($3.00 Singing Soldiers By JOHN J. NILEs I lustrated Through the songs of soldiers, particularly the negro soldiers, the very quality of, the emotions aroused by various phases of the war are poignantly revealed. Lieu- tenant Niles was an aviator all up andi down! the front, and behind it,{but he had been associated with music publishers and music was his great interest. Wherever he was he noted down the words and the melodies of songs. Those of the negroes were by far the best; they often rose out of such little inci- dents as the burial of an officer: “T’ve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart.” He tells a series of experiences, each one of which—because that was his interest—is centred around a song. These songs are truly indigenous to the war. Nothing else could have created them, and ~ nothing else could. so well express the war. They are original in melody and in words—absolutely the real thing. Charles Scribner’s Sons SINGING SOLDIERS SINGING SOLDIERS By JOHN J. NILES ILLUSTRATED BY MARGARET THORNILEY WILLIAMSON CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS NEW YORK +» LONDON 1927 CopYRIGHT, 1927, By CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS Printed in the United States of America vl nal avy 4 yy hy KO dd WB) AMERICAN NEGRO SOLDIERS WHO MADE THIS WRITING POSSIBLE i \ i { BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION On my first trip to Paris as a member of the A. E. F. (it was in December, 1917) I ran onto a paper-bound volume of French war-songs by Monsieur Théodore Botrel, titled “Les Chants du Bivouac.” Monsieur Botrel, known to the French as “Chansonnier des Armées,”” had been commissioned by the Ministry of War, then headed by Millerand, to sing and recite certain songs and poems of a patriotic nature to the French soldiers. His book, “Les Chants:du Bivouac,” was a collection of these. The work contained more than a hundred pen illus- trations by Carlégle and a preface by a member of the Acadé- mie Frangais, Monsieur Maurice Barrés. At my hotel in the Rue Richelieu, just around the corner from the Rue St. Anne M. P. jail, I took “Les Chants du Bivouac” to the piano, and, with the help of a French aviator in our party, sang some of the songs. That night I decided to borrow M. Botrel’s idea and at- tempt a collection of United States Army war-songs—to make as nearly as possible an unexpurgated record of the words and to write off the tunes whenever I had time and music-score paper. My resolution at first was intended to include any songs sung by the soldiers of the United States Army, but the imagination of the white boys did not, as a rule, express itself in song. They went to Broadway for their music, contenting themselves with the ready-made rhymes and tunes of the professional song-writers—song-writers who for reasons best avoided now did not give up their royalty vil Vill BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION checks for the chance to secure the safety of democracy at thirty-three dollars per month. After a little while I discovered that time, music-score paper, and original songs were rare. In fact, I was even be- ginning to lose interest in my musical diary, when we en- countered some negro troops. True, they sang some music- hall ditties—after all, those colored regiments were recruited from every corner of the United States—there were Harlem negroes, Texas negroes, negroes from south-side Chicago, negroes from North Carolina—negroes, as they so aptly said, “frum all over.” Usually, among the black troops, there were a few semi-professional musicians who did the music-hall stuff as we see it done nowadays in the black- and-tan cabarets and supper clubs. And then there were the others, the natural-born singers, usually from rural dis- tricts, who, prompted by hunger, wounds, homesickness, and the reaction to so many generations of suppression, sang the legend of the black man to tunes and harmonies they made up as they went along—tunes and harmonies ofttimes too subtle for my clumsy fingers and my improvised score paper. At last I had discovered something original—a kind of folk music, brought up to date and adapted to the war situ- ations—at the same time savoring of the haunting melodic value found in the negro music I had known as a boy in _ Kentucky. | In the early summer of 1918 I gave up recording the songs of white boys and began to put myself out of the way to find a chance to come in contact with the negro soldier, who, as far as possible, put a little music into everything he did, be it marching, digging, cooking, travelling, unloading ships, or any of the thousand and one jobs soldiers always have to do. The negro soldier not only had the mellow, resonant >> BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION 1X vocal qualities so necessary in singing, but he had abandon and an emotional nature which, with his ability to drama- tize trivial situations, many times produced the most aftec- ting performances. My duty as a pilot in the United States Air Service took me by air and rail to practically every area occupied by American troops, and as I knew I would be encountering negroes wherever our soldiers were established, my musette bag always contained a piece of score-paper or something [| might hastily convert by drawing a few staffs and a clef. Whatever may be said for the negro as a fighting soldier, no one may gainsay him as a singing soldier, nor discount the fact that his music had some part in the success gained by our arms in the past war. The gathering and compiling of the matter in this volume covered a period of seven years. It is natural to suppose that I received advice and assistance from many sources. Mrs. Harriet Ayer Seymour, Mr. E. von der Goltz, Mr. Marshall Bartholomew, Mr. N. C. Page, Mr. Max Marks, Mr. Douglas Moore, Mr. O. B. Judson, and Mr. W. H. Handy, the ‘“‘Blues” authority, supplied me with technical, legal, and musical information. Lieutenant Lee Turner, an artilleryman, and Lieutenant J. Heath Brasselman, a ma- chine-gunner, both having made the war with the A. E. F., supplied me with military data, maps, and information, sup- plementing my own diaries. From Mr. Brian Brown’s book, “The Wisdom of the Hindus,” I have, with Mr. Brown’s permission, reprinted a verse of the “Bhagavad-Gita,” as translated from the Sanskrit by Sir Edwin Arnold. I have unconsciously taken so much from Mr. Pierre A. Bernard (Shastri), Nadia, India, of the Royal Asiatic Soct- X BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION ety of Great Britain and Ireland, American Philological So- ciety, New York Academy of Science, etc., etc., that to him I am perhaps most indebted—not for music nor forgotten dates and places, but for an unlimited amount of encourage- ment and a better understanding of the fitness of things. Nyack, N. Y., November, 1926. LIST Going Home Song Whale Song : Don’t Close Dose Gates . Crap-Shootin’ Charley Diggin’ . I’m a Warrior . I Don’t Want to Go . Lordy, Turn Your Face . Good-bye, Tennessee . He’s a Burden-Bearer I Don’t Want Any More eee For I’se Weary Ole Ark Gimmie Song . Scratch . ; The Soldier Man Blues Deep-Sea Blues Chicken Butcher Jackass Song ; We Wish the Same to You Grave-Diggers . Ghost Song Jail House . Roll, Jordan, Roll . Long Gone . Pray for Forgiveness . Clean Clothes Song Destroyer Song Georgia . OF SONGS CHAPTER I HE first entry into my diary of War Music was made in Issoudun (Indre), France, where I had been sent with a detachment of American Aviation Cadets to study the art of flying. That winter of 1917-1918 we did very little work in the air—we dug trenches, latrines, and stood guard duty, for the Issoudun camp was not com- pleted. In fact, it was humorously referred to as the mud- diest hole in France, where flying was a promise. A camp newspaper known as the Plane News was being published “from time to time” —a newspaper on which I was serving as associate editor. One night in December, 1917, in the Plane News office, during one of our “after-taps copy-writ- ing sprees,” a cadet came in with a contribution which proved to be the verses of a song about “going home.” It wasn’t entirely original, but every verse told volumes of truth. In the fall of 1918, at a flying-field near Toul, I encountered some men who sang the same tune with a new set of verses, the earlier ones having disappeared. Their rhymes were about Air Service activities, but I did not consider them interesting enough to record. Here are seven verses of the song as it was sung in Issou- dun during the winter of 1917-1918—the first song I re- corded in my “Singing Soldiers” manuscript. I want to go home—I want to go home— The treatment is awful—the food is a joke— If you want to pass out, just come here and you'll croak. So, send me over the sea— I 2 SINGING SOLDIERS GOING HOME SONG This melody is not entirely original—it reminds one faintly of such tunes as “Take me out to the ball game,”’ “The Bowery,” “ Yip I Yaddie I Yeh,” etc. 3 ra tes rae an) mmm irks PAT 3 aati Pack Saanam NORE mL EDP aE LRT ENE ESCO mSD SERS 2 SOEGS WORT! eee I want to go home, I want to go home, The French girls use powd-er in-stead of du JTeau, Just ia 2 we eysme ae take it from me ’cause I hap-pen to _ know. So Oh, my, I’m _ too young to die, I want to go home. Where the Top Sergeants can’t get at me— Oh, my, I’m too young to die— I want to go home. I want to go home—I want to go home— I don’t want to go in the trenches no more— Where hand-grenades and whiz-bangs they roar. So send me over the sea, Where the Heinies they can’t get at me— Oh, my, I’m too young to die— I want to go home. I want to go home—I want to go home— It’s always a raining—the mud is knee-deep— The lice are so active, I never can sleep— SINGING SOLDIERS So send me over the sea, Where the Top Sergeants can’t get at me— Oh, my, I’m too young to die— I want to go home. I want to go home—I want to go home— The French girls use powder in place of “de l’eau”— I'm telling you straight, ’cause I happen to know— So send me over the sea— Where the wild women can’t get at me, Oh, my, I’m too young to die— I want to go home. I want to go home—I want to go home— The war ain’t so bad if you’re wearin’ a star— But bein’ a private don’t get you so far. So send me over the sea, Where the tin hats they can’t get at me— Oh, my, I’m too young to die— I want to go home. I want to go home—I want to go home— In place of a dinner they pass us out slum— My whole inner workings have gone on the bum— So send me over the sea, Where the Mess Sergeants can’t get at me— Oh, my, I’m too young to die— I want to go home. I want to go home—I want to go home— I don’t want to fly in a wiggly winged Sop— They act like a buzzard just ready to drop— So send me over the sea— Where the monitors can’t get at me— Oh, my, I’m too young to die— I want to go home. “ofl] Wolf SSULMYIP 94} OpeUT ‘eULIpUT ‘stfodeuLIpuy Wo ‘JOoys II'q peo “asiqze ayy, SI6T ‘AUVANVI ‘SHIN INV Td AHL WOUI LNIUdTa V SI SILL ®sinog os}sog fuyuas L90@ burxog ays 4 ota ply Yruas{ 244 30 310 apr) Vv “sag ww a1AD40L0R) Plc) Yh: i 72 32° 200 ib , ANA Wy &S as ~Sz hE ‘ ING") Gg, iq ty \-= SY, 4 CL SD { w)PId OU —_ edwo ‘ . 6 Yo—rne duo? puo ve Natori. _ Suryoaouay "426029 11 | a! < Sy ar 24OOH dul OE ppee Bae Ojprm-moe 244 40 WIWA 3s 4d fing, 40D $1 4aquiny 4o soz fuanq 2249d1g puvg tj $a,GZ UPF- subg BU} +0 ; 4apoeT pug ra Le | {2souuay ajadid> ye . a OfUo[g s9Mog S en ht WNL ty Own FOS Soe Shuiyl day ia =. = : S ry : = 7 Th : ¢ “I ce SINGING SOLDIERS 5 All of a sudden it was Christmas Eve. It seemed that we should celebrate. Most of the members of the Plane News staff were broke, but we pooled our francs—decided to buy a bottle of rum, a bottle of champagne, a few eggs, and steal a supply of milk and bread. Our celebration was planned to follow the musical performance of the evening, in which I had to appear playing accompaniments for a violinist. As soon as the show was over I was elected to buy the liquor and start the party. Oley, “the big bad Swede” (who was on duty at the German prison camp), spied me as I was returning from the canteen. | “Halt! Who goes there? Sing it out and make it quick.” “Why—why—hello, Oley—why—friend with a bottle.” “Pass, friend! Halt, bottle!” “Now look here, Oley, have a heart with that bottle. You wall-eyed liquor-guzzler, a hell of a lot of good you’re doin’ in this man’s army.” Oley was calculating with the keen eye of a professional drinker how much he could take bottoms up. “Think I can make it ?” He grasped the bottle with both hands—the uppermost marking the new low level. “Why, Oley, you rum-befuddled goovus, I’ll bet you don’t remember your orders.” We drank deep. We laughed loud. We slapped one another on the back—and shook hands. This drinking and slapping had been going on all evening— by midnight the guard would be in prime condition. It was Christmas Eve—Christmas Eve, 1917. Although the guards who walked post around the prison camp were separated from the details around the airplane hangars, they had the advantage of being nearer the little French canteen. Nearly all the liquor-laden boys had to pass the prison camp 6 SINGING SOLDIERS —that’s how the prison guards did so much free drinking. The German prisoners hauled garbage and dug trenches. Some of them did K. P. in the cadets’ mess—calm-looking, blond fellows with little pill-box hats, who lived in a sepa- rate camp—guarded by a detail of French and Americans. It was Christmas Eve in the muddiest hole in France— The moon was full, and, shining through the leafless trees, cast an intricate pattern of black on the white of the snow- covered ground. Oley was on duty again from ten to twelve. He had just sampled a swig or two of “niggerhead” rum out of a bottle wrapped around with straw. It was my bottle—the first one hadn’t been nearly enough. “Ought to stick around, Jack, old walrus. The Heinies are goin’ to sing. They’ve been practising every night for some time. Ole Caspard says they is a famous piano-player among ’em; he leads ’em, and say, I think you’d like to hear "em. Don’t have no piano—got a little brass pipe—makes a noise like a peanut whistle. He starts ’em off and they do the rest.” It was near midnight when the prisoners actually began to sing. They had been permitted to move some of the tables from one end of their mess hall. Their audience numbered four: Caspard, the Corporal of the French Guard, one French private, Oley, the American Guard, and myself. We had been sitting outside the enclosure near a sentry-box, listen- ing to the D’Artagnan-like reminiscences of Caspard, when through the thin walls of the barracks came the kind of music one hears only in dreams: Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht, Alles schlaft, einsam wacht SINGING SOLDIERS - Nur das traute Hochheilige Paar, Holder Knabe im lochtigen Haar, Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh, Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh. Had these men been our enemies? Were they really pris- oners of war? Were they the sullen, glum-looking fellows who hauled garbage and cleaned latrines? Had I been trans- ported by the rum? In my wildest imaginings, I had never conceived a more gloriously balanced group of male voices. I had listened to “Die Meistersinger,” to “Tristan,” to the King’s prayer and the accompanying choruses at the end of the first act of “Lohengrin.” I had sung “The Messiah,” “Elijah,” and “Judas Maccabeas,” but this—the singing of a simple carol—left me inarticulate. The tune was familiar— I had sung it as a boy: Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright... . The others too were moved. I could see Oley’s face against the moonlight. The silly, drunken grin was gone. With his hands on the butt of his rifle (the bayonet end stuck down in the ground), he stood very still. The French private had deserted his sentry box—he had drawn nearer the prisoners’ barracks, so that he might not miss any of the singing. As the singers paused between two verses, Caspard spoke: Tiens ! quelles voix! Quelles pensées derriére ces voix! Ils pensent a leurs foyers— A leurs foyers la-bas en Allemagne— Comment moi, je pense 4 mon chez-moi qui était la-bas 4 Soissons ! La guerre! La guerre! 8 SINGING SOLDIERS He dug his heel viciously into the half-frozen mud and, pulling himself to his feet, began to walk up and down. His hands joined behind his back. His head dropped in medita- tion. And those voices again singing: Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht. One verse was sung so softly that we could scarcely hear it through the walls of the barracks. Were these men our ene- mies? Had the Sarajevo incident really made them so? Did unrestricted submarine warfare get us into this muddle? Perhaps it was the Lusitania! 1 wanted to cry out aloud against something that was all wrong. Caspard sat down beside me—he was an old man. His home in Soissons had been destroyed. The dash of the D’Artagnan was gone. He wept softly. Great God! what a situation! But what could we do about it? Nothing. We were caught in a grotesque, unromantic, unheroic, mechani- cal war. The only thing for us to do was to make the most of it—to laugh as long as we could laugh and save our tears for a crisis. All the while the prisoners were singing: Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht, Alles schlaft, einsam wacht. I thought how far the singing of this almost divine carol had transcended the power of their arms. Nur das traute Hochheilige Paar, Holder Knabe im lochtigen Haar, Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh, Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh. They later sang some livelier things—one about the wed- ding of grandmother and grandfather. But the others I SINGING SOLDIERS 9 have forgotten against the glorious memory of the singing of “Silent Night.” All the talent in camp had been rehearsing for a black- face minstrel show, to be given Christmas night. I had been delegated by Captain Kearney to organize the show and see to the matters of production. We were to have a regular old style oleo with specialties, singing and dancing numbers, original ditties, local jokes, etc. Among the num- bers that missed fire was a song proposed to me by a driver in one of the Motor Transport outfits. Charley planned to open his act with a limerick. Now Jonah told the wildest tales— Of accidents in ships with sails— The worn-out wheeze Of the moon and the cheese— Of mutinies and man-eatin’ whales. Then he intended to “go into his number” (as the vaude- villians say). One of the boys in his outfit, a back-room-of- a-saloon pianist, had worked out a simply harmonized ac- companiment. They had borrowed their tunes from re- liable sources and manufactured the lyrics out of current lingo of the service. Jonah was a private in the United States Army. The song recounted the unfortunate details of his mortal combat with the whale. The legendary Jonah yarn got into the song only by supplying the names of the dramatis persone. Now gather round me, brothers, and to you I’ll tell a tale, About a soldier-boy named Jonah and a great sea-going whale— How the whale he bucked and Jonah ducked— And the whale said, well I will be shucked— Oh, that’s the story of Jonah and the great sea-going whale. 10 SINGING SOLDIERS WHALE SONG This ane boy had gone to reliable Irish sources for his melody. rae that’s the sto-ry of Jo-nah and the great sea - go - in? whale. Now Jonah pulled the bolt back and he shoved home a shell, And said, I’ll blow this bloody whale all the way to Hell, But the whale he bucked and Jonah ducked And the whale said well I will be shucked— Oh, that’s the story of Jonah and the great sea-going whale. Then Jonah got himself a piece of field-artillery, And said he’d shoot a hole into that whale’s great big belly— But the whale he bucked and Jonah ducked And the whale said well I will be shucked, Oh, that’s the story of Jonah and the great sea-going whale. Oh, Jonah got a gas-bomb and said this is the nuts, Pll polish off this monster, cause I surely hate his guts, But the whale he bucked and Jonah ducked And the whale said well I will be shucked, Oh, that’s the story of Jonah and the great sea-going whale. SINGING SOLDIERS II Then Jonah got a minnenwafer right from Germany And said of that terrific whale I’ll surely rid the sea. But the whale he bucked and Jonah ducked And the whale said well I will be shucked, Oh, that’s the storv of Jonah and the great sea-going whale. Now from the cook shack Jonah took a mess pail full of bill, He thot he’d try to poison what he couldn’t kill, But the whale he bucked and Jonah ducked And the whale said well I will be shucked, Oh, that’s the story of Jonah and the great sea-going whale. Then Jonah threw a mills bomb right at the monster’s head, The mills bomb ricocheted and cooled Jonah off instead— Cause the whale he bucked and Jonah ducked And the whale said well I will be shucked, Oh, that’s the story of Jonah and the great sea-going whale. But Charley lost his nerve at the last moment and in spite of a generous issue of milk-punch (which was go per cent punch), he couldn’t make up his mind to go on. The minstrel show had to function without the Jonah song. One night in the Plane News office, Charley sang fifteen verses of his song to me—some of them were deliciously obscene. The seven verses recorded were for public per- formance, where a mixed audience might be encountered. We ran into strange difficulties with our Christmas per- formance. The use of one of the welfare organizations’ buildings was a point in question. The welfare secretary (a male person of past middle-age) told me at first that we positively could not use the building. He didn’t mind musical evenings, where authorized welfare workers, etc., performed, but black-face minstrels—no! Sometime be- fore, a similar show had been given and some of the per- 12 SINGING SOLDIERS formers had got very drunk—it was too much of a disgrace to be repeated. I passed this yarn on to Captain Kearney and Colonel Kilner—you can imagine what they told me I might do if I found it necessary. Needless to say, we used the welfare workers’ building, and through an over-consumption of the aforementioned milk-punch, several of the performers did their stuff in a marvellously abandoned manner—one of them passing out during the performance—much to the amusement of the audience. Most of the welfare workers associated with the United States Army—Protestants, Catholics, and Jews—brought their theological ideas of priesthood along with them as part of their baggage. These dispensers of “universal truth” couldn’t forget their heaven-sent responsibility of saving the world—not even long enough to let a bunch of home- sick soldiers have a fine, large, and very harmless evening. Some school-teaching, mystic practices of theology had armed them with what it took to “save the world”—but few did I meet who were able to solve their own problems or to live their own lives in a manner that brought mauee acclaim from themselves or from others. CHAPTER II HE “Going Home Song” and the song about Jonah and the whale were the only bits of music recorded in 1917. Early in 1918 I went with a detachment of Americans to Foggia, Italy, where we learned to fly French Farmans and Italian Colombos under the direction of Italian instructors. TWENTY-EIGHT-METRE NIEUPORT From Italy we were sent north to the Second Aviation In- struction Centre at Tours, France, where we flew the Cau- dron tractors with Anzani radial motors in them. Several of our boys were disabled flying the Caudrons, but no one was killed. From Tours we went back to Issoudun. The camp had changed some; there were many new faces—and many new crosses in the graveyard. At Issoudun we flew Nieuports; first the 23-metre ones with 80 horse-powered 13 14 SINGING SOLDIERS motors, then 18-metre ones, and, finally, the 15-metre ones with 120 horse-power. It was our first experience with rotary motors. It was also our first experience with ships requiring delicate control. Many of our good boys came down—we buried some of the most promising men in the outfit. Mys- terious things happened at Issoudun—one captain, who was a member of the local committee to investigate crashes, was sent on one hour’s notice to a camp in another part of France because he seemed to be alarmed about the death-rate. A satisfactory reason was never given for the flourishing con- dition of the graveyard. From Issoudun I was sent to Orly (Seine), a flying-field not far from Paris. It was known in the A. E. F. as AAAP No. 1 (American Aviation Acceptance Park No. 1). From Orly we flew to nearly all the flying-fields in France, deliver- ing all kinds of ships—fighting ships, school ships, observa- tion ships, gunnery-practice ships, etc. In flying to the aviation base nearest the front, Collombey les Belles, we made one stop—Vinets—a gas and oil filling-station, where we could stop over night if we found it too dark or too foggy to make Collombey les Belles. One night at Collombey les Belles, while at mess, an officer (detailed to technical re- search) asked me if I would like to accompany him in a trip up nearer the front to recover the remains of a German plane that had just fallen a while before dark. We should be able to make the trip and get back to the Toul Station in time to catch the midnight train to Orly. After two hours and a half of dragging along traffic- crowded roads, we arrived at the scene of the crash. In spite of the guard placed on the German ship, many things valuable from a technical point of view were gone—the souvenir collectors had done their stuff. The pilot had been SINGING SOLDIERS 15 taken in a dying condition to a near-by field hospital. My friend the technical expert decided to see if he could gain any information from him, so we visited the roadside hos- pital. It was nearly dawn when we started back. During the night a medical corporal, who had a rare sense of narra- tion, related some of his experiences to me. Among them, he told of a negro who had died singing snatches of a song. The black boy had been brought into the hospital in a semi- delirious condition—he believed himself still able to drive his team of mules. He wanted to leave the hospital and return to his ammunition train. He resisted the efforts of the stretcher-bearers and the medics. “Lay off me, white man—lay off, I tells you, lay off me. I wants to go back—I wants to git out o’ here.” “Shut up, shut up” (a voice from the other end of the tent), “you can’t go anywhere. Hell, you can’t even walk.” “ All de same I knows what I wants.” “Say, medic, pipe ’im down. Give ’im a shot in “is arm.” “Aw, let ’im alone, he ain’t botherin’ you.” “The hell he ain’t.” “T wants to go back, I duz. I wants to git out o’ here.” The medical corporal turned to the colored boy. 16 SINGING SOLDIERS “So you want to go up where they’re fightin’, eh? One would think you’d had enough.” “I ain’t botherin’ so much ’bout de fightin’, Mr. Medical Man; what I wants to do is to go where dat dead sergeant 16a) An 1rritable white boy with a bandaged head had listened to as much as he could. “Well, you'll go and if you’re not careful, you’ll go in a whale of a hurry. He’s been tellin’ us he killed ’is sergeant.” “Oh Lordy, oh Lordy” (his voice was not much more than a whisper), “I asks you—I asks you to smite me down if I did it a purpose.” The white boy with the bandaged head was seized with something akin to terror. “Steady now, black boy, steady, don’t go havin’ no sleight-o’-hand conversations with God ’bout knockin’ you off. He might do a good job and knock me off with you. Every time I stop thinkin’ ’bout anything else, I can see a Heinie, writin’ so peaceful-like in a little book, just before my grenade hit ’im.” The medical corporal listened as he administered to the colored boy—listened carefully—he’d use this talk in a play some time—the medical corporal administering to the col- ored boy as gently as he could, considering the number of men to be cared for. In fact, individual care was almost im- possible (and the wounded were wise enough to know this), for there were rows and rows of cots and improvised beds on which Frenchmen, Americans, and Germans lay tossing and suffering from wounds that grew more feverish, more unbearable as the night wore slowly on. There were men sitting on the ground or on rough benches, leaning against walls. Their eyes were bandaged—they had been gassed. SINGING SOLDIERS ig? They were waiting turns to be evacuated. Those field hos- pitals and dressing stations—God ! Friend, did you ever smell a field hospital—after it had stood all day under a blistering summer sun—with newly turned mounds all about—where the burial squads had stowed the festering dead of a rapidly retreating enemy— | where this year’s barrages i have burrowed into the tor- the half-rotten contents of ) last year’s graves—where the fa sweaty, unwashed smell of sick YJ and wounded men is strangely ee blended with the odor of dis- infectants and chemicals — where the blazing sun has warmed the newly clustered graves until they almost seem to breathe? This outfit was housed in the remains of a roadside hotel, a barn, part of a church, and the near-by parish house. The non-coms had moved their cots to a temporary shelter some distance away for the benefit of quiet. When all the other spaces were occupied by wounded, the non-coms’ quarters were taken by the overflow. At one end of the shelter two grievously wounded Ger- mans carried on delirious conversations with friends back home. The colored boy near by had propped up his head. Between the singing of a line or two of a song he had brought tured countryside and spewed le iS oh A CATCH OF HEINE SOUVENIRS 18 SINGING SOLDIERS from the Southland, he would declare again his desire to go back to the sergeant who was dead. Next lay the white boy who saw visions of the German writing in the little book. And beyond him a medical corporal, whose body ached— whose temples throbbed—whose throat was dry. He could- n't seem to remember how long it had been since he had THE COLORED BOY WAS A WAGONER slept—really slept. He tried to think how wonderful it would be when the classes assembled at school in the fall. He listened to the colored boy—he’d remember what that fellow said and use it in one of the college plays some time. The colored boy was a wagoner—a driver in a supply train. They had been passing over shell-swept roads with unusually good luck—then the Boche treated them to a bombing raid. The supply train was stopped—all hands lay flat on the roadside. One of the teams became excited—it SINGING SOLDIERS 19 wouldn’t do to have a wagon in the ditch. There was a call for help. Under a sergeant’s direction, the wagoner lay where he was—the sergeant would see what could be done. He hadn’t more than stood up when a bomb struck the road. It was one of those instantaneous types of aerial bombs that burst about two feet off the ground. One lying flat might miss the dispersion of the burst. The sergeant was cut in two. Other bombs fell. The wagoner was wounded, but he blamed himself for the death of the sergeant. The medical corporal had another hour in which he might rest. He lighted a candle, made sure the shelter flaps were closed, and produced a stub of lead-pencil. The negro boy spoke less of the dead sergeant. He was singing ever so softly: Don’t close dose gates, ’cause I’m sure comin’ in, Don’t close dose gates, ’cause I’m sure comin’ in. “Say, friend, can’t you do something fur ’im? The shine, I mean. He’s gone to singin’. An’ what de hell does ‘unser’ mean? One of the Boche’s been blabbin’ about ‘unser’ till I’m about to go dippy myself. ‘Unser, unser’—Jesus, will he ever die and be quiet!” The medical corporal was writing: Don’t close dose gates, ’cause I’m sure comin’ in— Don’t close dose gates, ’cause I’m sure comin’ in— Peter, take your hand off de handle ob dat gate— ’Cause I’m sure comin’ in— Jesus said he wouldn’t mind if I was a little late, When he pardoned me my sins. The tune was simple—he’d write down what he could of it. Why hadn’t people invented a shorthand system for music ? Musicians were behind time. 20 SINGING SOLDIERS Don’t close dose gates, ’cause I’m sure comin’ in— Don’t close dose gates, ’cause I’m sure comin’ in— Some folks says dat heaven is a white man’s place, But I’m sure comin’ in— Good Book says it doesn’t matter ’bout de color ob your face, So I’m sure comin’ in. The tune was simple—he’d take down what he could of it and sing the rest to some one who could help him write it off according to Hoyle. Funny about not having shorthand for music. “Unser Heiliger Gott—warum—warum habe ich? Wa- rum ?”’ “Listen, pardner, hey you, medic, won’t you, for God’s sake, for God’s sake, do something fur the poor Heinie bas- tard? Give ’im a shot in ’is arm, er give me one.” Don’t close dose gates, ’cause I’m sure comin’ in— Don’t close dose gates, ’cause I’m sure comin’ in— Toward morning the colored boy was quiet—and the Ger- man’s God seemed to have answered his prayer, too. Some of the most homesick days I ever experienced were spent at Orly (Seine), and I’ve never been able to tell why. It was a very romantic piece of French countryside. A few miles away, at Choisy le Roi, during the Reign of Terror, revolutionists had destroyed pa'aces and chateaux belong- ing to the Louis,—palaces and chateaux, where kings and courtiers had disported themselves in the most dissolute manner. West of our camp ran the Fontainebleau road, the road that connected the palace in Fontainebleau with the palaces in Paris. A few miles farther west lay Versailles, which from the air looked like a fairy garden—a fairy gar- den, indeed, with its palaces and its cross-shaped lake. SINGING SOLDIERS 21 DON’T CLOSE DOSE GATES ARRANGED BY J. J. N. ee Don’t close dose __ gates, ‘cause I’m _ sure ee ig ———————— + Pa Pe ( A Ve A (223 GE SERS Seas ER Ree Pas Seas Lex foe| es ke ————— ———— S > oe ne Ee eet Tan he be ae 2 ~~. + | eae er | Eb 2 gh Rais, | fae CG eee com - in’ in, Don’t | close dose a a a eS [Rarer ¢ ae eae aD ar oa "oa gates, ?cause I’m sure com = in’ in. __f_ fue er De See eae oe sty] |}-—_————} [eae i oO ————— 4 ¥ A 4 ee A, r 9 Wee Ge L@.\? 4 (eee ee eee] ag? Pia i a et Ge) gs e] i i Da ai aa = 5 22 SINGING SOLDIERS Verse SS Te RED BRIN Be "Gy enee Maa eee a a ee Pe-ter, take yourhand off de han-dle ob dat gate, *Cause 4e}? a —— r= Ps} | A DORE i RE = . oP ROSS: ‘Sine }—————_— Zs ee Ee eee SME Se st mar SRE DR Ra el “EE “nen FINE SRen ee 20972 |) ‘far De Ae eS ry) Le ty Bitte WR asks eee Ao WY - ita, SES. SE ESTAS ALI Ss I’m sure com-in’ in Je-sus said he would-n’t mind if I mm’ ar Ba Se RE TT PN MNS RARER SR aa Co. + ete ___—_—_—_—~ RNs Pe a ES o 4 x LZ od, GS A, = ( is ; i, oo San ree | wr | eg Laie ‘ AX Ths er Re ee ee EA SS LS CSI — em. eee > EE LEN OS ae" ME STI (a) ER LL eee SE —_“___ a —_6——_$ oe ar SS 58 P LENT EE a EEE PY Pay sea ee oO cA tA & Cr : a BMPR tee BER aL Ra TS iwi = to —___-—_g ap” RS EES), Ser” — on LAM Rg DETREI T TP” FIG NS FS \ SINGING SOLDIERS 23 We had some lively dances at Orly every now and then, but even so, it was a lonesome place. Fortunately we were away most of the time—either flying to some distant camp or waiting for flying weather, because bright, clear days were rare in the fall of 1918. During a protracted rainy spell we made friends with the officers of a colored labor battalion, engaged in repairing the Fontainebleau road. Their officers, welcome guests at Sanger Hall, had promised to show off the battalion in a drawing-room set and thereby prove their superiority over the average run of low-type gravel haulers and road menders. The performance would be staged at Sanger Hall. Sanger Hall was a gift to the officers at the Orly Flying Field. Captain Sanger had lost his life while flying at Orly. His wife, to honor her husband, had equipped a barracks in a most luxuriant manner, named it “Sanger Hall,” and opened its doors as a free club-house. It was like stumbling upon a Taj Mahal in the middle of the desert—divans, fire- places, a library, piano, soft carpets, dim lights, little cur- tains puckered up at the windows—what a place was Sanger Hall! The show opened with a crap game. One of the players was more dishonest than players usually are in army games of chance. “Stop dices !”’ “How you git dis stop?” “You’re holdin’. Pass dose dices up agin yonder blanket. I ain’t goin’ to see no dice-holdin’ high-brown spendin’ my dicks franc notes.” (Fr. dix.) “Say, lad, you’re talkin’ purty hard, ain’t you?” “Hard? Did you say hard?* Why, boy, do you know who I am? Well, I'll tell you. Dey is only. two real hard * Besides being hard, this colored boy had blue lips and boasted of a poisonous bite. SPULZUID BO YO Uy} moss 4) = >awvUu snok 38 nok ee 24341) *hays0y. MYoous dos> 24 ee SINGING SOLDIERS 26 men in dis here United States Army of America, and fo’ God, I’se both ob ’em.” The crap game was an overture to a scene involving a flying officer and a negro soldier. The flying officer (this part was played by one of the colored boys) had just in- vited a number of enlisted men to ride with him. One col- ored boy among those invited refused to ride. “Nossar, I declines de honor. I don’t mean to hab my friends standin’ round, singin’, ‘Hallelujah, hardly knew you. Nossar. I believe you is, sure God, a regular pilot. But I’ve seen dose gasoline engines stop before now. It ’ud jes’ be my luck to hab to git out an’ crank when we wuz "bout 2,000 miles up. Nossar, I don’t crank no airship while it’s aflyin’. Not me!” This scene was very much applauded, particularly by the pilots who were tight. “And now, gentlemen, may we pre- sent Mr. Mooney Dukes, assisted by us all, singin’ ‘Hoochey, Coochey Hilda’ and ‘Crap-Shootin’ Charley’.” The song about Hilda was reminiscent of a thousand “blues songs” where a male is pleading for the privilege of returning to some happy home he had deserted, for reasons he hoped no one would remember. Hoochey, Coochey Hilda, won’t you take me back— I knows I’se done you wrong— I come to France to make de Kaiser ball de Jack— Now you jus’ got to take.me back. Hoochey, Coochey Hilda, I knows I’se done you wrong. This song, in spite of its many amusing verses, failed, because the boy at the piano banged so that the singing became inciden- tal to the accompaniment. As an encore to the “‘Hoochey, Coochey’’song, the boys sang five couplets (in a quasi-quartette form) to the famous old tune of “Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust.” SINGING SOLDIERS Goin’ to lay myself down on de railroad track, An’ let de steam cars roll over my big black back. (Then follows the usual two-line chorus.) French cannon-ball goes so goddam fast, Can’t never count de cars as they wizzes past, (Chorus.) THE SINGING BECAME INCIDENTAL TO THE ACCOMPANIMENT Goin’ to let my insurance policy lapse, Cause I can’t spend no jack after de bugler plays taps, (Chorus.) German throwed down his gun and started in cryin’, And took off fer Berlin a Hell firin’, yellin’, and flyin’, (Chorus.) Goin’ to git myself a French gal wid nice smooth flanks, An’ tell her de blacks is de best 0’ de Yanks, (Chorus.) SINGING SOLDIERS 27 The crashing hit of the evening came later when they sang the song about “Crap-Shootin’ Charley.” The “Hilda” song had warmed up Mooney’s voice. After a whispered conversation with the boy at the piano, they began: All I needs is twenty francs, Come on, bones, and treat me nice. Papa’s lookin’ for a natural, Roll ’em, soldier, roll dose dice. O, crap-shootin’ Charley, where did you git yo’ name? Why, from takin’ all de centimes in de ole crap game. O, crap-shootin’ Charley, where did you git yo’ name? Why, from takin’ all de centimes in de ole crap game. How they did roll their eyes and shake their supple bodies to the rhythm of that tune! The accompanist had been “piped down” —the singers had lost their self-consciousness. They began to loosen up and really sing. The piano droned a plaintive repetition of fifths that made an admirable back- ground for the voices. The speed of the tune increased. The refrains were sung more softly. Service record’s gone, sure ’nuff— Come on, bones, and treat me nice. Phoebe, Phoebe, do your stuff— Roll ’em, soldier, roll dose dice. O, crap-shootin’ Charley, where did you git your name? Why, from takin’ all de centimes in de ole crap game. Crap-shootin’ Charley, where did you git your name? Why, from takin’ all de centimes in de ole crap game. The drumming of the piano became less like music. It was a throbbing something that seemed to mark out the rhyth- mic pattern on which the tune was hung. I was reminded of the crap-shooting performances of the past—the Issoudun crap games—ten thousand francs on the floor at one time— 28 SINGING SOLDIERS men fading one another for piles of uncounted one and two franc paper bills; crap games back in Kentucky—on court days—on election days—on the guard decks of steamboats —in the shade of a pile of merchandise on the levee. The fire had burned low. I began to be terribly homesick. The recurring fifths in the accompaniment were getting un- der my skin. Lost my hind leg in a poker game— Come on, bones, and treat me nice. Pasteboard gamblin’s too damn tame— Roll ’em, soldier, roll dose dice. The effect was intended to be humorous. Have to make dat awful box-car point— Come on, bones, and treat me nice. If de freights don’t soon ride, I’ll clean out dis joint— Roll ’em, soldier, roll dose dice. The fire burned very low. I heard the music through drowsy ears. A strange sense of detachment came over me. I wasa lit- tle boy again in a straw jimmie hat and bare feet. My father and I were in the Lee Line Steamboat offices. He held me by the hand. Men in broad black hats and moustaches were talking about McKinley, Bryan, Coxie’s army. Robert, the colored boy who brushed out and shined the cuspidors, was showing me how to make a line fast to a Junie bug’s leg. The bug escaped us. Robert spat into his hand and struck the spittle with his black forefinger, so that the path of the spittle might direct us in discovering the lost bug. McKin- ley—Bryan—free silver—Coxie’s army—my father—the levee with its endless piles of merchandise—the lost Junie bug. Was I homesick! _ Crap-shootin’ Charley, where did you git your name? Why, from takin’ all de centimes in de ole crap game. 7 ee. ee a SINGING SOLDIERS 29 CRAP-SHOOTIN’ CHARLEY ARRANGED BY J. J. N. All I needs is twenty francs, Come on,bones,and treat me nice. Oh ha raat! oy, noe en OC RA Ee US wa Re moe L\Se A iar te a Bea Cause we is always on de go— Inky dinky,* parlez-vous. Mademoiselle from Armentiers, parlez-vous, Mademoiselle from Armentiers, parlez-vous, * The negro sang “Inky Dinky” rather than “Hinky Dinky.” 62 , SINGING SOLDIERS I’d like to git myself a sip O’ what you got restin’ on your hip— Inky Dinky, parlez-vous. Mademoiselle from Armentiers, parlez-vous, Mademoiselle from Armentiers, parlez-vous, I wouldn’t give my high-brown belle, For every mademoiselle dis side o’ hell— Inky Dinky, parlez-vous. Mademoiselle from Armentiers, parlez-vous, Mademoiselle from Armentiers, parlez-vous, I can’t read nor I can’t write, But, boy, when I has to, I can fight, Inky Dinky, parlez-vous. I don’t know dis Mademoiselle from Armentiers, I don’t know dis Mademoiselle from Armentiers, I don’t know and I don’t care, Ef she was really ever there, Inky Dinky, parlez-vous. (Diary note, Oct. 12, 7918.) “Landed in a funny little evacuation hospital just over the hill from Collombey les Belles, this morning. The Doc at camp said he didn’t know whether I had a plain sore throat, flu, or spinal meningitis. The food 1s simply terrible—uncooked goldfish and raw onions for lunch —some diet for a sick man. And the coffee—wow! .. . (October 13th.) . . « lots of shot-up lads in this shake-down —and some of the funniest orderlies I ever saw. The two in our ward are named “Pancho Pete” and “Bed Pan Bill.” The black orderlies are much more interesting and what's more important, they sing. When they let me out I'll write some of their tunes down... . (October 17th.) . . . (On the way to Toul) What a hospital that was. I’ve gone over the list and thanked all the gods, their assistants, the bishops, the saints, the rabbis, and the apostles SINGING SOLDIERS 63 that I got out of that place alive. I'll never be able to look at a raw onion again. Not a bad song though, these colored order- lies sang, about the ‘ Burden-Bearer’.” When you feels dat you mus’ go—weepin’ days for Jesus, Leave your burden here below—weepin’ days for Jesus. Chorus: For he’s a burden-bearer, a burden-bearer, a burden-bearer, For he’s a burden-bearer, a burden-bearer, a burden-bearer. 64 SINGING SOLDIERS HE’S A BURDEN-BEARER ARRANGED By J. J. N. Verse SSS Se ae: When you feels dat you must go, Weep-in days for a p y, WN PRES, ~~... v wall ere id a pen ae WaeNEw TINGLE sw ts oO eer ean Menteon mens Se Je; => sus; Leave your bur - den here be - low, ()\ of) et "a LL el Rl 0 moe ee © enreste ta ASP es ii et Weep - in? days for Je - sus. For He's a burden- () of | | |f < cee (Rea — 2 wn oat aes ISB. @ SINGING SOLDIERS 65 Oe 3 See ) IS eae Oo -—o— : DY a Pg Se) ped ° _— _ _— R we bearer, a burden-bearer, a _ burden - bearer. For 66 SINGING SOLDIERS I done helt my head too high—weepin’ days for Jesus, Goin’ to let my pride go by,—weepin’ days for Jesus. (Chorus.) When he climbed up Calvary—weepin’ days for Jesus, Totin’ his cross for you and me—weepin’ days for Jesus. (Chorus.) Soldier stuck ’im in de side—weepin’ days for Jesus, Dat’s de time our Saviour died—weepin’ days for Jesus. (Chorus.) White folks laid ’im in dat tomb—weepin’ days for Jesus, Hoped he’d stay twill de clap of doom—weepin’ days for Jesus. (Chorus.) Three days passed and he war out—weepin’ days for Jesus, Warn’t no reason den for doubt—weepin’ days for Jesus. (Chorus.) This song was opened by one singing of the chorus. Oftentimes between verses the chorus was sung twice. * * * One frosty morning in October, 1918, I was given orders to fly a new type Spad from Orly-Seine to Issoudun (the third Aviation Instruction Centre). The major explained that my ship contained a very expensive collection of photo- graphic equipment, and intimated that I might either land the Spad and the equipment safely at Issoudun, or never return to Orly. It was not like old times to get back to Issoudun. The barracks had been equipped with running water and other twentieth-century sanitary contraptions, very unlike those we had lived with and learned to like, in the old days—the early days of 1917. The original and best-looking Red Cross sadly SINGING SOLDIERS 67 girls were gone. The Plane News had graduated into a big city sheet with colored supplements. The camp swarmed with newly arrived American lieutenants, in conspicuously new olive drab—gold-bar lieutenants in bright yellow Sam Browne belts. They looked at me in my moleskin pants and flying-coat (both stained with the oil and grease of many flights) and wondered what army I belonged to. I had originally intended to remain in camp over night, but the news of a big-calibre railway wreck came in from the near-by town of Chateauroux. My plans were changed at once. A detail of men from Issoudun had been sent to clear away, to help restore a very necessary piece of roadbed. On the pretext of spending the night in Chateauroux (in order to catch an early train next morning) I left camp, riding on a truck headed in the direction of the wreck. It was a truck of food-stuffs, intended to ration the wrecking crews. The forward end of the truck was loaded with hard bread—hard bread, beans, and “canned bill.” Aft they had stowed four galvanized-iron cans of hot coffee. The truck was springless, the roads were rutted, and the driver drove like “hell beatin’ tanbark.”’ It was about 11.30 when we arrived at the scene of the wreck. The bed of the truck leaked coffee like an immense sieve. Not more than a third of the original contents of the can remained. The dry rations forward were awash with tepid coffee. A sergeant balled hell out of the driver and turned to a waiting line of hungry men. “This is a sorry lookin’ goddam mess, but chow is chow, fellows, an’ you can just thank Christ that some of it came in water-tight tins.” The white boys ate sullenly and threw themselves on the ground for a moment’s rest before going back to the clearing 68 SINGING SOLDIERS away. Some colored soldiers who had been temporarily quartered near Chateauroux were also working on the wreck. After they had eaten, they turned to kidding their officers by singing the ‘‘Pay Roll Song.” “Pay Roll Song,” to the tune of “Marching through Georgia.” All we do is sign the pay roll All we do is sign the pay roll All we do is sign the pay roll but we never get a goddam cent.... I felt sure that before the night was over they’d sing something worth writing down. They sang the “Pay Roll Song”’’ as often as it would stand repetition, then after a short pause and several bad starts struck up an original ver- sion of a very familiar old song about going home. Sitting on the seat of the ration truck, I wrote off their jingles on SINGING SOLDIERS 69 every piece of paper available, and later accidentally dropped the entire record in a puddle of cold coffee on the truck floor. Next morning in Chateauroux, after the early train had been safely missed, a clear copy was made of the carefully dried notes. There were only eleven verses of the song. If the paper had held out I might have had twenty. When white boys sang this tune, they borrowed their verses from the songs of other wars—for example: I gave myself to Uncle Sam— Now I’m not worth a good goddam— I don’t want any more France. .. . Jesus, I want to go home. But the colored fellows made up their own verses. . . When I came over I was mama’s pride and joy— Now I’m just one of the Hoy-Poloy. ... I don’t want any more France... . Jesus, I want to go home. When I gits a chance to do my stuff— Pll strangle some German twill he hollers “nuff” — I don’t want any more France. .. . Jesus, I want to go home. I brought my razor from the other side. . . . An’ I hopes to whet dat blade on de Kaiser’s hide . . . I don’t want any more France— Jesus, I want to go home. Dices don’t love their papa no more— Since we left dat United shore— I don’t want any more France— Jesus, I want to go home. 7O SINGING SOLDIERS My gal up an’ called my bluff— An’ brother, did I do my stuff— I don’t want any more France— Jesus, I want to go home. Officers, they live up on de hill— We live down in de muck and de swill— I don’t want any more France— Jesus, I want to go home. I got a gal—her name is May— She holds me tight mos’ all o’ de day— I don’t want any more France— Jesus, I want to go home. Pay day, won’t you please come ’round— I wants to take a trip to Chateauroux town— I don’t want any more France. . Jesus, I want to go home. Soldier boy, don’t you miss your aim— ’Cause when Heinie gits yo’ range, it’s goin’ to be a shame— I don’t want any more France— Jesus, I want to go home. Don’t waste yo’ time wonderin’ if every shell’s a dud— Cause it only takes one to curdle yo’ blood— I don’t want any more France— Jesus, I want to go home. If you don’t want yo’ bones to be used fur fertilize— Better sing out yo’ prayers and don’t tell God no lies— I don’t want any more France— Jesus, I want to go home. he ae ra SINGING SOLDIERS 71 I DON’T WANT ANY MORE FRANCE ARRANGED By J. J. N. 4 Verse Gave my-self to Un-cle} Sam, Now I’m not worth a VPXCE TAF LASS See ar PS = be 2 Bila (O-eOt2 ree 72 ae AL, a -— Seca ie cue ern ame Chorus — eT E YS Ia nud x 3 q 3 Hp = SGN n — SY kavaasia ‘ihe ee a . 5 arg rai ” tas good God damn. I don’t want an - y more 7 PGs Saar EEE PRED TTT Tate eee | fae a ee __o i Neer [aoe Jeo meee | ETance:. .. Je - sus, I want’ to go home aan eee an oe max — jo ee a i io +e $$ nor Een ee per eee aN a KEE EST sae ps = LW -¢-e—_ ey Pate ret 3 72 SINGING SOLDIERS That American chaplain so well known and so much loved by the sick and wounded in one of the hospitals, used to swap with a colored boy a story for a song. The chaplain was an Irishman and, as one might expect, had an almost inexhaustible supply of tales. Some were more dry-cleaned than others, but every one, if properly told, carried a good legitimate laugh with it. Prior to the war, the colored boy, affectionately called Bolo, had been employed in the turpentine forests of the Southland. From his songs and stories one gathered that the negroes of the turpentine country had developed an in- dividual collection of “‘hants” and superstitions. His father, for example, had for many years been engaged in making and selling a so-called “ voodoo-powder,” which, when sprin- kled across the doorways at night-time, was guaranteed to forestall the entrance of the dreaded needle-witch.* Of the songs he sang, the one involving the moon was by far the most nearly unique. He said that the verses of this par- ticular tune were part of the hymn tunes and shoutin’ praise, used in his neck o’ the woods back home, but he’d made up the chorus—modernized the text, one would say, to fit the idea of the war. (He called the choruses “The repeatin’s” Although both verses and tunes varied from time to time, the words were decidedly the most constant. . . . I don’t think I’se long for here. . . . I seed a ring around de moon. I don’t think I’se long for here. . . . An’ de change can’t come too soon. * The needle-witch was a kind of harpy, who, after having been tarred and feath- ered by irate, upright citizens, during a long-ago witchcraft orgy, had wallowed her- self in pine needles and appears thus to this very day, much resembling a porcupine. SINGING SOLDIERS 73 Refrain: Oh, stop up de mouths of dose cannons, And throw yo’ bayonets down... . Cause fightin’ an’ killin’ ain’t nothin’ to do... . When de day o’ de Lord come around. I don’t know what’s over dat hill... . When dey’s a ring around de moon... . Want to go so bad I can’t sit still. . . . An’ de goin’ can’t come too soon. (Refrain.) Done seed a angel in a dream... . Dere wuz a ring around de moon... . Said I’se goin’ home in a cloud o’ steam... . An’ it can’t come true too soon. (Refrain.) Bolo had made the interesting error of assuming that any bugle call which gave him a chance to stop work or drill, making it possible for him to “rest his weary hips,’’ was Taps. He called it “The Sweet Ole Taps Tune.” He even sang a pathetic sort of song about it. It was the only prac- tical musical thing he did. Both words and notes have been recorded (the music to the “Moon Song” defied recording). I’se goin’ to lay myself right flat down, Goin’ to lay down an’ sleep on de hard, cold ground— I’se goin’ to lay myself right flat down, When I hears dat sweet ole Taps tune sound... . Repeatin’s: For I’se weary, Oh Jesus, so weary, Sweet Jesus, so weary— — 74 SINGING SOLDIERS FOR TSE WEARY Tse goin’ to lay my - self right down, Goin’ to (ere SS lay down an’ sleep on de hard, cold ground. ie Tse goin’ to lay my-self right down, When I hears dat sweet ole SS SSS taps tune sound. For I’se wea - ry,... oh, Je -sus, so wea-ry; Sweet Je-sus, so wea-ry... in bod-y and soul. In body an’ soul. . I says ’se weary— Oh Jesus, so weary, Sweet Jesus, so weary— In body an’ soul. ... The so-called “‘repeatin’s”’ gave the reason for the great de- SIré. to TESt, 41. When the United States Air Service purchased a supply of Sopwith Camels from the English, we knew that it would be up to us at Orly to fly them from the English airdromes to our fields at Vinets and Collombey les Belles. The Camels the English turned out were motored (as a rule) with French SINGING SOLDIERS 76 Monosaupape rotary engines—very good engines when they didn’t catch fire or fly to pieces from overheating. The suc- cess or failure of a pilot flying a Monosaupape Camel de- pended upon the pilot’s knowledge of motors and delicacy of control. A Camel would do a loop, a hand stand, a vrille, and a flop on the shortest notice of any machine we encoun- tered (up to the end of the war) except perhaps the Moraine Monoplane. Many of our good boys died trying to fly Camels. They were tricky ships, particularly for the first few hops—after that, with any luck at all one could carry on quite safely. A few, who became quite expert with them, were jokingly referred to as “camel-drivers.” One wild American at Vinets (a tester) used to take a Camel off the ground, go into a loop and land. Then he would take the ship off the ground in a chandelle, spiral upwards until he lost flying speed, kick over into a side slip and pull out just in time to save the bugler from blowing taps. We took this lad aside and, with tears in our eyes, convinced him that he was too valuable to the service to be such a deliberate and absolute ass. But, after all, the Camels were tricky air-ships. 76 SINGING SOLDIERS It required both luck and technique to fly them and stay out of the graveyard. When we “ferried”? Camels from England to France, we went to Norwich (one of the English supply stations for aeronautical gear), by way of Paris, Le Havre, Southamp- ton, and London. We had to stop in London long enough to report to the Royal Flying-Corps Air Pool for orders and collect a few pounds sterling in lieu of railroad fare from the American Q. M. This required about two days. We always made the most of these two-day stop-overs. On one of them we made the acquaintance of Lady Astor and her sister. They were originally from Virginia and very sympathetic with the South. We talked about Richmond, Virginia, and Lexington, Kentucky, the horse-races at Churchill Downs, the Derby at Louisville. I happened to have two boxes of loaf-sugar in my musette bag. Lady Astor’s family had used saccharine for so long, they were most awfully pleased with the sugar. Next morning four American officers were invited to Buckingham Palace, where His Majesty the King pinned decorations on the breasts of soldiers. Now and then the soldier couldn’t walk, and sometimes an empty coat-sleeve answered the King’s salute. Later the American officers were presented to His Majesty and were so graciously re- ceived that they came away with a more kindly feeling toward the “divine right of kings.”’ All of this in Bucking- ham Palace. At tea-time we sat around a fire in St. James Square. The hostess and her sister sweetened the tea with loaf-sugar out of my musette bag. Across the street from the Astor Town House the British had constructed some temporary barracks—an officers’ club —built around the equestrian statue of some one. It was here that we encountered an English pilot named Christy, an ee SINGING SOLDIERS 77 who had originally been attached to a flying-outfit on the Italian frontier. His outfit, as I remember, was equipped with Bristols. Christy had been a newspaper man before the war. His knowledge of copy values had given him the idea of writing a book on “flying-soldiers”—he said he’s read enough bad aviation tales. He felt it was high time for some one who knew the air and the job at which pilots lived and died, to belie the synthetically concocted claptrap we encountered on every hand. It seems that Christy was in love with one of the young ladies who had volunteered to wait on tables at the Officers’ Club in St. James Square. How charming a person she was and how unused to carrying heavy trays of dishes! She was naturally interested in Christy’s book—he had promised to let her read the chapters as fast as he found time to turn them off. When we left next afternoon to go up to Norwich, Christy’s sweetheart came to see us take our leave. Her violet eyes were misted from having just shed tears. They were very much in love, those two!—not as soldiers and war-workers loved, as a rule, but in a sincere, almost old- fashioned manner. Christy assured her he would fly care- fully—not low and slow, but high and fast, and wait for good weather to make a Channel crossing. “Tf you'll be a really good little girl, Pll bring you a sur- prise from Marquise.” “What, beside yourself?” “Why, the first chapter of the book, of course.” My orders said that I would fly from Norwich to an American field in France, by way of Lympne and Marquise. Christy’s orders took him as far as Marquise, the first land- ing-field on the French side of the Channel. We made the trip together from Norwich to Lympne, where we spent the 78 SINGING SOLDIERS night at the Officers’ Club, in the twelfth-century castle re- stored by Beecham, the pill-maker. Next day we started across the Channel—it was a stormy flight—several ships turned back. With my usual luck I landed top side uP at Marquise and waited at the pilotage for Christy. | They gave him up as missing in the early afternoon. By nightfall a driving rain had turned Marquise into the most dismal camp in France. I remembered some lines from Alan Seeger’s poem, about being “Pillowed in silk and scented down— Where love throbs out in blissful sleep.” And then I thought of Christy—lost in the English Channel. I shall always remember how much opposed he was to wearing life-belts, and thank myself for having strapped one on him ere I took off for Marquise. What his book would have been like no one will ever know—for though His Maj- esty paid a royal wage in ribbons, orders, and honors, neither the King nor his horses nor all of his men knew the pattern of Christy’s book. That’s why his sweetheart waited so long for that first chapter from Marquise. Late next afternoon some ambulance-men extricated me from the remains of my plane. I had fallen in a lonesome little gully, not fifteen minutes’ flight from my destination. Lady Luck had been played too hard. Up to that time I hadn’t broken a wire or scratched a bit of wing covering. My memory is not clear on what happened during the next five semiconscious days, and I kept no diary. They were days of falling through space—grinding motors—barking archies—the storm-lashed English Channel—trying to fly through fog clouds—smashing struts—the ripping of wing- covering. Then out of all this chaos came voices speaking A fae SINGING SOLDIERS 79 the English language—in an American manner. I was in the 45th Red Cross Hospital, St. Denis, France. A colonel of the Medical Corps was there, several other officers, a Red Cross nurse, and a negro orderly. My orderly’s name was William. We were Southerners—he was a long, lanky North Carolinian—I was a Kentuckian. William was the most picturesque liar I have ever known. What tales he told of his exploits in the army—the training- camps in France and America—of the troop-ships—the sub- marines—of North Carolina—and of his rabbit-foot method of recovery from shrapnel and mustard gas. In addition to his charm as a prevaricator, he spoke in a dialect I had never before encountered. His overcoat was known 2: “ma objercoat”—he said “gart”’ for got, “poot”’ for put, “‘mought” for might, and “pite nye” for pretty nearly. He had an absolute mania for face-lotions, hair- tonics, perfumes, soaps, and powders, uniquely classifying such preparations as “scent-waters, love-powders, and hair- oils.” He rather objected to the French hair-tonics, how- ever, saying that they were too thin to make his wool stay put and would not shine shoes like the “burgmont” oil he had used in North Carolina. The French Government had permitted the U. S. Army to house the 45th Red Croy3 Hospital in a school, built by Napoleon Premier, originally intended for the daughters of men who had been awarded the Legion of Honor. Left of the main building stood the Cathedral of St. Denis, a ro- mantic old pile of Gothic architecture, in which many of the kings and queens of France are buried, and on the altar of which Joan of Arc in 1429 hung her white armor and the sword she had worn in so many victories. There were 3,000 men in the 45th Red: Cross Hospital 80 SINGING SOLDIERS (this number was not furnished by William), and the mem- ories of their suffering through those terrible days and nights are too sacred to recount. I do not know what I should have done without William. Mine was a tiny room—a room with a fireplace in it. Wil- liam sat Uncle-Remus-like, with his back to me, telling his Stories into the fire. Between the. telling of the fabulous yarns, William would sing. It wasn’t exactly singing—it was more like crooning. It was the legend of a suppressed race of black men, whispered to an obligato of unbelievably fer- vent music—music that made me hold my breath, lest I should lose the very smallest part. It was easy to record OLE ARK ole ark’s a mov-er -in, watch ’er go. Deole ark’s a mov-er- in’, Sol’ my ma-mydownat New Or- leans, Now we got to cook our own ON etc. ham and greens. Oh, de ole ark’s a mov - er- in’, etc. a ee ear nt eS ane SINGING SOLDIERS 81 William’s songs—he sang them so often I knew them by heart. His version of ““De Ole Ark’s a Moverin’” was unique, involving a conversation with Captain Noah. Oh, de ole ark’s a moverin’, a moverin’, a moverin’, De ole ark’s a moverin’—watch ’er go. De ole ark’s a moverin’, a moverin’, a moverin’, ’Cause Captain Noah tole me so. Sol’ my mammy down at New Orleans, Now we got to cook our own ham and greens. (Oh, de ole ark’s a moverin’, etc.) Sister, you bes’ change your mind— Hell’s a creepin’ up on you from behind. (Oh, de ole ark’s a moverin’, etc.) Save a seat for me inside— ’Cause Noah knows I’se goin’ to ride. (Oh, de ole ark’s a moverin’, etc.) The usual expression of infinite faith found its way into all of William’s songs. He knew the more morbid of the traditional negro tunes, but for some reason he avoided them; perhaps in his childish way he knew that if faith could move mountains, it could also heal wounded aviators more easily than sour faces, potions, incantations, and hyp- notic passes. It’s all very well for “all 0’ God’s chillun” to have wings, shoes, robes, crowns, etc., and to dance all over heaven thus attired, but William sang a song about Jeing “one of God’s chillun”—a song that had more fundamental religious phi- losophy in it per line than many preachments have in them per thousand words. He called it “The Gimmie Song.” 82 SINGING SOLDIERS GIMMIE SONG ARRANGED BY J. J. N. Verse 3 Wl ATUUY, CEDUORIG OAT HRNAAA TENEGE LORDAGY WENTDG NREL GEE ——————SE a UNS. = Bee _ STA DTT Rio w A BOTST ITN I knows I’se one ob God’s chill - un, an’ he’s goin’ to gim-mie -g- 3 what I needs. I knows I’se one ob de se- lect e - lect, 3—— L_\/ + ——} ——} — + 4 |} —}—5—@ —g —P J . 2D is Pe a EE * 8 AE Os BS GLE rian 21 — es a te IF og ; i ee a - e e O ST | a ma fe: ae ye oN AY, PAPE HUNTS | fA Ay Pe Wenn MNES SSIES TY Ree V poo Le RM ceca . ho- — MRE" DRS TSENG one ob de chill - un God al- ways feeds. Oh," SINGING SOLDIERS 83 eed! 3) Ps '. et CBOE ORES Cy oe -___@@ _ | (an Wa Zegareces tide a Vale oon ee pies aera aac a DMC Oa a ae» why, tell me why, does you stand in de rain, Oh, { ) i paF 5 Se ee er ere a en TS ee face va: on pean oon SE ed Dae eeena | (aaa De 'EoS0 (ln Sen Ee aoe laa a —- ; —?é Reine ele kal | 4 r Co 2S = ee Reena i Sg ARR eS es ee eee S—_ ae a = |___#_____# ___§ wer "a = bh a) 1? Sea a ara aaa Rae ea Rome eres ae (Aaa ia es rea SU heieciei eat a v, if [i in Di “ae ee ee | ere ‘aa LT SLA i ey a eee LO Sj Jl” /2>- Bane eee _- 2) y; ie ; a 4 4 7 ae as ieee fs Se ON Pr wet I py ee Sy a a] Meir: bo, 2" ee ea bomen at Res tS Fe A eer [eR | ae WA: (Se Ret ae bay | eer eG [- LB FE C/ 4 = Pen Gea 7 (SS Se you is God’s chill-un, and he’s goin?to give you what you needs. a 3 te i r NN ee fe OU kL Rane carat ad exmacan ont ‘7’ — a ee for ia re i ASD. (ant feta AO et a Mnmmaransel Git z] ca 1 ie OS as | A SV 2 a 2 ee RAT NESE al eae Been SS a seems ES zs cal i J wl = RECENT Ls a te > eared Ta a, 84 SINGING SOLDIERS GimMIE SonGc I know I’se one ob God’s chillun, An’ he’s goin’ to gimmie what I needs— I know I’se one ob de select elect— One ob de chillun God always feeds. Chorus : Oh, why do you stand in de snow and de rain, Oh, why do you suffer from sickness and pain. Cause all ob you belongs to God, An’ he’s goin’ to gib you what you need. Notice how, in the chorus, the singer deliberately declared the therapeutic value of belonging to God. Although he ran out of really big ideas after the first verse and chorus, the other two verses are interesting in the pictures they present. Oh, Moses hit dat desert rock— De Good Book up an’ tells us so, While all de brethren stood hard by, Wonderin’ if de water would really flow. (Chorus). Parson says I’ll baptize you, So’s all your sins’ll pass away. He ducked me down mid shouts and prayers— "Fore God, dat wuz a happy day. (Chorus). Among the boys of William’s outfit, a song had sprung into existence which illustrated the effect of army discipline on the slow, easy-going Southern negro. Fighting a war de- mands movement, speed, and action—but most of all it de- mands something few of the Southern negroes of William’s type understood—instantaneous action. SINGING SOLDIERS 85 SCRATCH a bh +t? keane eee VS i Scratch your lousy...... back, scratch your lousy > ——— er mperrenie fe ys. | ae SET RS IE Pee) Ea Cts 2 Pa ea Pio) ina coe eee oe i 6 | D7 z io () esp i aa =—|— ‘aoe a- \-+__§ © ye ies eelmies 62 eget ee Se eee a maa Po IR Piz edneemabeetinestee 8 oo a areata leo 4 <£G@ () Ve See ey amy ——S—_ Tas “Sar 2 a x eg pa covers Sees fan Vaal, — +} —-—-___+—_] WL [Pome on ies Tea a iS ae back. Pick up your gun and swing your pack, ’Cause a CWS inne ee Sa ees (ET — ————— ——— ie a ne |G 4 a -6- wv a i 86 SINGING SOLDIERS The line “scratch your lousy back” had no reference to brushing off a stray louse or two. What it really means is, “pull yourself together,” “snap into it,” “both feet on the deck and do it NOW.” ScratcH Your Lousy Back Scratch your lousy back, scratch your lousy back, Pick up your gun and swing your pack, ’Cause Kaiser William’s on your track, Scratch your lousy back. Scratch your lousy back, scratch your lousy back, Keep your head down in dis trench, Or you’re never goin’ to see dat little high brown wench, Scratch your lousy back. Scratch your lousy back, scratch your lousy back, Whenever you hear the rattlin’ of bully beef tins, You better grab for your gas mask and be sorry for your sins, Scratch your lousy back. As I recovered the use of my legs, I took to exploring that hospital, and, being rather a privileged character, there were few crannies or cubby-holes I didn’t get into sooner or later. One morning a colored lad who had been very badly gassed attracted my attention by waving a scrap of news- paper at me. In a very weak voice he told me that he knew a song I should surely add to my collection—it was the song about hanging various members of the Imperial German family on a sour-apple tree. This was immensely amusing to both of us. I laughed aloud, while he went through the motions of laughing without uttering more than a raspy gurgle. Our conversation was interrupted by a nurse and some attendants who came to take him away for some treat- SINGING SOLDIERS $4 ment or other. As I left he asked me if I would get him a newspaper. I explained that The Herald, The Tribune, or The Mail were rarely found in St. Denis, but that I would try. When I came back next afternoon—a screen of sheets— hospital fashion—shielded him from view—he was “going west”—I had come too late—his song was “going west” with him. At the window near by I tore the single-folded French newspaper into little squares—and let them flutter slowly from my trembling hands. Across the garden just below, where the gloom of early evening was already gathering, one might hear the noise of clattering dishes, the evening meal in preparation. But some- how in my ears I seemed to hear soft voices gently singing— Don’t close dose gates, ’*Cause I’m sure comin’ in. Don’t close dose gates, ’Cause I’m sure comin’ in. * * * CHAPTER IV (November r1th, 1918.—Wealked in on the boys while they were at mess. Have to use two canes to make any forward speed, but that’s better than being strapped to a board in the hospital. At nine o'clock the radio operators intercepted messages from the long-wave station in Germany in reference to a possible armistice. Our major received confirmation of armistice rumor later from 45 Avenue Montaigne. At eleven oclock all the whistles and anti-aircraft batteries in Paris cut loose. We knew that the war was over for the present. We didn’t know whether to be glad or not. The first thing we talked about was our lost thirty-three and one-third per cent—the good lads who had been bumped off. All flying was called off after mess. About three in the afternoon the Gas-House Gang went to town (Paris) to help celebrate. They wouldn’t let me go—said Id get lost in the mob, ‘Fohnnie was appointed to stay home and keep me company.) (November 12th, 1918.—The boys took me to town to-night. Big Fohn Bailey took care of me when the crowds got too thick. I never experienced such a night in my life—the boys said that the second night was better than the first.) O—the Armistice was signed—the Germans coming out second-best, after nearly every one thought they had the war won two or three times. The next logical thing was the Peace Treaty and the payment of war indemnities —a Peace Treaty that would be another “scrap of paper” and war indemnities that would make the paying nations more bitter against the victors than they were before the war began. Then the victors had to pay their debts to one another, and finally, both victor and vanquished found it 88 | SINGING SOLDIERS 89 necessary to provide in some measure for the wounded, the disabled, and the fatherless. In short, the backwash had. to be raked away. Departments were established where bureaucrats dispensed the divers rewards nations usually confer upon their disabled defenders. Societies for the out- lawing of war sprung up, and the antimilitaristic member- ship, as usual, hindered the progress of peace among nations. War is a form of blow-off. As far back as we are able to make any form of reasonable investigations, we find that men drank intoxicating drinks or narcoticized certain brain centres by the use of any means they had handy—hunted wild animals—fought duels—laughed, played, danced, used profanity—went to sexual excesses, etc., as a form of relax- ation. Then when these forms of relaxation were no longer sufficient, they went to war. And the highly evoluted mod- ern man is not so far different from his prehistoric brethren, except that he goes through the silly procedure of signing a treaty, and then has to break it. The Hindu philosophers knew that war was a futile procedure thousands of years ago. Better live on beggar’s bread With those we love alive, Than taste their blood in rich feasts spread, And guiltily survive. Ah, were it worse who knows to be Victor or vanquished here, When those confront us angrily, Whose death leaves living drear. (Song Celestial— Bhagavad Gita.) Some smart person is either going to make the majority of this planet’s population think seriously about peace or find a substitute for war, and in the meanwhile we'll most go SINGING SOLDIERS probably fight, or get licked—and fighting in these days of modern warfare is an ordeal, from which one recovers slowly. * * As soon as we were sure the Armistice was signed, some of our boys put in for immediate return to the States. We who stayed in France have since discovered the folly of going home too soon. Those days early in 1919 were lean days— business was bad—jobs were scarce—and living was high. The ones who voluntarily stayed in France after the sign- ing of the armistice and finished up the job were smart and didn’t know it—at least, they didn’t know it at the time. In November and December, 1918, we flew many ships to the new front (the Rhine) to supply the squadrons there. We also picked up strays—ships we had been forced to land at some out-of-the-way field—ships that after a few hours of repairing were ready to go again. About the 20th of November, after demonstrating in a short flight that I hadn’t lost my nerve, orders were given me to pick up one of these forced landings at the little French field near Provins, and fly it to Vinets. Another pilot on our field was given orders at the same time to pick up a similar ship at Malmaison. We started out together, intending to motor by way of Paris, first to Malmaison and then to Provins. My partner conceived the idea of taking a girl friend of his along, and having me fly her to Vinets (my ship being a two-place Salmson). I have never known that girl’s full name—to me she was Irene, a Red Cross girl from Chicago, very pretty, very modest, and very anxious to fly. We called for her at a hotel in the neighborhood of the Place Concorde, my friend making a play of not know- ing exactly where she lived. He seemed to think I should SINGING SOLDIERS gl be impressed with the idea that she and he were only very casually acquainted, although it was an unimportant detail. After the first half-hour of the trip I knew this was not the case. We lunched at Brie Comte Robert. The piéce de résis- tance was a pheasant. What a dinner! The delicious fall air had made us ravenously hungry. We were at table easily two hours. From Brie Comte Robert we went to Malmaison, where my partner left us to fly his one-place Spad. At the Provins field I discovered that my Salmson was in bad con- dition. First, the motor wouldn’t turn up the required num- ber of revolutions (usually called “revs”), then the landing and flying wires were saggy. The ship had a sad-looking air about it. Irene began to lose interest in her proposed flight. I told my chauffeur to stand by in case she didn’t decide to fly, as it would have been unfortunate to leave her flat at that French field with no easy way of getting back to the city. After making numerous motor tests, Irene and I held a consultation. I thought the motor would turn over a little more in the air. But girls had been bad luck to pilots before. I had visions of a smashed Salmson with two people crawling out of it. No! I'd fly alone. The field was surrounded by trees on three sides and by a line of telephone-wires on the fourth. The trees looked like a softer thing to fall on if the motor went absolutely dead. So, after waving Irene good-by, I taxied out and took off in the direction of the lowest trees. Instead of reving up higher as the trees came closer, the motor fell off a bit, but it was too late to stop. I opened the throttle as wide as it would go, held my wheels on the ground until the last possible moment, swallowed, turned my head to one side, and pulled back on the controls with everything I had. The g2 SINGING SOLDIERS undercarriage skimmed the tops of the trees by such a nar- row margin that the wind from the propeller blew a gust of reddish brown leaves behind as I passed over. With the extra 110 pounds weight and the bad-luck idea the female passenger would have provided in the back seat, I would never have been able to get that ship over those trees. As it was, for the next half-hour I flew just over the top of French kitchen-gardens and backyards, skimming trees and church-spires by the narrowest of margins. I tried all the possible manipulations of the air and gasoline levers, but the motor missed and coughed as if it were just about to drop me in the middle of some Frenchman’s butter-bean patch. When I did finally land at the Vinets field, it was raining. One of the pilots permanently attached to the field asked me what the orders were on my ship. “According to the orders, it’s supposed to go to Collom- bey les Belles from here, but if I were you, I’d just back it out yonder in one of those far hangars and let it rot. It won’t take long.” I never saw our Red Cross friend after that. She must have arrived back in Paris safely, in spite of her disappoint- ment at not making a flight. The pilot who picked up the Spad told me later that he took her along on the supposi- tion that his ship would not fly at all—then he and the girl should have had the motor-car and the chauffeur at their disposal to tour about France a bit. He admitted, however, that the girl was not in on his plan. She was interested in flying, not touring. I should never have recounted this pointless tale if I hadn’t encountered a truck-load of singing colored lads at Troyes on the way back to Orly. Among their equipment I noticed musical instruments. The officer in charge of them (a very ——— eo ati SINGING SOLDIERS 93 dapper looking second lieutenant) told me that they had just played a performance at a near-by camp. We discussed the negro as a singing soldier. The colored officer was sur- prised that any one had gone to the trouble to record the random singing of the black boys. After I had sung him some of the tunes in my collection, however, he agreed that they were worth writing off. Among his boys there were several very talented singers—one of them a blues singer, who did the regulation St. Louis blues, etc., in a marvel- lously characteristic manner. But the regulation blues can be bought in every music-store in the land. I didn’t begin to take notice until the blues expert sang one of his own concoctions—a version of the “moving” blues. Instead of having the “moving-man sadness,” he had the ‘‘soldier-man sadness.”’ His third, fourth, and fifth verses were out of the picture. They had no connection with the war or the blueness of soldiering, but they were so naive that I could not refrain from including them in the text of the song. These are the verses of “The Soldier Man Blues.’”’ He began with the chorus, as usual. This is the principal motif of the “ Soldier Man Blues.” SSS got de mean man, mov- in’ van, yel-low dog 2 SSS ad can, Ho - ly hell, sol - dier man __ blues. Chorus: I got the soldier man sadness, the soldier man blues, I want to do what I want and I want to do it when I choose. 94 SINGING SOLDIERS I got de mean man, moving van, yellow dog wid a can— Holy hell, soldier man blues. I’d rather be a pimpin’ fur one-eyed Kate, and do a first- class job at a cut-price rate, Than tote a gun in this man’s war, er drive a noisy motor- cycle side car. (Chorus.) For Lizzie’s a gal widout much style, but you should see those papas caper when she puts out her smile, While one-eyed Kate is full o’ speed and she bends in the middle like a broken reed. (Chorus.) Now I know colored folks is always tryin’ to find a way to git to heaven by slippin’ ’round behind, But Peter’s always standin’ wid a mallet in ’is hand, only lettin’ of de chosen enter in de promised land. (Chorus.) Steam train standin’ on de railroad track—couldn’t go for- ward so he had to go back, Steam train man wuz a singin’ sad, cause ’is engine acted up so bad. (Chorus.) Possum a hangin’ on a hickory limb—moon wuz a shinin’ down on him, Possum simply ain’t no use ‘less he’s a floatin’ in a puddle o’ pot liquor juice. (Chorus.) One of my wild-goose chases in the latter part of Novem- ber, 1918, took me down in the direction of Bordeaux. On the return trip I received an invitation to a very novel hunting expedition—a boar hunt, where the hunters rode SINGING SOLDIERS 95 through the underbrush on U. S. Army tractors, armed with army rifles. The boar hunt was a failure—partly due to intoxicated drivers (who ditched one of the tractors) and partly due to the noise made by the exhaust of the engines. But the boar hunt brought me in contact with a colored boy (my host’s orderly) who provided my diary with some of its choicest notes. This is a specimen conversation: “Duz de lootenant s’pose dis here war will be over in *bout two weeks? I mean, will we be shuttin’ up shop and goin’ home?” “Oh, damit to hell, Elmer, I’ve told you a hundred times —NO!” “But, lootenant, I wants to git back in time to plant my sweet potato crop.” “Now listen, Elmer, once and for all, the war is over— has been since the 11th of this month,—but that doesn’t mean that you’re goin’ back to Mississippi, or wherever you live, in two weeks. What are you goin’ to do about all that barbed wire, open trenches, unexploded shells, dud bombs? No, Elmer, you’ll have to help ’em clean up that front.” “But, lootenant, I wants to git home so’s I can plant my sweet potato crop. An’ I always lays out my simlin hills* real early-like, so’s they mellow up ’fore I puts in de seeds. "Course I wouldn’t mind to putter ’round wid wire an’ trenches, but dud bombs, nossar! No dud bombs fur Elmer. I’m afeared I mought tickle de fusin’ contraption. No vine- gar poultice ’d ever cure Elmer} from dud bomb explo- sions.” He was shining a pair of boots and a Sam Browne belt. “?Course, I’m broke most 0’ de time, ’cause o’ my allot- ment. See, I got a wife. We wuzn’t married in a church- * Simlin—the negro word for “Simnel”—a type of squash. 96 SINGING SOLDIERS house—we wuz married by de ring ceremony. I gives her a ring, then we’s married. When she wants to git unmarried, she hands de ring back. When dey wuz draftin’ at de Court- House, I tole ’em I wuz married—thought I mought git free ‘cause of my wife. They asked me, did I ever give her any money? I says nossar—she gives me money, though. So I went to war. Now if it wuzn’t fur you all hepin’ me out, I’d be broke always. Yessar, my wife come to the train- shed to see me go away. She wuz wearin’ her new bee-gum hat—um-hum. I sho’ wants to go back.” It took Elmer all morning to make four beds and straighten up the room they were in, and all afternoon to do the wash- ing and shine the leather for the four officers he was assigned to as orderly. The officers saw that Elmer was well taken care of—and Elmer would not have traded his job for any assignment in the United States Army. La Courneau was a so-called recuperation and rest camp. Whenever there was no other place to send a contingent of men, they were sent off to La Courneau. It had originally been used by the French. A rumor was abroad that a con- siderable number of Russians had been finished off at La Courneau. They had mutinied. It was a mysterious kind of place—a place where anything might happen. There were many American officers in La Courneau—awaiting trans- portation to America or a return to their outfits. La Cour- neau bored them terribly. They were constantly A. W. O. L. The signing of the armistice was a signal for going loose. Bordeaux, 50 kilometres away, was not an uncheerful place the night of the 11th of November, but Paris went mad— and La Courneau went to Paris. During the week following the signing of the armistice, M. P.’s brought back whole de- tachments of officers and men to La Courneau. That’s why SINGING SOLDIERS 97 the jail-house at La Courneau was so full. And it was a mean Jjail-house. Elmer warned every one away from it. ~ “Don’t go in it, lootenant, even if you duz have to defend dose hoboes in de courts martial. Talk to ’em through a hole in de fence—dey’ll abbreviate yo’ life if you go in— dat’s a mean jail-house.” One of the keepers had a pile of brickbats handy. If an inmate stuck his head over the top of the palisade, a brick- bat would come sailing over at him. This was an unfortu- nate procedure; the inmates kept the brickbats that fell in the enclosure, and it is said they used them in several emer- gencies to the disadvantage of the guards and keepers. It _ was a mean jail-house. There were men in there for every crime covered by the “Manual of Courts Martial.” “Duz de lootenant feel porely ?” “Yes, Elmer, I’ve had a sore throat ever since that dumb damn boar hunt.” “T ’lowed dat boar hunt wun’t git nobody much. De tractor makes such of a noise—boar simply hauls his freight. I *lowed somebody ’ud come out o’ dat boar hunt second best. Has de lootenant tried wrappin’ up de throat wid a sock? I never has no miseries in my throat, ’cause I has me a “‘assifidity”’ bag, an’ cucumber-seeds fur kernels.” ““Cucumber-seeds? Why, Elmer, what are you trying to tell me?” “Yessar, cucumber-seeds carried in de left hip-pocket is sho’ cure for kernels in de jaw and sore throat.” Elmer did carry both cucumber-seeds and an asafetida- bag. The bag had been hanging around his neck so long that it had darkened down to the color of his skin. His clothing smelled terribly of the fetid drug. All sickness to Elmer was a device of the devil. The cucumber-seeds and 98 SINGING SOLDIERS the asafetida-bag were fairly good charms, but now and again the “‘voodoo”’ could not be overcome—Elmer would be taken down with a misery. He’d sing about it. Oh, I got a misery in my innards— Work ob de devil— Ole man devil— Oh, I got a misery in my innards— God’s goin’ to chase it away. But the miseries, the sweet potato crop in Mississippi, the wife in the beegum-hat (who was slightly outside the pale in not having the background of a church-house wedding), the wire, the trenches, and the dud bombs, were of little or no importance, when compared to the agonizing thought of sea travel. On the way to France, Elmer had suffered from a new kind of blues—the deep-sea variety. They had been set to music. And what blues! The tale of his trip to Hoboken and later to Bordeaux was an epic. He admitted that he did not understand what the draft was all about at the time of enlistment, nor did many of his fellows. They were sent north shortly after being outfitted—sent to Hoboken where they worked on the docks. Elmer said he rather thought that he’d been caught in some practical joke or other, when one day what seemed to be the warehouse, floated away. The “Deep-Sea Blues”’ tells this phase of the tale very ac- curately: Everybody in Hoboken town—everybody an’ me, Hopped upon a warehouse that was swinging around An’ went to sea. Oh, all day long I’se a lookin’ for trees, Lookin’ for sand, lookin’ for land, SINGING SOLDIERS 99 Cause I’ve got dose awful weepin’, sleepin’, Got dose awful sailin’, wailin’, Got dose awful deep-sea blues. His lyrics were not consistent—they varied with the par- ticular kind of misery he had come down with, but the blues were always of the deep sea, and the deep sea was something he intended to avoid in his future life, “Ef God prospers me and gives me life, AMEN.” The unfortunate death and burial of some colored soldiers at sea had made a profound impression on him. This fact _had crept into the Blues. Soldiers down below layin’ cold and dead— Everybody ’cept me— Drop ’em over side loaded down wid lead— While we’se at sea. Oh, all day long, etc. He had one verse about “de devil ridin’ bout in a sub- marine,” and one involving President Wilson, but they were not recorded. The importance of the negro in the winning of the war made up the other verse: All dese colored soldiers comin’ over to France, All dese soldiers and me, Goin’ to help de whites make de Kaiser dance, All dese soldiers an’ me. Oh, all day long, etc. This last verse was no doubt invented after the arrival of Elmer’s outfit in France,—after they had had an opportunity really to find out what the war was about and to become conversant about such persons as the Kaiser. “An’ I ’spose dat de lootenant knows ’bout de battle- 100 _ SINGING SOLDIERS DEEP-SEA BLUES ARRANGED By J. J. N. ev-ery-bod-y and me Hopped up-on _ a warehouse dat was swing-in’ a - round and went to sea. (we went to sea) ‘a a Ves. ING WS a oes ean ae ree seid Se sca EUS GA SS SS ES fae aaa 4 ——__;_*__4 —____ ©, _| iF a Se ESS ME im SINGING SOLDIERS IOI (\_ + | 5— pe — ean See 7 JS Sie na oP All day long I’m a look-in’ for trees, Look-in’ for land, I’m a look - in’? for sand, ’Cause I got dose sleep -in’, weep - in’, aT awe —iee Nea, Ps = = as SE A Wi pee Ses a eet 0 aan I Gt ) es a Sees ~ fee ee Eee Bie ew i SF l@\? 7 eed > [ See eee | Ch 2 re =! Gime eS a Es. Br eae Sl | 102 SINGING SOLDIERS royal in the Officers’ Mess to-night? Yessar, but Elmer don’t git into no battle-royals. I didn’t draft myself into no army fur to git slugged in a free-fur-all. An’ I s’pose de lootenant done heared ’bout de new bunch o’ bozos in de *CAUSE I GOT DOSE AWFUL DEEP-SEA BLUES jail-house. One o’ them is in fur a new kind o’ charge— tryin’ to sell a locomotive to a Frenchman—it wuz a USA locomotive.” “And just let me have that grayish-looking book, the tall one—thanks, Elmer.” SINGING SOLDIERS 103 “Oh, yessar, I done hear tell o’ dat book. It tells ‘bout how you can git to Leavensworth. An’ duz de lootenant know ef dandelion greens grows in France? I craves a mess o’ dandelion, particular ef dey ain’t got no cucker burs in ’em. An’ lootenant, would it be askin’ too much .. .?”’ (Diary note. Romorantin. Liberty assembling and test- ing-field, December 12, 1948.) The Chicken Butcher (who gained his name from a pre- war vocation) had used his razor with too lavish a hand, and thereupon had been caused to do time in Black Jack's Jail-House at Jevres. (General John J. Pershing was known to some of the colored boys as “ Black Jack.’’) Life in Black Jack’s Jail-House had chastened the Chicken Butcher— chastened him more than one would expect. He had even (without knowing it) taken to practising a very efficient modern spiritual belief. He was curing his waywardness by continually affirming his desire to be good. The Chicken Butcher possessed the childish simplicity and naiveté so sel- dom found in the present cycle of the black man’s develop- ment. He had set his affirmation of righteousness to music —or perhaps it had set itself to music—if music it may be called. The tune covered what is known to musicians as a fifth. CHICKEN BUTCHER je Oh, jail-house key, don’t you ev-er lock me in. Oh, ()\_ a 1 7 erie a ~ mara ts eer st ——— : é jail- house key, won’t nev-er be bad no more. Oh, (etc.) 104 SINGING SOLDIERS Oh, jail-house key, Don’t you ever lock me in. Oh, jail-house key— Won’t never be bad no more. Oh, chickenfoot grass, You points three ways to heaven. Oh, chickenfoot grass, Won’t never be bad no more. Oh, turkey-wing brush, You brushes up dem ashes, Oh, turkey-wing brush, Won’t never be bad no more. Oh, dark ob de moon— Don’t you ever blight my life. . Oh, dark ob de moon— Won’t never be bad no more. Oh, garbage can— You smells to high heaven. .. . Oh, garbage can— Won’t never be bad no more. Oh, razor hone— You sharpens up mv slasher. . . . Oh, razor hone— Won’t never be bad no more. Oh, chitlin supper— Oh, chitlin supper wid beer. . . . Oh, chitlin supper— Won’t never be bad no more. Oh, lightnin’ bug— Don’t you burn your pants— Oh, lightnin’ bug— Won’t never be bad no more. i a SINGING SOLDIERS 105 Oh, jail-house blues— How blue you can be... . Oh, jail-house blues— Won’t never be bad no more. On one of my last few flights to Collombey les Belles, I was forced to land at a French field about two kilometres from St. Dizier. The ground was covered with snow on which a thin skim of ice had frozen. I misjudged my for- ward speed in landing and ran into a hangar. The front flaps were closed. I took off one wing and damaged the pro- peller. It took the repair-department from Collombey les Belles four days to get my ship back in the air again. Dur- ing those four days I had many telephone conversations with the operations officer back at Orly. It was while waiting one day for a long distance connection with Orly that a Signal Corps sergeant presented Dog Star, and had him sing his “Jackass Song”’ for me. “IT don’t see why you-all wants to hear me sing—particu- lar, when it’s bout a mule. Course, ef de sergeant says I duz, I duz. Original-like, dis jackass belonged to a machine- gun outfit. He got hit but wasn’t lucky enough to die. Frien’ o’ mine, a Jug Band player, made up part 0’ dis song, an’ I made up part. No jackass ever set on no grenade. Now, a Springfield totin’ soldier might be dumb enough to do such of a thing, but a jackass knows what’s good fur ’im —jus’ like a colored man an’ a owl. Dey wuz usin’ dis mule around a dump o’ dis here German truck. One day mos’ near a whole box o’ potato-mashers went off. Dat Jug Band player ain’t never been no use since. Now, before some fool screwed a handle into one o’ dose grenades, dat mule wuz a whole hoss, wagon, and team, but when dat box o’ mashers turned loose, it was Kingdom Come.” 106 SINGING SOLDIERS Jackass what wuz named ole Henry, Jackass workin’ for a soldier man. Jackass what wuz named old Henry, Don’t you go near dat powder can. Jackass what wuz named ole Henry, Jackass what wuz always late. Jackass what wuz named ole Henry, Jackass you bes’ haul yo’ freight. Jackass what wuz named ole Henry, Jackass see de mess you made— Jackass what wuz named ole Henry, Sot down on a hand grenade. Jackass when dis war is over, Jackass don’t you never mind. You'll be fertilizin’ clover, When dis treaty’s done been signed. Goo’-by, Jackass. His chant-like tune was limited to the span of only six notes. The singer (known as “Dog Star” from having been born during dog days) was from southern Louisiana, where the influence of Roman Catholic Church music is so gener- ally found in the songs of the negroes. Dog Star was detailed to barracks’ police, in place of a colored boy, who, several days previous, had been discovered standing behind a stove in a petrified state of drunkenness, from overconsumption of lemon extract. But barracks’ po- licing did not become Dog Star—he was essentially an out- of-doors man—a soldier around whom a legend had been con- structed. Among the members of his outfit he had become known as a “hard-fightin’ sonovabitch.” It was evident that he had never quite recovered from the hand-to-hand ——————— > pg Os £ 3 r % = a Re De a5 >t SINGING SOLDIERS 107 encounter that had gained him a decoration and reputation. When the regular barracks’ orderly recovered from the lemon- extract jag, Dog Star would go back to his mule-driving detail. He drove a span of very much scarred-up animals. He had named one of them “Fool” and the other “Dummy.” His conversations with these erstwhile machine-gun jack- asses were poetic. “Why, Dummy, what’s de matter wif you? Ain’t you done heared me tell you to jump up? An’ you, Fool, tighten _up dose traces. I’ll have to bounce a wagon-tongue off yo’ hollow head. Come on, Dummy, do yo’ stuff. Jump up in here, Fool.” The naming of these animals Fool and Dummy was thought to be in some way prophetic. His story was passed on by a “fed-up” machine-gunner, wearing a silver bar and an M.P. brassard. It seems that although Dog Star was an infantryman himself, he had very little respect for sol- diers who “toted” Springfields, or artillerymen (he called them “‘seventy-fivers”), or rifle-grenadiers. In his estima- tion, automatic-riflemen, bandolier-carriers, and clip-toters were the real winners of the war. He had even been doubtful of clip-carriers. Through a judgment too quickly formed, he had condemned members of his own team. During the later days of the war, Dog Star’s outfit was operating in a hilly stretch of country between the Moselle and the Sielle Rivers. Dog Star had been armed with a French chaut-chaut automatic. To him the automatic weapon was a “sho-shot” rifle. Although it was a crude, almost unlovely weapon, Dog Star never tired of shining, oiling, and caressing his sho-shot. The Boche had a method of regaining lost territory by a 108 SINGING SOLDIERS process known as infiltration. Through the failure of an out- fit near by to maintain proper liaison, Dog Star’s platoon found itself exposed on the right. Here an infiltration of German infantry made the unprotected right flank bristle ee. ee ee ee ae. IF N STRAP UNH f with trouble. Through the early fall twilight Dog Star and his team made their way. Their objective was the remains } of a German trench system on the brow of a little hill some ; ie hundred metres off. They passed the battered remains of a : tank. It lay like some monstrous prehistoric turtle, where, f < Secu eg i SINGING SOLDIERS 10g to the delight of the enemy, it had slipped into a well-laid tank-trap. The French artillerymen, who knew to a metre the location of the trap, had pounded the once powerful mechanism into an inert mass of smoking junk. Dog Star’s last stand was on the rim of a small-sized shell- hole. Here he expended his ammunition against everything that moved. A shell fell near by. Dog Star looked for the other members of his team. He had used his last clip. The “IT HAD SLIPPED INTO A WELL-LAID TANK-TRAP” other members of his outfit had disappeared,—those bando- lier-carriers were yellow, goddam ’em! What could a soldier do with a funny French “sho-shot” and no clips! And then he suddenly found himself confronted by men in greenish gray uniforms—greenish gray uniforms and tub-shaped hats. He still held the useless chaut-chaut in his hands. It weighed less than twenty pounds, but backed up with his fiendish strength it was a veritable battering-ram. The ground was covered with mausers and unexploded grenades, but the TIO SINGING SOLDIERS blood of forgotten races of black savages surged in his veins. He was not a mathematician, a linguist, an intellectual dil- letante. He had reverted back to the tribesmen in the upper Nile Valley. He no longer understood the mechanisms of modern warfare, but his sense of aim was perfect—his desire to live, supreme. His thought of fear vanished—he fought as a savage. The clipless chaut-chaut gun swung in a wide circle, squashing tub-shaped hats down upon greenish gray DOG STAR AND HIS “SHO-SHOT” shoulders. But somehow one man couldn’t hold out long against seven. The butt of a Mauser hit Dog Star in the back of the head. He went down. And it was very suddenly night. The remains of the platoon and some strays from a machine-gun outfit arrived. They had witnessed the last SINGING SOLDIERS III few moments of Dog Star’s performance. It was through them that he gained his reputation—a hard-fightin’ sonova- bitch. A few tense periods of excitement followed their ar- rival. Several hysterical bursts of machine-gun fire. Fuses were pulled on a few potato-mashers—and silence! It rained later on in the night, and to Dog Star’s great dis- comfort, he found that he could not move the upper part of his body—something had happened to his neck. But the rain was very cooling. He tried to roll over on his back so that he might catch some drops in his mouth. In the morn- ing he was picked up by some stretcher-bearers. As the bearers passed a near-by shell-hole, they paused to look at two figures who seemed to be asleep. They were the other members of Dog Star’s team. They were sitting up quite straight—and very dead! The third member was a few paces away—lying face down. After all, those clip-toters were not yellow. The shell that fell just before Dog Star ran out of ammunition had caught all three of them. An’ what do you spose dose Hineys tried todo? Killa nigger by hittin’ ’im on de head. Now, if dey’d a cracked me on de shins, it ud been de same as dat mule and de grenades—kingdom come !”’ * - * As 1918 turned to 1919, flying days were very scarce. . . . To celebrate Christmas we had a grand party. ... Many guests came from far and near, knowing that a party at the Orly flying-field had never been known to miss fire... . After the first of the year some of our boys had orders to go home, that is to say they had orders to go as far as Bor- deaux (where they stayed a good long while). . . . Others went on extended leaves. . . . Those who remained at camp 112 SINGING SOLDIERS ARRANGED By J. J. N. ()_ of | = ae an of, MERE) Hee Zaye (ay CH REL BA ASS. —_—___;___—_© | ¢—_¢ ° SU SEEDS = il fire Jack-ass what was named Ole Hen-= ry, Jack-ass () of | = ie ie = | 7 ees, hh DES a a eS A A ee A . a ot i valve = eee ee AS a 7 wheat = work-in? for a sol- dier man; Jack-ass what was 7 tie AEA HE NEE OE AT a ge pa re = + -—__—_—_=-+-—-6 anu 4 : oe oe 3 ° —_ (CE A Eoeaes geese omen as A) Sate Ray meay MeWNey HI sees tie | eae me eee ee Eas ‘SL ee SET J ge (EEE, 9 aes, xe SE ML ARRAS F PT OS named Ole Hen -ry, Don’t you. sit on dat pow-der can. Se ee ee ee Oe en lee) SINGING SOLDIERS 113 took advantage of non-flying days to make the trip to Paris. . Certain groups could have been seen night after night at the Opera Comique, The Apollo, the Folies Bergere, ee ee During the latter part of January (1919) one of our boys was reported a casualty. . . . He had been known as a wild flier, but a lucky one. . . . The gas-house mourned him. ... The heartbreaking procedure of rolling up his belong- ings had just been assigned to one of his most intimate friends, when in he walked... . That was a signal for a celebration. . . . An orderly was dispatched to Choisy le Roi for a supply of liquor. . . . The boys were all called in . the party began... . * * * A mixture of rum, champagne, brown sugar, and spices, had been heated and sipped—steaming in half-pint tin cups. Then the mixture was mixed again. And again! And again! And again! Outside it rained. But with a certain amount of poking, the fire of French brickets had dispelled the pen- etrating cold. Inside it was so cosey! A speech was in progress—“Our Duty to Our Women Folk Back Home.” The phrases were not all coherent, nor the basic reasonings sound, but the boys “‘yehed”’ the speaker at every pause. “Baldy” had been talking about life. Life was a serious affair to-night. “Might go out to fly to-morrow and bump off’ —bump off and be no more seen. “Pour me a li'l, too. Thanks, Swede, ole boy.” The one who had been in the French Ambulance Service before he had transferred to the air always sang about this time. To-night he reverted to the ““We Wish the Same to You”’ song. 114 SINGING SOLDIERS WE WISH THE SAME TO YOU To-day is Mon - day. To-day is Mon -day. Mon - day the _ bul - lits. Oh, you. dir - ty Ger - mans, we wish the same to you. “We WIsH THE SAME TO You’ SONG To-day is Monday— To-day is Monday— Monday the bullets— Oh, you dirty Germans, We wish the same to you. To-day is Tuesday— To-day 1s Tuesday— Monday the bullets— Tuesday the bayonets— Oh, you dirty Germans— We wish the same to you. To-day 1s Wednesday— To-day is Wednesday— Monday the bullets— Tuesday the bayonets— Wednesday the shrapnel— Oh, you dirty Germans— We wish the same to you. a an ee ee SINGING SOLDIERS To-day is Thursday— To-day is Thursday— Monday the bullets— Tuesday the bayonets— Wednesday the shrapnel— Thursday the mustard gas— Oh, you dirty Germans— We wish the same to you. To-day is Friday— To-day is Friday— Monday the bullets— Tuesday the bayonets— Wednesday the shrapnel— Thursday the mustard gas— Friday the dressing station— Oh, you dirty Germans— We wish the same to you. To-day is Saturday— To-day is Saturday— Monday the bullets— Tuesday the bayonets— Wednesday the shrapnel— Thursday the mustard gas— Friday the ambulance— Saturday the hospital— Oh, you dirty Germans-— We wish the same to you. To-day is Sunday— To-day is Sunday— Monday the bullets— Tuesday the bayonets— Wednesday the shrapnel— Thursday the mustard gas— Friday the ambulance— 115 116 SINGING SOLDIERS Saturday the hospital— Sunday the graveyard— Oh, you dirty Germans— We wish the same to you. “Now, listen, Perry, that was well done. But why in hell do you always have to drag in graveyards? You’re as bad as ‘Tombstone Smith’ and ’is bloody dog-goned monument- mill.” “Yeah! I’m a lone wolf. It’s my night out and I’ll have my howl. Yeah. Whoopee!” Here’s to good ole rum— Drink ’er down—drink ’er down— Here’s to good ole rum, Drink ’er down—drink ’er down. Here’s to good ole rum, That makes me feel so bum, Here’s to good ole rum, Drink ’er down—drink ’er down. The drinking-match had reached a point of frenzy. It was all because of the return of one who had been reported, “Down, out of control”! Indeed, a pilot had stepped from the casualty list, with a slight limp, a black eye (that was yellowing into recovery), an excellent aviation-clock (sal- vaged from the wrecked ship) and a whale of a good story. Here’s to good ole liquor— Drink ’er down—drink ’er down— Here’s to good ole liquor— Drink ’er down—drink ’er down. “Yeah, stop it! Yu simply can’t sing that song an’ use the word ‘liquor.’ Shimpossible. Won’t rhyme with nothin’. I’ve tried it many’s a time.” There was a discreet knock on the barracks’ door. SINGING SOLDIERS 117 “Come in, if you can git in.” It was the colonel’s orderly—and a very sleepy-eyed or- derly at that. “Colonel’s respects to the lieutenants.” The pilot who had been wearing the Polish drinking-hat most of the evening assumed charge of the situation. “No, wait, boy. Did the colonel say ‘respects,’ or did he say ‘compliments’? We mush ’ave all the faks.” “Sorry, sir, don’t remember, sir. But bein’s it’s past two o’clock, the colonel would like to ask the lieutenants to pipe down a little.” “Now, boy, listen. I know we’ve been loud. We’ve been boisterous. Yea, verily, I say we’ve even been hilarious. But how do you suppose we can win the war if the enlisted personnel can’t remember what their commandin’ officer says to’em?” “Sorry, sir; I’ll mention what the lieutenant just said, to the colonel.” Oh, the colonel, he’s a jolly ole soul, Do we love ’im— Pll say we do. Oh, the colonel, he’s a jolly ole soul “Say, you inebriate bums, can’t you, for the love of God, batten down a little? I’ve got to test a lot of ships to-mor- row. An’ one of ’em is a monoplane. I need some sleep.” “Now listen, buddy. Don’t worry about sleep. After you fly that old monoplane, you may not need no sleep—ever think o’ that?” Three boys sat in front of the fire. The others staggered into bed. One lad found that the leaking roof had trans- formed his bedding-roll into a miniature lake—but Loco’s 118 SINGING SOLDIERS bed was dry. Loco’d been knocked off a few days past— they hadn’t rolled his stuff up yet. Some one opened the stove-door. A square beam of rose-colored light fell on the wall. Baldy broke a long silence—— “An’ boys, I’ve come to a conclusion. Life is like a lake. "Round the side o’ the lake grows short grass and bushes. In the middle o’ the lake sits sex—floatin’ on a beautiful barge. An’ we’re all crawlin’ round in the short grass and bushes, tryin’ to git out there to ’er.” No answer. The pilot who had stepped out of the pages of the casualty lists with a limp and a black eye, thought a lot. But no one seemed to have an answer to Baldy’s con- clusion about life. VINS ET LIQUEURS. , — i a inh a baa i ae CHAPTER V N front of the Sanger Hall fireplace, on the night of the 1gth of February, 1919, our major inadvertently gave out the news about closing Orly. We had flown many ships to and from Orly—Spads, SE5’s, the old wiggly-winged Sops, Salmsons, Moraines, FE2B’s, Caudrons, Libertys, Breguets, Voisins, Camels, etc. . . . Many ships had been flown into Orly, equipped with guns, tested and flown away to the front. . . . But now the hangars were nearly empty —a few ships remained. . . . These we would fly to Ro- morantin, put them on the million-dollar bonfire, and the job would be over... . We were unwilling to believe that our flying-days were over... . That the festive rum-cooking matches over the stove in our barracks (the Gas-House) would soon be his- tory... . But the hangars were nearly empty—the date for clearing out was set—we were to “ring down” on March the ist... . After that, no one knew just what... . The major was all for closing camp with a Danese ctrmere remembered the 1918 Christmas party.... Wed have another—Washington’s Birthday. . . . We'd invite all the Red Cross and Y. M. C. A. girls we knew. . . . We'd deco- rate the officers’ mess. ... We'd open bottles that pop and fizz. . . . We’d eclipse all other A. E. F. parties so far reported. . . . The major said that the outside edge of the sky was the limit. . . . German helmets, empty shell-cases, wicker projectile-bas- kets, etc., were to be used in the decorative scheme. ... I 119 120 SINGING SOLDIERS was supplied the assistance of another member of the Gas- House, four enlisted men, a camion, an extra bedon of gaso- line, and orders to return with the needed German parapher- nalia. ... (The major referred to it as a truck-load of Heinie junk to be used as “‘atmosphere.” . . .) Before noon the next day we, the junk-collectors, passed through the battered town of Soissons, headed for the bat- tlefields on both sides of the Soissons-Laon road, where Hosky, my Gas-House assistant, the second-in-command of our two-day expedition, had operated in the early days of the war as an ambulance-man with the French Field Ser- vice. . . . The enlisted men in our detail were revelling in a good time. . . . We had given them absolute orders not to touch anything having the slightest suspicious appear- ance—unexploded shells, hand-grenades, explosives, etc. . . . They worked diligently for the first three or four hours, sorting out the best camouflaged helmets, the best-looking shell-baskets, etc., but as evening came on, the desire to shoot off a few firecrackers became stronger and stronger. ... Hosky and I were examining a German field-telephone exchange, just under the brow of that first hill on the right _side of the Soissons-Laon road, wondering what the major would say if we brought it back to camp, when, all of a sudden, we heard an explosion, followed by a mighty and continuous roar. ... Hosky involuntarily stepped back into the subterranean trench system a moment. . . . Then together we hurried out to see just what had happened. . . . Outside it was nearly dark. . . . A long column of bril- liant orange-colored light shot skyward. . . . Our enlisted men could be seen not very far away, where, from a rather sharp rise in the ground, they were heaving sacks of some- thing onto a fire. . . . They went about their task with the fe eT a nee eee eres ae sf ees te sd i _——d re Es ee eee SINGING SOLDIERS 121 greatest glee... . They were having a little war all their own—a superb Fourth of July celebration—a bonfire with potato-masher hand-grenades on the side. . . . Bravo... . In a deserted gun-emplacement near by they had discov- ered a cache of cans containing sacks of macaroni powder— the kind artillerymen use in big caliber field-pieces. . . . At first they had taken the trouble to open the cans—later they heaved the sealed cans onto the fire. . . . What sky-rockets those cans made when the heat melted the lids off and ignited the contents! One of the boys hit on the happy idea of adding a few grenades to the blaze... . He screwed han- dles into the masher-heads and pulled the fuses until this operation grew tiresome... . As Hosky and I arrived on the scene, the grenade-thrower pitched the remains of a box of masher-heads (it must have contained the makings of at least 75 grenades) down the hill into the gigantic bonfire. . In a very few moments the celebration was declared to be over, and all hands climbed into the camion headed for Laon, where we planned to spend the night. . . . As we leisurely rolled along toward the east, we looked back occasionally. . . . There was a bright orange spot in the direction of Soissons, and once we heard the faint crack —the belated explosion of something the boys had stowed on their fire. . . . The potato-masher thrower, later known to us as the grenadier, giggled as he swung his feet over the tail of the camion and wondered what and when we would Cat. ss An hour later we were in Laon, installed in the only hotel equipped for travellers... . It had been the Headquarters of the German general commanding the troops occupying the Laon vicinity. . . . The furnishings of the other hotels had been hauled away by the retreating Germans... . 129 SINGING SOLDIERS After dinner Hosky went out on one of his characteristic scouting expeditions. . . . He returned in great excitement. . . . His discovery would not keep until morning. . . . He declared that he’d made one of the greatest finds of the war. . . I wanted to talk to the old hotel-keeper, but Hosky insisted. . . . Together we wandered around through little dark streets—crooked streets—aimless little lonesome streets —streets that had long known the heavy tread of the blond enemy from the north and east. ... Finally we stopped before a hole about 200 feet square. . . . Hosky assumed the role of a guide to Pompeii. . . . Before one of those long-range guns of the U. S. Navy got the range of this spot, it was a moving-picture show. . . . On the particular night the navy gunners figured out the exact range it was a moving-picture show full of German officers and men, having what the French might call a “trés bon evening.” ... Some fine young ensign over there in the direction of Soissons pulled the lanyard. . .. Look at the remains of the movie palace and figure out the rest of the story for yourself... . Moral. . . . Don’t let the navy get your range... . Back at the hotel we found our boys going over the cam- ion, putting everything into shipshape for the return trip next day. . . . On examination, we found the camion to contain a very fair catch of junk—notes were made of cer- tain things we must stock up on next day... . The following morning before breakfast the old hotel- keeper told a wonderful story of the German occupation— how the Germans came in a confident rush and left in a dis- illusioned hurry, and on their heels that gray October day came an army of blackbirds—American negroes, part of the 370th U. S. Infantry. ... They were on their way to SINGING SOLDIERS ian Grandloup, a near-by town to the east, where they hoped to get another “swing” at a rapidly retreating enemy. . . . In the past the hill city of Laon had known St. Remis, Clovis, Queen Brunhilda, and Charlemagne, but the old hotel- keeper didn’t talk about them—he restricted himself to the age-old enemy—the blond enemy from the east and the CRO Lies za kde , LOT gt te ve Sr am Ten Kay) ON) li same me LONG-RANGE NAVAL GUN northeast. . . . How he came in a rush and left in a hurry, and on his heels those American blackbirds. . . . He told us of the spies who thrived in Laon during the war... thrived during the four years of occupation—and how a very spry shooting party one frosty morning in the Bois de Vincennes paid these spies for their trouble. . . . He apologized for the wine—the enemy had consumed the last bottle—they had left his once famous cellar quite dry —he knew the Pinard he served us was very bad, but he hadn’t had time to restock... . Before we left town we visited the cathedral. . . . In the square before the medizval temple of God, Monseigneur 124 SINGING SOLDIERS stood, uttering a benediction on a little group of silent wor- shippers. . . . Monseigneur knew us at once to be Ameri- cans and gave thanks again for the coming of the blackbirds and the French... . As we started across that battle-scarred plain between Laon and Rheims, we stopped long enough to take one more look at the hill city. . . . The spires of the cathedral stood out boldly against the delicate blue of the morning sky. . . . The tiers of houses, rising one upon another, were like the circular sections of a giant cinnamon-bun, overbrowned from having stayed a bit too long in the oven... . We lunched at Rheims—took photographs of the cathe- dral and Jeanne d’Arc—popped some cobwebbed corks and took the road to Paris. Later in the afternoon, while Hosky and I were trying to decide on the decorative value of a German Maxim machine- gun, one of the boys (who had been regaling himself with a rhum-chaud in a near-by roadside café) told us that he had just enlisted a recruit... . A recruit indeed! The camion was already overloaded. . . . But, after all, a recruit was a recruit—bring ’im out and let us look at ’im. . . . We were advised that the recruit had ordered rhum-chauds for the entire expedition and would bargain with us inside or not Aaya a “Very well, now remember, the rhum-chauds do not come out of expedition-funds and the camion is already over- loaded isis. | The moment we looked at the recruit, we had visions of courts-martial proceedings. . . . He hadn’t been shaved in “hell knew when.” ... No two parts of his uniform matched. . . . He wore an old issue tunic, with sergeant’s stripes and a pair of breeches made of the shoddy material SINGING SOLDIERS 126 issued to replacements late in the war. . . . His overseas hat was a complete give-away. . . . All of it except half an inch around the top was very much faded. . . . An officer’s “AND THE RHUM-CHAUDS DO NOT COME OUT OF EXPEDITION-FUNDS ”— colors had been ripped off of this half-inch, exposing the original olive drab. . . . He spun the rarest dog-watch yarn we had heard in some time. ... It seems that he was a chauffeur, detailed to drive two American officers from Paris to Brussels. . . . This was not unusual—we had driven to Brussels ourselves. . . . But our new-found friend had en- 126 SINGING SOLDIERS countered difficulties. ... During the night of the first day out he had been hit by something and knocked bottom side up into a shallow gully. ... “T wuzn’t hurt, sir, not so much as to talk about—but the officers, sir, they wuz so banged about that after two weeks the doctors couldn’t tell guts from gear er gizzard. . With the help of some passers-by, I righted the car. . She wouldn’t run, sir, but with a little fittin’ out, I slept in ’er, quite comfortable. . . . One of the officers give me 50 francs, sir, to live on till we could git straightened around. ... I stretched it out as fur as it would go... . When I had only five francs left, I spent it fur a bottle of cheap hooch. . . . went out an’ sat in my car an’ got drunk all by myself... . Next day I exchanged the remains o’ the car to a Frog barkeep fur value received and got drunk agin. ... Sol says to myself—well, Joe, you got drunk in it; you got drunk on it; now you hit the road and foot it. . . .” So the recruit was really a passenger. ... What he wanted was a free ride to Paris, where he would join his out- fit. . . . The enlisted men had told him that I was a musi- cian and kept a diary of the soldier songs I heard. . . . This was pie for Joe. . . . He would sing me a Hobo song and he did—a song about Halsted Street, Chicago—a song that was worth its weight in gold... . After Joe had sung his Hobo song and the rhum-chauds had been paid for (out of expedition-funds), I gave up any idea I might have had about turning him over to the Assis- tant Provost Marshal when we got back to Paris. ... The A. P. M. in Paris was a friend of mine—I had known him when he was a second lieutenant of infantry. . . . He had extracted promises from me in lieu of favors granted certain enlisted and commissioned personnel of the Air Service. . . . SINGING SOLDIERS 127 But our recruit, Hobo Joe, the King of the Road, would never go to Rue St. Anne, if I had anything to say about it. . . . Joe said he didn’t mind the army as long as it moved. _ But when it stood still, he was as unhappy as a cow with a mouthful of sour grass. . . . And Joe had wounds. .. But that’s another story. .. . We dropped our Hobo recruit off on the outskirts of Paris, near a subway-kiosk, with a click of a hundred francs and a promise to stay sober and dodge the M. P.’s. . . . (None of us took much stock in his tale about joining an outfit in Paris.) . . . It was raining as we turned off the Maux road in the direction of the Port de Fontainebleau—one of those rains that exaggerate the melodrama of Parisian nights. ... Joe let himself down from the back of the camion, walked over to a lamp that decorated one of the street islands, pulled himself up to attention and stood at salute until we were out of sight. . . . We never saw him again.... We arrived at camp about 9.30 p.m... . No explana- tions were necessary. .. . The remarkable catch of junk was a perfect alibi. . . . The German helmets were turned upside down and used as lighting-fixtures. . . . The small shell-cases were washed and used as containers for candies, nuts, and table-decorations. ... The jazz band played behind a screen made of wicker shell-baskets—set off with garlands of mimosa, imported from the south of France. .. . A camion-load of champagne was knocked off in pledges and healths. ... During the party the major told me about the University plan. . . . He said I might join a group who were going to attend the Université de Lyon for the next four months. . . . He said that I might study at the Conservatoire, the Uni- versité, or wherever I liked, with full pay and allowances, 128 SINGING SOLDIERS except my additional 25 per cent for flying. . . . All I had to do was to sign my name. . . . Needless to say I signed.... * * This is Joe’s song (the tune was unimportant): Oh, I’ve panhandled about Chicago town, I’ve panhandled from Halsted Street to Puget Sound, I’ve fingered the roll and made many a click... . But never used a jimmy ur a loaded stick. Chorus : Oh, it’s hit the road, you lousy bums, You stiffs and weary Willies. You walk and sleep, you sit and doze, You hooligans and tillies. For tho’ you’ve worked the Central, The Katy, and the Soo, There’s no place like Chicago For bums like me and you. Now, when it’s spring in Halsted Street And you get the itching in yer feet, There’s always pimps with lots o’ kale Fur scabbin’ jobs they got fur sale. Chorus : Oh, it’s hit the road, etc. Sometimes in Halsted Street it’s hot, But up in Soo country it’s not; And there ain’t no bulls nur coppers there To beat your wangle and give yu the air. Chorus : Oh, it’s hit the road, etc. Oh, lemme have a skin full 0’ good red booze An’ I’m king o’ the road till I walk out o’ my shoes, SINGING SOLDIERS 129 Cause I never spilled a squeal nur lightened half on a touch Nur let a bozo bo hang high and dry in dutch. Chorus : Oh, it’s hit the road, etc. Now, when I lay my bones to rest Bury me with the hobos I like the best— Jack, the Lifter, Frank, and one-eyed Ed... . Bury me with my pardners when I’m dead. Chorus : Oh, it’s hit the road, etc. For tho’ we’re scabby and lousy and old, The truth of our miseries has never been told. We wangle fur a little and touch a lot less And damn seldom clik much real happiness. Chorus : Oh, it’s hit the road, etc. CHAPTER VI N Lyon, six of us—five aviation officers and a lieutenant of artillery—moved into an apartment in the Rue des Ramparts d’Ainy. The French woman, who owned the apartment and her servants remained and became responsi- ble for the table, the general caretaking, etc. We lived like princes—breakfasts in bed—lunches and dinners served in the grand manner, with appropriate wines and liqueurs. When our hostess ran out of anything, such as sugar or coffee, we procured it at a very low rate from our commis- sary. Indeed, we lived on the fat of the land. We were supposed to go to school—some of us did, but, as a rule, we toured France—southern France, the Rhone Valley, or the country off to the left in the direction of Aix les Bains, the Italian frontier, or Switzerland. It was a hard war—that battle of Lyon (Rhone). We had been in Lyon but a few days when I was reminded of the death and burial of a flying-partner of mine—a boy from a very fine family out in the States—the same boy who planned to give me the address of his sweetheart while we were at sea on the old Covington. His mother wrote me from London—soon she would arrive. She had come from a town in Ohio. She intended to visit the grave of her son. I had helped him die, but that’s not an easy thing to ex- plain to a mother. He had fallen a victim to his own imag- inings—he had brought about his own death through pic- turing himself “bounced off.” 130 SINGING SOLDIERS 131 One evening in the early fall of 1918, I suggested a hair- cut for both of us—a really high-class French hair-cut, with lotions, perfumes, tonics, etc. “Fair-cut, hell. Come on, boy, I’ll spend the money on some good drinkin’ liquor. Hair-cuts don’t become aviators, anyway. Why, I’m going to be bounced off in a few days— what’s the use of wasting the money on French barbers !”’ And now his mother would soon be in Paris. She would rest there a while and then visit the grave of her son—if I would help her find it. About two weeks before the crash, he’d given me the ad- dress of his sweetheart—but the discreet answer to my note was signed by a married woman. Strange! A year seemed to be a long time in the life of war-time love. Soon now his mother would be in Paris. I would be granted leave. We would visit the grave (if I could find it). She would shed a few tears, take some pictures. I would recite the tellable details of her son’s army life. And she would return to her home in Ohio. We had been hedge-hopping, in spite of a ground mist, when he took the top off a brick chimney with the under- carriage of his plane. I had trouble finding a place to land— vineyards, haystacks, and cut-up fields everywhere. When I did get back to the place where he had fallen, some ambu- lance-men from a near-by anti-aircraft emplacement had taken charge of his remains. He had died a few moments after falling. Colored boys made up the burial squad. The aviator was the last detail of the day. Burial squads (made up of col- ored boys) never worked at night—never! I might have got away before dark, but I heard part of a song sung by one of the grave-diggers. He sang about having a “grave- 132 SINGING SOLDIERS 999 diggin’ feelin’”’ in his heart. I remained and took it down in detail. The smashed airplane had caught fire. By nightfall only a heap of tangled, grayish wreckage remained—tanks—in- terplane wires—the metal parts of the undercarriage—strut fittings—the aileron controls—and the engine, from which a thin column of gray smoke slowly trickled skyward. This is the song the boys sang as they worked at burying the fallen aviator: I’ve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart— I’ve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart— I shivers and shakes in my soul— When I looks in dat big black hole— I’ve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart. I’ve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart— I’ve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart— Don’t bury dose boys so deep in de ground— Dey has to hear Gabriel’s reveille sound— I’ve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart. I’ve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart— I’ve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart— When I looks in dat grave I gets me a chill— ’Cause I knows if I gets in, I has to stay until— I’ve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart. I’ve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart— Dve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart— Everybody died in de A. E. F., Only one burial squad wuz left?— I’ve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart. And now it’s springtime of another year. The Frenchman has repaired his chimney and there are flowers in every SINGING SOLDIERS 133 hedgerow. Soon to the legend of the fallen aviator will be added the visit of the mother, who came from her home in Ohio to visit the grave of her son. ae ss A Bar SS ES a cy Wes ee I’VE GOT A GRAVE-DIGGIN’ FEELIN’ IN MY HEART (In the notes of this song, I find the word “notion” used with the word “feeling.” The notes, however, are very in- distinct, and it may be the word “notion” was written on the sheet before I took down the details of the song.) SINGING SOLDIERS 134 GRAVE-DIGGERS Ras in my —— feel - in’ lis i] re) og § 2 Ml i é i : N g, | Ue Ree : TNE in my 2 - in I got a grave - dig-gin’ feel ? SS heart : a ill ! | 5 ii R 5 at 7 \ in my soul and shakes I shiv-ers heart. SINGING SOLDIERS 135 Vw ~ me a Ty | TL LE LAE ET EI Bas fe) eae Py a ae ge if cay <2 a (ol PSS oe Pa & Re D a Reg b et | faw —_- 5 is" tae Piha a ST. =>" -_ = yf When I looks in dat big black hole. I got a a —— — — ee = i is A | 6 ane aS 4 iis La aa $f grave - dig-gin’ feel - in’ in my heart. LYON (RHONE), FRANCE—SPRINGTIME-— Ig1g “Bin? Bin? Boy, I’se done bin. An’ I’m goin’ back— as soon as dis here ghost act is over. You can burn my spiral putties. But, boy, I was seein’ double. Four flights under de sidewalk—Cut my throat! What a jamboree! Dey calls it ‘De Celestian Bar.’”’ “Aw, hell! Ain’t no such thing—it’s ‘De Café des Célestines’ !”’ “Pouff you—café! Hell! You wouldn’t know a café if you wuz to see one. Listen, Bugboy, dat’s a bar—and what’s more, it’s a ‘celestial bar.’” 136 SINGING SOLDIERS “How'd you git in dat place? How’d you find it?” “I went wid a couple a frog friends 0’ mine and dis here high yellow boy what takes care of baggage. And did we walk de dog? Cut my throat! Did we walk de dog! Why, man, dey passed out refreshments I ain’t never tasted since I been put here. An’ all I did this mornin’ was to drink a glass o’ water, and boy howdy! I was pres-i-dent of France.” They were making up in the back rooms of an unused oN Nas SINGING SOLDIERS 137 Café Chantant. The theatre and the café were set in the middle of a very charming little garden on the outskirts of Lyon. The Y. M. C. A. had taken over the Café in order to properly house the travelling army shows. These army shows were the result of an almost divine hunch. They were immensely amusing—they diverted the minds of boys who could not go home (for lack of ship- space), gave others something to do, and even developed talent that might never have seen the light of day. The performance we witnessed on this particular night opened with the often used jazz band and dribbled through a rather bad lot of worn-out buffoonery. They did the old sentry act—an American private walking post. He carries an old short-barrelled rifle with a length of rubber hose slipped down over the end. As he walks, this length of hose waves up and down in the rhythm of his gait. It is supposed to be night. Some one approaches. “Halt! Who goes there?” “Troisieme batallon mitrailleuse—j’ai carte d’identite. “Pass, Frog !”’ Another is halted. “Well, now, I say, my dear fellow, is it really in order for one to tell one’s name?” Pass, Limey!” Another attempts to pass. “Halt! Who goes there ” “Who the hell wants to know?” “Pass, Yank!” But we had applauded this before. Then, though we didn’t know it, the thing we had been waiting for all evening happened—the Ghost Act—ten ne- 138 SINGING SOLDIERS groes, one soloist and nine singing ensemble. They repre- sented the ghosts of boys who had been bounced off in the war. They were costumed like members of the Ku Klux Klan. The effect was excellent—white shrouds—blue lights —sepulchral voices. The soloist stepped forward and con- fidentially sang one line to the audience. My mama told me not to come over here— Then the ensemble joined the singing: But I did, I did, I did. The soloist continued: My mama said they surely would shoot me dead— An’ they did, they did, they did... . I tried to keep my secret from every shot and shell— But ’long come one that made me tell. . . . The entire group concluding with: My mama told me not to come over here, _ But I did, I did, I did. Other verses: My papa tole me not to come over here, But I did, I did, I did, My papa said not for me to get myself shot, But I did, I did, I did. Draft come along—in I went, When de war got hot I was sent. .. . My papa told me not to come over here, But I did, I did, I did. My pastor told me not to come over here, But I did, I did, I did, SINGING SOLDIERS 139 He said, “Now, Sam, they surely will get your ham,” An’ they did, they did, they did... . When de whole German army passed over my head— I knew I was lyin’ on my death bed. .. . My pastor told me not to come over here, But I did, I did, I did. Nothing short of pandemonium broke loose—men yelled —girls screamed—French visitors, not understanding one word of this strange funereal procedure, were decidedly frightened. The song was, of course, repeated—with almost the same results. If the Café des Célestines had not been calling so loudly, the performance might have gone on all night. I am convinced that this song produced one of the best laughs of the war. Odd-shaped little patches of moonlight fell from the edges of buildings as we turned to go back into the city. Crossing the Rhone we could see the grayish white of the new Presi- dent Wilson bridge—faintly outlined against a lead-colored background. The river scarcely seemed to move at all. Re- flecting the lights from the bridges, it was more like oil be- sprinkled with fireflies. Place Bellecour was quiet—the flower-stands had their windows fastened down—the Pa- villon d’Orchestre was dark. Far across the top of the spires and chimney-pots we could distinguish a faint light in the tower of the Observatoire, and, higher up the hill, Notre Dame de Fourviére—“like a fairy-palace hanging in the sky.” There had been a promise of dancing in the Y. M.C. A. Canteen in the Place Carnot. It proved to be only a prom- ise. The jazz band was there, but there were no dancing partners. The jazz band of eight players (all colored) did their stuff, dance or no dance,—and how they did mourn 140 SINGING SOLDIERS GHOST SONG ARRANGED BY J. J. 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