Some say the war was fought and won     By This or That or Those— But I, by heel and sunken arch     And blistered, bleeding toes. Drag on, drag on, oh weary miles,     Through mire, slush and sleet, To the glory of the rhythm     Of the poor old broken feet. YOUR GAS-MASK. When over your shoulders your “full-field” you fling, And you curse the whole load for a horrible thing, What is it you reach for, as outward you swing?         Your gas-mask. If you head for a bath by the small river’s flow— Though only a distance of fifty or so— What is it you carefully grab ere you go?        Your gas-mask. When in full marching-order, where mules _might_ suffice, And you count your equipment, each having its price, What is it you feel for and count over twice?        Your gas-mask. In morning and afternoon, evening and night— In first or support lines, in sleep or in fight, What is it you cherish and cling to so tight?        Your gas-mask. What is it you never leave thoughtless behind? What is it you clutch for with fingers that bind As you sniff that first odor that comes on the wind?        Your gas-mask. SLUM AND BEEF STEW. It’s a lot of dirty water     And some little dabs of spuds, And dubious hunks of gristly meat     And divers other duds. Served up to us in trenches,     Our hunger made it good, But elsewhere—when we got it—     "We ate it, if we could. And now about the time Josephus     Tells his gobs to call Port and Starboard, left and right,     We’re ordered, one and all, To most respectfully address     Our slum as “beef stew”—Gosh, Methinks the Brains of the Army     Has dished-up awful bosh. For slum is slum, and your Tummy-tum     Has called it so for aye; As ‘twas when Thotmes III marched north     To check the Hittites’ sway. As ‘twas when Cyrus’ doughboys swept     Through the Cilician Gates— And as ’twill ever be so long     As a weary mess-line waits. So long as Nations fight and eat—     Though all don’t feed as well— For the Colonel is Sitting on the World—     While we are S. O. L. Perhaps, kind friend, our logic may     Strike you as on the bum— But as we’re Pershing’s slum-hounds,     We’ll call the damn thing “slum”. SHELL-FIRE. _The Hun he taught us Gas and things—     But the high explosive shell Was born of the Devil’s mirth     And the reddest forge in Hell._ Now one hits the village church,     And the ancient, wavering wall And the little pointed tower swing     And stagger and sway and fall. Now one hits a red-slag roof,     And eighty feet on high Towers a monstrous, salmon cloud     Against an azure sky. Now one hits in a field of wheat,     Fresh planted, fair and green, And a mighty, thundering crater bursts     Where abandoned plows careen. Now one nears with spiral shriek     And strikes in the long white road, And the Lord ha’ mercy on the Red Cross truck,     And its helpless, weary load.