More Trench Poetry

Wednesday 31st May 1916: Sergeant J Curran back in Blighty with the 3rd Bedfordshire Regiment(1) sends us the following verses composed by one of the men of his late Regiment, 8th Bedfords:

“When you’re sleeping on the fire-step in a blanket soakin’ wet;

When the mud is in your eyes and mouth, and in your ‘air you bet;

When the rain comes through your dug-out roof and drops upon your nose;

When your feet are blinkin’ ice-bergs and you ‘aven’t got no toes;

When the “neighbours” in your shirt are dancin’ horn-pipes on your chest;

When you’ve dug for fourteen days on end and haven’t ‘ad no rest;

When the Corp’ral’s pinched your rations and the Serg’nt’s pinched your rum”

“Never curse or swear, my Lad – Remember Belgi-um”

“When the “Alleman” blows off your ‘at or ‘elmet with a “crump”;

When the aerial torpedoes scarcely give you time to jump;

When you’re always in the ‘ottest part and never ‘ave no luck;

When the “whiz-bangs” come so thick, you ‘aven’t got a chance to duck;

When trench-mortars, bombs, and shrapnel seem to ‘ave a love for you;

When in trying to retaliate your own guns shell you too;

When you ‘ear the bullets singing and your ‘ead they nearly ‘it;

Never mind, but just remember you’re a-doing of you “Bit””

“When your billets in a low shed and the bloomin’ roof all leaks;

When you’re only paid five francs for pretty near a dozen weeks;

When, if “sick” the doctor gives you M and D and sends you back;

When you’ve lost your iron rations, your smoke ‘elmet and your pack;

When your rifle’s choked with mud and you get “F.P.” number two(2);

When your pals all go to Blighty – every bloomin’ one but you;

When you’ve got to “Pop the Parapet” and courage is at zero –

Just remember who you are, my boy, a Bloomin’ British ‘Ero!”(3)

Source: Bedfordshire Times 9th June 1916

(1) Almost certainly recovering from wounds or disease.

(2) Field Punishment No. 2 – the prisoner was bound at the wrists in chains or placed in handcuffs for up to two hours per day for up to 28 days

(3) This splendid poem seems to be modelled in style on Rudyard Kipling’s “Barrack Room Ballads”

Poetry from Gallipoli

Sunday 24th October 1915: We have received the following piece of poetry from a former Bedfordshire Yeoman, who transferred to the East Anglian Royal Engineers and has served in Gallipoli.

I stood on the deck of a troopship,

At the Gate of the Dardanelles,

‘Midst the thunder of warship’s cannon,

And the bursting of giant shells.

When men were dying in Britain’s cause,

To open the Sultan’s door.

Shrapnel, rifle and machine gun fire,

Raising a living hell on shore,

I thought of those men who were fighting,

Three thousand miles from home,

Shoulder to shoulder with Australia’s sons,

The clerk and the rolling stone,

Ghurkhas, Sikhs and Lancers.

From India’s sunny clime,

All had left their near and dear

For a place in the firing line.

Each one had answered the Empire’s call,

Each one doing his bit,

While thousands of men were rusting at home,

Equally strong and fit.

Could they but know, could they but see,

The soldier and the tar

Working together as Britons should,

In the fighting at Seddal Bahr(1),

They would throw their aprons to the girls,

Give up their games of whist,

And sing the Tipperary song,

As they scrambled to enlist.

There’s Achi Baba yet to take(2),

And the forts around Chanak(3),

These positions must be won,

There must be no holding back.

We want more men and still more men,

Before this can be done.

Do they realise the fact?

Will they ever come?

I’m only a British sailor man,

But I put it to them straight

Enter Kitchener’s Army ere it is too late.

Ere the butt of an enemy’s rifle

Comes crashing through your door

And the blood of innocent children

Stains the kitchen floor.

Tell them you are coming.

Tom, Dick and Harry too.

Shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand

To pull the Empire through

Source: Bedfordshire Times 29th October 1915

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(1) Sedd el Bahr was a landing beach in the Gallipoli campaign

(2) Achi Baba was the mountain dominating the Gallipoli peninsula; it never fell to the allies despite four attempts

(3) A major port city on the Asian mainland opposite the peninsula, again not taken by the allies.

A Poem from Gallipoli

Monday 18th October 1915: The East Anglian Royal Engineer Lance Corporal who sent us the recipe for biscuit and date pudding yesterday also sent us a poem which we reproduce below:

 The shades of night were falling fast,

As through the trench our fellows passed, -

Four men of the EARE,

With much barbed wire as we could see

          “A gangway please”

They went in front and worked real hard,

Four Norfolks with them, just to guard,

They then returned: the challenge quick,

The RE Corporal answered slick –

          “Working RE’s”

“Try not that way” the Sergeant said,

“A sniper’s potting at your head,

You’d better let my man guide you,

And safely he will take you through

          Good night, REs”.

Source: Bedfordshire Times 12th November 1915

More Trench Poetry

Thursday 5^th August: We have received the following poem from a Bedfordshire Regiment soldier at the front who wishes to remain anonymous. He says: When the tumult and the shouting dies we get a leisure hour and the circumstance is bad verse. But if you have spare space and think it worth while “faites ce que vous voulez” I hope you don’t mind, but having read and re-read your last issue, which is in my dug-out here, I have smeared it with a little ration honey and hung it up. Whether it is the good reading or the honey I don’t know but, my word, the flies!”

A Summer Holiday for 1915

When Summer blends to Autumn,

And the corn is turning brown,

My year of work is past and gone,

I lose life’s care and frown

For me a month to wander

I holiday at ease,

Just here or there or yonder,

Homeland or overseas

I loved my month by mountain stream,

I’ve tanned my face on the sea,

I’ve seen the cities of Europe,

I’ve rested and felt myself free,

But this year I am having a change,

And I trust it is not ill spent,

In a little mud hut just four feet high,

Lent by the Government

My outlook isn’t hill or dale,

It’s simply a sand-bagged trench;

When wet it is full of mud that sticks,

When dry there’s a deuce of a stench.

And one hundred yards or so in front,

A Strafing foe lies hid

And to show yourself in the open

Is from Hell to raise the lid.

But inside the trench we’re a merry crew,

For the right tight comrades are we;

We grouse and quip, we laugh and chip,

A jolly fine company.

We all our doing our sundry bits

In a cause that is right and just,

And we care not a hang for Karl and Fritz

Or the whiz-bangs as they bust.

We come from the corners of the Earth,

From the cities and countryside;

From Colonies across the sea,

From the Empire far and wide.

Both rich and poor have sent their sons,

Links of a wonderful chain.

Hanging together against all foes,

Till a lasting Peace shall reign.

And though Death comes to some each day,

What better end can there be?

For a man who knows he is fighting

In the cause of Liberty.

And I like to think in the Courts above,

There’s a special Hall kept today

For the bonnie lads who don’t return

From their chosen Holiday

Source: Bedfordshire Times 6th August 1915

Another Trench Poet

Thursday 29th April 1915: From Private S Jeffs comes the following written today “while back in billets for a little rest”.

Springtime is near, the winter is o’er,

And when shall I see the dearly loved shore,

Of beautiful England, the land of my birth,

The dearest of lands on the face of the earth?

When this great war is over I hope to return,

With all speed again to the land where friends yearn;

For I known they will welcome me with smiles on their face,

So God protect England, the loveliest old place.

And when I get back, if needed again,

I would fight for my King and Country the same,

As young fellows ought who have never yet known,

The price of their Country and King on the throne.

So young men of England, answer the call,

For your country now needs you, one and all,

And then at the end of this terrible woe,

You may say thank God I was among them to go.

God Save the King!

Source: Bedfordshire Times 30th April 1915

(1) 3/7196 Private S. Jeffs of the 2nd Battalion was killed in action at Festubert on 17th May and is buried at the Guards Cemetery, Windy Corner, Cuinchy.

War Poetry

Friday 5th March 1915: Corporal W. J. Mayhew of 2nd Bedfords has sent us the following poem “My Little Wet Home in the Trench”. It is a parody of the popular ditty “My Little Grey Home in the West” and was no doubt appreciated by the censor:

My little wet home in the trench,
Where rain streams continually drench;
There’s a dead cow close by
With hoofs turned to the sky,
And it gives off a terrible stench.
On the ground in the place of the floor
There’s lots of wet mud and some straw,
And the J. J.’s they tear(1)
Through the rain-sodden air,
O’er my little wet home in the trench

There are snipers who keep on the go.
So you must keep your napper down low;
For the star shells at night
Make a deuce of a light,
And it causes the language to flow.
Bully and biscuits we chew,
And its weeks since we tasted a stew,
And the shells dropping there –
There’s no place to compare
To my little wet home in the trench 

Now the Germans were sure of success,
But now they are full of distress.
So French(2) gave them a wrench
And they could not entrench;
Then the B and the F(3) did the rest.
While the Germans were shelling Ypres
The Uhlans(4) they crept through the trees,
And to them we gave chase,
Like a marathon race,
From our little wet home in the trench

Source: Bedfordshire Times, 5th March 1915

(1) Jack Johnsons – named after the African-American world heavyweight boxing champion – they were German shells.

(2) Sir John French, commander-in-chief of the British Expeditionary Force

(3) the British and French, presumably

(4) German cavalry equipped with a lance and used for scouting.