“We laid him in the clay; And it was me That sounded taps; there was no other way ... I can’t blow taps no more ... but say! I tapped a German skull the other day. And that squares me!” LIN DAVIES, Pvt. THE RETURN OF THE REFUGEES They pick their way o’er the shell-pocked road As the evening shadows fall, A man and woman, their eyes a-gleam With awe at war’s black pall. The straggling strands of her snowy hair Are tossed in the wind’s rude breath; His frail form shakes as the whistling gusts Sweep o’er the field of death. With straining eyes, hearts beating fast, They seek to gaze ahead To where they left their little home When from the Hun they fled. ’Neath the heights of a hill o’erlooking the vale, Half hid in a purple shade, The dim outline of the town comes to view, And they hasten down the glade. At last the town, the street, and home! But God! Can it be this?— This pile of stones, this hideous hulk, This gaping orifice? The sun has set. The evening star Sends down its soothing light. Gone are the tears; their hearts are strong— “For God, for France, and Right!” FREDERICK W. KURTH, Sgt., M.T.D. AS THE TRUCKS GO ROLLIN’ BY There’s a rumble an’ a jumble an’ a bumpin’ 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’ an’ 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, An’ 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 ole Yanks, and that’s the reason why I likes the jazz ’n’ barber shop o’ the trucks a-rollin’ by.