They showed me good looking chromos of
good looking soldier men,
With little V’s upon their sleeves
and hats they shone like tin;
But there is one uncanny picture they
never to me showed
Of a soldier with a knapsack, and he hitting
up the road—
In the U. S. Army.
They told me of the nice soft bunk, made
out of woven wire,
Where I could lay my carcass, whenever
my bones would tire;
But a whisper of the pick and shovel was
never to me told,
So I’m pondering o’er my contract,
and I think I was sold—
When I came into Uncle’s
Army.
They told me of the non-coms, who knew
a soldier’s worth,
Who made the Army jolly, a place of endless
mirth;
But not a word they told me of the amount
of beer I’d buy,
Just to keep a “stand in”
with those that rank up high—
In Sammy’s splendid
Army.
They told me of the bill-of-fare that
changed with every day,
And when landed in the Army for thirty
years I’d stay;
But not a word they told me (No wonder
they were mum),
About the stuff they feed us, commonly
known as “Slum”—
In our conquering Army.
It is hinted that experience of all others
is the school,
Where common sense alone is learned, by
him that plays the fool;
And though I hate the medicine, I must
take it with a will,
And keep convincing myself, it does me
good—
It’s time to leave the
Army.
ARMY FEVER
When your first hitch is over, and you
have cashed your finals few,
And a breakfast and a boat ride are all
that’s left for you,
And you toy with your collar as you don
your suit of “citz,”
While your bunkie, sitting near you, has
the bluest kind of fits;
You a-bubbling over with pleasure at the
thoughts of going out;
The friends at home will welcome you,
of that there’s not a doubt;
And it never seems to strike you that
you have made a beaten track,
In these years you’ve been a soldier—that
you might come back.
So you hasten out as boat call goes—last
call you have to stand—
And you wave farewell to comrades as you
push away from land.
First call for drill is sounding from
the bugler’s throat of gold,
But you are free—“don’t
have to stand no drill in heat or cold.”
Altho’ you get to wondering as things
fade from sight,
If drilling really was so bad as walking
post at night.
You think, of course, when first discharged,
one feels just sort of sad;
But it’s Army fever symptoms—And
you’ve got ’em bad.
You’re in business on the outside,
and you’re making good, it seems;
But the bugle keeps a-calling, and a-calling
through your dreams.
Then some day you meet a soldier on a
furlough for a week;
And you think it only friendly to go up
to him and speak;
And you find you knew his brother, or
his cousin, or his friend,
And your job upon the outside has found
a sudden end;
For a longing fierce comes over you, and
you cannot resist—
It’s the crisis of the fever—and
you reenlist.