See the stalwart Yankee lads, never ones to blench, Poppies in their helmets as they clear the shallow trench, Leaping down the furrows with eager, boyish tread Through the poppied wheat fields to the flaming woods ahead. Poppies in the wheat fields as sinks the summer sun, Broken, bruised and trampled--but the bitter day is won; Yonder in the woodland where the flashing rifles shine, With their poppies in their helmets, the front files hold the line. Poppies in the wheat fields; how still beside them lie Scattered forms that stir not when the star shells burst on high; Gently bending o’er them beneath the moon’s soft glance, Poppies of the wheat fields on the ransomed hills of France. AS THE TRUCKS GO ROLLIN’ BY LIEUT. L. W. SUCKERT, A.S., U.S.A. IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A.E.F., FRANCE There’s a rumble an’ a jumble an’ a humpin’ an’ a thud, As I wakens from my restless sleep here in my bed o’ mud, ’N’ I pull my blankets tighter underneath my shelter fly, An’ I listen to the thunder o’ the trucks a-rollin’ by. They’re jumpin’ and they’re humpin’ through the inky gloom o’ night, ’N’ I wonder how them drivers see without a glim o’ light; I c’n hear the clutches roarin’ as they throw the gears in high, And the radiators boilin’ as the trucks go rollin’ by. There’s some a-draggin’ cannons, you c’n spot the sound all right; The rumblin’ ones is heavies, an’ the rattly ones is light; The clinkin’ shells is pointin’ up their noses at the sky; Oh, you c’n tell what’s passin’ as the trucks go rollin’ by. But most of ’em is packin’ loads o’ human Yankee freight That’ll slam the ol’ soft pedal ontuh Heinie’s Hymn o’ Hate; You c’n hear ’em singin’ “Dixie,” and the “Sweet Bye ’n’ Bye,” ’N’ “Where Do We Go From Here, Boys?” as the trucks go rollin’ by. Some’s singin’ songs as, when I left, they wasn’t even ripe, (A-showin’ ’at they’s rookies wot ain’t got a service stripe); But jus’ the same they’re good ol’ Yanks, and that’s the reason why I likes the jazz ’n’ barber shop o’ the trucks a-rollin’ by. Jus’ God and Gen’rul Pershing knows where these here birds’ll light, Where them bumpin’ trucks is bound for under camouflage o’ night, When they can’t take aero pitchers with their Fokkers in the sky Of our changes o’ location by the trucks a-rollin’ by. So, altho’ my bed is puddles an’ I’m soaked through to the hide, My heart’s out with them doughboys on their bouncin’, singin’ ride; They’re bound for paths o’ glory, or, p’raps, to fight ’n’ die-- God bless that Yankee cargo in the trucks a-rollin’ by. THE GRAVES OF GALLIPOLI L. L. (A. N. Z. A. C.) From “The Anzac Book.” Cassell & Co., Ltd., Publishers, London. Special permission to reproduce in this book.