The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Young Guard, by E. W. Hornung This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: The Young Guard Author: E. W. Hornung Release Date: July 11, 2016 [EBook #52561] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YOUNG GUARD *** Produced by David Widger from page images generously provided by the Internet Archive THE YOUNG GUARD By E. W. Hornung London: Constable and Company Ltd. 1919 0010 Most of these pieces appeared during the war. The usual acknowledgements are tendered to The Spectator in three cases and The Times in two, as well as to Land and Water, The Cologne Post and sundry School Magazines. CONTENTS CONSECRATION C N LORD'S LEAVE LAST POST THE OLD BOYS RUDDDY YOUNG GINGER THE BALLAD OF ENSIGN JOY BOND AND FREE SHELL-SHOCK IN ARRAS THE BIG THING FORERUNNERS * UPPINGHAM SONG WOODEN CROSSES CONSECRATION HILDREN we deemed you all the days We vexed you with our care: But in a Universe ablaze, What was your childish share? To rush upon the flames of Hell, To quench them with your blood! To be of England's flower that fell Ere yet it brake the bud! And we who wither where we grew, And never shed but tears, As children now would follow you Through the remaining years; Tread' in the steps we thought to guide, As firmly as you trod; And keep the name you glorified Clean before matt and God. LORD'S LEAVE (1915) O Lord's this year: no silken lawn on which A dignified and dainty throng meanders. The Schools take guard upon a fierier pitch Somewhere in Flanders. Bigger the cricket here; yet some who tried In vain to earn a Colour while at Eton Have found a place upon an England side That can't be beaten! A demon bowler's bowling with his head— His heart's as black as skins in Carolina! Either he breaks, or shoots almost as dead As Anne Regina; While the deep-field-gun, trained upon your stumps, From concrete grand-stand far beyond the bound'ry, Lifts up his ugly mouth and fairly pumps Shells from Krupp's foundry. But like the time the game is out of joint— No screen, and too much mud for cricket lover; Both legs go slip, and there's sufficient point In extra cover! Cricket? 'Tis Sanscrit to the super-Hun— Cheap cross between Caligula and Cassius, To whom speech, prayer, and warfare are all one— Equally gaseous! Playing a game's beyond him and his hordes; Theirs but to play the snake or wolf or vulture: Better one sporting lesson learnt at Lord's Than all their Kultur.... Sinks a torpedoed Phoebus from our sight; Over the field of play see darkness stealing; Only in this one game, against the light There's no appealing. Now for their flares... and now at last the stars... Only the stars now, in their heavenly million, Glisten and blink for pity on our scars From the Pavilion. LAST POST L (1915) AST summer, centuries ago, I watched the postman's lantern glow, As night by night on leaden feet He twinkled down our darkened street. So welcome on his beaten track, The bent man with the bulging sack! But dread of every sleepless couch, A whistling imp with leathern pouch! And now I meet him in the way, And earth is Heaven, night is Day, For oh! there shines before his lamp An envelope without a stamp! Address in pencil; overhead, The Censor's triangle in red. Indoors and up the stair I bound: One from the boy, still safe, still sound! "Still merry in a dubious trench They've taken over from the French; Still making light of duty done; Still full of Tommy, Fritz, and fun! Still finding War of games the cream, And his platoon a priceless team— Still running it by sportsman's rule, Just as he ran his house at school. "Still wild about the 'bombing stunt' He makes his hobby at the front. Still trustful of his wondrous luck— Prepared to take on old man Kluck!'" Awed only in the peaceful spells, And only scornful of their shells, His beaming eye yet found delight In ruins lit by flares at night, In clover field and hedgerow green, Apart from cover or a screen, In Nature spurting spick-and-span For all the devilries of Man. He said those weeks of blood and tears Were worth his score of radiant years. He said he had not lived before— Our boy who never dreamt of War! He gave us of his own dear glow, Last summer, centuries ago. Bronzed leaves still cling to every bough. W I don't waylay the postman now. Doubtless upon his nightly beat He still comes twinkling down our street. I am not there with straining eye— A whistling imp could tell you why. THE OLD BOYS (1917) HO is the one with the empty sleeve?" "Some sport who was in the swim." "And the one with the ribbon who's home on leave?" "Good Lord! I remember him! A hulking fool, low down in the school, And no good at games was he— All fingers and thumbs—and very few chums. (I wish he'd shake hands with me!)" "Who is the one with the heavy stick, Who seems to walk from the shoulder?" "Why, many's the goal you have watched him kick!" "He's looking a lifetime older. Who is the one that's so full of fun— I never beheld a blither— Yet his eyes are fixt as the furrow betwixt?" "He cannot see out of either," "Who are the ones that we cannot see, Though we feel them as near as near? In Chapel one felt them bend the knee, At the match one felt them cheer. In the deep still shade of the Colonnade, In the ringing quad's full light, They are laughing here, they are chaffing there, Yet never in sound or sight." "Oh, those are the ones who never shall leave, As they once were afraid they would! They marched away from the school at eve, But at dawn came back for good, With deathless blooms from uncoffin'd tombs To lay at our Founder's shrine. As many are they as ourselves to-day, And their place is yours and mine." R "But who are the ones they can help or harm?" "Each small boy, never so new, Has an Elder Brother to take his arm, And show him the thing to do— And the thing to resist with a doubled fist, If he'd be nor knave nor fool— And the Game to play if he'd tread the way Of the School behind the school." RUDDDY YOUNG GINGER (1915) UDDY young Ginger was somewhere in camp, War broke it up in a day, Packing cadets of the steadier stamp Home with the smallest delay. Ginger braves town in his O.T.C. rags— Beards a Staff Marquis—the limb! Saying, "Your son, Sir, is one of my fags," Gets a Commission through him. Then to his tailor's for khaki complet; Then to Pall Mall for a sword; Lastly, a wire to his people to say, "Left school—joined the Line—are you bored?" And it was a bit cool (A term's fees in the pool By a rule of the school). There were those who said "Fool!" Of young Ginger. Ruddy young Ginger! Who gave him that name? Tommies who had his own nerve! "Into 'im, Ginger!" was heard in a game With a neighbouring Special Reserve. Blushing and grinning and looking fifteen, Ginger, with howitzer punt, Bags his man's wind as succinctly and clean As he hopes to bag Huns at the front. Death on recruits who fall out by the way, Sentries who yawn at their post, Yet he sang such a song at the Y.M.C.A. That the C.O. turned green as a ghost! Less the song than the stance, I I And the dissolute dance, Drew a glance so askance That... they packed him to France, Little Ginger. Next month, to the haunts of fine Ladies and Lords I ventured, in Grosvenor Square: The stateliest chambers were hospital wards— And ruddy young Ginger was there. In spite of his hurts he looked never so red, Nor ever less shy or sedate, Though his hair had been cropped (by machine- gun, he said) And bandages turbaned his pate. He was mostly in holes—but his cheek was intact! I could not but notice, with joy, The loveliest Sisters had most to transact With ruddy young Ginger—some boy! Slaying Huns by the tons, With a smile like a nun's— Oh! of all the brave ones, All the sons of our guns— Give me Ginger! THE BALLAD OF ENSIGN JOY T is the story of Ensign Joy And the obsolete rank withal That I love for each gentle English boy Who jumped to his country's call. By their fire and fun, and the deeds they've done, I would gazette them Second to none Who faces a gun in Gaul!) T is also the story of Ermyntrude A less appropriate name For the dearest prig and the prettiest prude! I Y H H But under it, all the same, The usual consanguineous squad Had made her an honest child of God— And left her to play the game. T was just when the grind of the Special Reserves, Employed upon Coast Defence, Was getting on every Ensign's nerves— Sick-keen to be drafted hence— That they met and played tennis and danced and sang, The lad with the laugh and the schoolboy slang, The girl with the eyes intense. ET it wasn't for him that she languished and sighed, But for all of our dear deemed youth; And it wasn't for her, but her sex, that he cried, If he could but have probed the truth ! Did she? She would none of his hot young heart; As khaki escort he's tall and smart, As lover a shade uncouth. E went with his draft. She returned to her craft. He wrote in his merry vein: She read him aloud, and the Studio laughed! Ermyntrude bore the strain. He was full of gay bloodshed and Old Man Fritz: His flippancy sent her friends into fits. Ermyntrude frowned with pain. IS tales of the Sergeant who swore so hard Left Ermyntrude cold and prim; The tactless truth of the picture Y O I H jarred, And some of his jokes were grim. Yet, let him but skate upon tender ice, And he had to write to her twice or thrice Before she would answer him. ET once she sent him a fairy's box, And her pocket felt the brunt Of tinned contraptions and books and socks— Which he hailed as "a sporting stunt!" She slaved at his muffler none the less, And still took pleasure in mur- muring, "Yes! For a friend of mine at the Front.") NE fine morning his name appears— Looking so pretty in print! "Wounded!" she warbles in tragedy tears— And pictures the reddening lint, The drawn damp face and the draggled hair . . . But she found him blooming in Grosvenor Square, With a punctured shin in a splint. T wasn't a haunt of Ermyn- trude's, That grandiose urban pile; Like starlight in arctic altitudes Was the stately Sister's smile. It was just the reverse with Ensign Joy— In his golden greeting no least alloy— In his shining eyes no guile! E showed her the bullet that did the trick— He showed her the trick, S I H x-ray'd; He showed her a table timed to a tick, And a map that an airman made. He spoke of a shell that caused grievous loss— But he never mentioned a certain cross For his part in the escapade! HE saw it herself in a list next day, And it brought her back to his bed, With a number of beautiful things to say, Which were mostly over his head. Turned pink as his own pyjamas' stripe, To her mind he ceased to em- body a type— Sank into her heart instead. WONDER that all of you didn't retire!" "My blighters were not that kind." "But it says you 'advanced un- der murderous fire, Machine-gun and shell com- bined—'" "Oh, that's the regular War Office wheeze!" "'Advanced'—with that leg!— 'on his hands and knees'!" "I couldn't leave it behind." E was soon trick-driving an invalid chair, and dancing about on a crutch; The haute noblesse of Grosvenor Square Felt bound to oblige as such; They sent him for many a motor- whirl— With the wistful, willowy wisp of a girl Who never again lost touch. T T A H HEIR people were most of them dead and gone. They had only themselves to His pay was enough to marry upon, As every Ensign sees. They would muddle along (as in fact they did) With vast supplies of the tertium quid You bracket with bread-and- cheese. please. HEY gave him some leave after Grosvenor Square— And bang went a month on banns; For Ermyntrude had a natural flair For the least unusual plans. Her heaviest uncle came down well, And entertained, at a fair hotel, The dregs of the coupled clans. CERTAIN number of cheques accrued To keep the wolf from the door: The economical Ermyntrude Had charge of the dwindling store, When a Board reported her bridegroom fit As—some expression she didn't permit . . . And he left for the Front once more. IS crowd had been climbing the jaws of hell: He found them in death's dog- teeth, With little to show but a good deal to tell In their fissure of smoking heath. There were changes—of course —but the change in him Was the ribbon that showed on F Y B B his tunic trim And the tumult hidden be- neath! OR all he had suffered and seen before Seemed nought to a husband's care; And the Chinese puzzle of mod- ern war For subtlety couldn't compare With the delicate springs of the complex life To be led with a highly sensitised wife In a slightly rarefied air! ET it's good to be back with the old platoon— "A man in a world of men"! Each cheery dog is a henchman boon— Especially Sergeant Wren! Ermyntrude couldn't endure his name— Considered bad language no lien on fame, Yet it's good to—hear it again! ETTER to feel the Ser- geant's grip, Though your fingers ache to the bone! Better to take the Sergeant's tip Than to make up your mind alone. They can do things together, can Wren and Joy— The bristly bear and the beard- less boy— That neither could do on his own. UT there's never a word about Old Man Wren In the screeds he scribbles to-day— Though he praises his N.C.O.'s and men In rather a pointed way. H H H T And he rubs it in (with a knitted brow) That the war's as good as a pic- nic now, And better than any play! IS booby-hutch is "as safe as the Throne," And he fares "like the C.-in- Chief," But has purchased "a top-hole gramophone By way of comic relief." (And he sighs as he hears the men applaud, While the Woodbine spices are wafted abroad With the odour of bully-beef.) E may touch on the latest type of bomb, But Ermyntrude needn't blench, For he never says where you hurl it from, And it might be from your trench. He never might lead a stealthy band, Or toe the horrors of No Man's Land, Or swim at the sickly stench. . . . ER letters came up by ration-cart As the men stood-to before dawn: He followed the chart of her soaring heart With face transfigured yet drawn: It filled him with pride, touched with chivalrous shame. But—it spoilt the war, as a first- class game, For this particular pawn. HE Sergeant sees it, and damns the cause In a truly terrible flow; But turns and trounces, without A W T H a pause, A junior N. C. O. For the crime of agreeing that Ensign Joy Isn't altogether the officer boy That he was four months ago! T length he's dumfounded (the month being May) By a sample of Ermyntrude's fun! "You will kindly get leave over Christmas Day, Or make haste and finish the But Christmas means presents, she bids him beware: "So what do you say to a son and heir? I'm thinking of giving you Hun!" HAT, indeed, does the Ensign say? What does he sit and write? What do his heart-strings drone all day? What do they throb all night? What does he add to his piteous prayers?— "Not for my own sake, Lord, but —theirs, See me safe through ..." HEY talk—and he writhes —"of our spirit out here, Our valour and all the rest! There's my poor, lonely, delicate dear, As brave as the very best! We stand or fall in a cheery crowd, And yet how often we grouse aloud! She faces that with a jest!" E has had no sleep for a day and a night; He has written her half a ream; He has Iain him down to wait for the light, And at last come sleep—and a H I T E dream. He's hopping on sticks up the studio stair: A telegraph-boy is waiting there, And—that is his darling's scream! E picks her up in a tender storm— But how does it come to pass That he cannot see his reflected form With hers in the studio glass? "What's wrong with that mir- ror?"' he cries. But only the Sergeant's voice replies: "Wake up, Sir! The Gas— the Gas!" S it a part of the dream of dread? What are the men about? Each one sticking a haunted head Into a spectral clout! Funny, the dearth of gibe and joke, When each one looks like a pig in a poke, Not omitting the snout! HERE'S your mask, Sir! No time to lose!" Ugh, what a gallows shape! Partly white cap, and partly noose! Somebody ties the tape. Goggles of sorts, it seems, inset: Cock them over the parapet, Study the battlescape. NSIGN JOY'S in the second line— And more than a bit cut off; A furlong or so down a green incline The fire-trench curls in the trough. Joy cannot see it—it's in the bed Of a river of poison that brims