It isn’t those long, endless vigils at night,                 On the rack. It isn’t the fighting and hunger and heat— It isn’t the slush and rheumatics and sleet— It isn’t the once-a-day cold meal we eat                 In the black. It isn’t the shelling from sun unto sun—                 Curséd shells: It isn’t the camouflage that you must use If you have to lie down in your trench for a snooze, It isn’t the stenches the Hun corpses choose                 For their smells. But it’s clean clothes and gasoline-bath and a shave—                 What a treat! It’s sleeping on elegant straw, and undressed, With never a Toto disturbing your rest; It’s regaining your “pep” and a wonderful zest                 When you eat. We’re all of us willing, we’re all of us game                 For the fray: But now we have finished a good hitch, and more, In conducting this large and salubrious war, Do you think we should feel very tearful or sore                 On this day? So some we are singing and some shoot the bull,                 And some sleep. (Don’t wake the poor devil, just leave him alone, Though he’s jammed on your foot till it’s dead as a     stone), And we rumble through towns on the way to our own,                 Packed like sheep. And your hand is afingering bills large and small—                 Francs galore. And you’ve visions of things that your poor stomach begs, Including nuts, candy and chocolate and eggs; And you find you’ve forgotten the crick in your legs—                 Cramped and sore. We’re a light-hearted, dirty-faced, rollicking crew—                 Grimy pawed: Though a few cogitate on the living and dead, And some look behindward, and some look ahead, And some think of bunkies that shrapnel has sped                 To their God. _Lunging-wild, careening trucks_     _Plunging through the rain,_ _Sweeping down the rainbow road_     _To the sunlit plain,_ _And echoing back with ponderous roar_     _Their cargo’s wild refrain._ MADEMOISELLE. Oh Mademoiselle behind the Lines,     When we’re weary and covered with dirt, And you make a promenade with us,     Or perhaps you mend our shirt. You know our lives from your brothers,     Or your sweethearts who can’t come back, But only your laughter greets us     When we shed that awful “pack.” And some of you sell eggs to us     In a town whence most have fled: And some of your names have “de” and your blood     Runs blue as well as red. Oh Mademoiselle you sure are “chic”     From your head to the tip o’ your toes, And if you like us, you just plain _like_ us,     And you don’t give a damn who knows. And Mademoiselle those eyes, Oo la la!     So sparkling, dark and rare, With the love of all the ages lying     Deep and dormant there. (Please, please don’t think us fickle—     That we didn’t play the game— But you seemed so human and made to be loved,     And we murmured, “Je vous aime.”)