He left the peace of our little place, And went away with a light in his face; For out in the world was a job to do, And he wouldn’t come home until it was through! Four thousand miles from our tiny town And its hardware store, this boy went down. Such a quiet lad, such a simple chap-- But he’s put East Dunkirk on the map!
No Man’s Land is an eerie sight At early dawn in the pale gray light. Never a house and never a hedge In No Man’s Land from edge to edge, And never a living soul walks there To taste the fresh of the morning air. Only some lumps of rotting clay, That were friends or foemen yesterday.
What are the bounds of No Man’s Land? You can see them clearly on either hand, A mound of rag-bags gray in the sun, Or a furrow of brown where the earthworks run From the Eastern hills to the Western sea, Through field or forest, o’er river and lea; No man may pass them, but aim you well And Death rides across on the bullet or shell.
But No Man’s Land is a goblin sight When patrols crawl over at dead o’ night; Boche or British, Belgian or French, You dice with death when you cross the trench. When the “rapid,” like fire-flies in the dark, Flits down the parapet spark by spark, And you drop for cover to keep your head With your face on the breast of the four months’ dead.
The man who ranges in No Man’s Land Is dogged by the shadows on either hand When the star-shell’s flare, as it bursts o’erhead, Scares the great gray rats that feed on the dead, And the bursting bomb or the bayonet-snatch May answer the click of your safety-catch. For the lone patrol, with his life in his hand, Is hunting for blood in No Man’s Land.
Copyright, 1918, by Edgar A. Guest. Special permission to reproduce in this book.
The star upon their service flag has changed to gleaming gold; It speaks no more of hope and life, as once it did of old, But splendidly it glistens now for every eye to see And softly whispers: “Here lived one who died for liberty.
“Here once he walked and played and laughed, here oft his smile was known; Within these walls today are kept the toys he used to own. Now I am he who marched away and I am he who fell; Of service once I spoke, but now of sacrifice I tell.
“No richer home in all this land is there than this I grace, For here was cradled manhood fine; within this humble place A soldier for the truth was born, and here, beside the door, A mother sits and grieves for him who shall return no more.