in the frightening

light.

How the German sandbags, that

made them quake,

Were the only cover he cared to

take,

But he'd eavesdrop there all

night.

MACHINE-GUNS, tapping

a phrase in Morse,

Grew hot on a random quest,

And swarms of bullets buzzed

down the course

Like wasps from a trampled

nest.

Yet, that last night!

They had just set off

When he pitched on his face with

a smothered cough,

And a row of holes in his chest.

HE left a letter. It saved

the lives

Of the three who ran from the

Gas;

A small enclosure alone survives,

In Middlesex, under glass:

Only the ribbon that left his

breast

On the day he turned and ran

with the rest,

And lied with a lip of brass!

BUT the letters they wrote

about the boy,

From the Brigadier to the

men!

They would never forget dear

Mr. Joy,

Not look on his like again.

Ermyntrude read them with dry,

proud eye.

There was only one letter that

made her cry.

It was from Sergeant Wren:

THERE never was such a fear-

less man,

Or one so beloved as he.

He was always up to some daring

plan,

Or some treat for his men and

me.

There wasn't his match when he

went away;

But since he got back, there has

not been a day

But what he has earned a

V. C

A CYNICAL story? That's

not my view.

The years since he fell are

twain.

What were his chances of coming

through?

Which of his friends remain?

But Ermyntrude's training a

splendid boy

Twenty years younger than En-

sign Joy.

On balance, a British gain!

AND Ermyntrude, did she

lose her all

Or find it, two years ago?

O young girl-wives of the boys

who fall,

With your youth and your

babes to show!

No heart but bleeds for your

widowhood.

Yet Life is with you, and Life is

good.

No bone of your bone lies low!

YOUR blessedness came—as

it went—in a day.

Deep dread but heightened

your mirth.

Your idols' feet never turned to

clay—

Never lit upon common earth.

Love is the Game but is not the

Goal:

You played it together, body and

soul,

And you had your Candle's

worth.

YES! though the Candle light

a Shrine,

And heart cannot count the

cost,

You are Winners yet in its tender

shine!

Would they choose to have

lived and lost?

There are chills, you see, for the

finest hearts;

But, once it is only old Death

that parts,

There can never come twinge

of frost.

AND this be our comfort for

Every Boy

Cut down in his high heyday,

Or ever the Sweets of the Morn-

ing cloy,

Or the Green Leaf wither

away;

So a sunlit billow curls to a crest,

And shouts as it breaks at its

loveliest,

In a glory of rainbow spray!

BE it also the making of

Ermyntrude,

And many a hundred more—

Compact of foibles and forti-

tude—

Woo'd, won, and widow'd, in

War.

God, keep us gallant and unde-

filed,

Worthy of Husband, Lover, or

—Child...

Sweet as themselves at the

core!