Edgar Wallace - Writ in Barracks

Line Clear to Witteputs! I wind around the guarded hill,
And thunder o'er the lean long bridge that spans the sombre stream;
No uptorn rail to devastate, no culvert gap to fill,
And where the outpost feared to ride, I gather up my steam.

( I passed a little mound of earth that bore the cross's sign, —
A Colonel, and a dozen men, who fell to clear the line. )

Line Clear to Belmont: and I feel the ballast shaking down:
My flanges bite the new-laid rail and prove the new-thrust pin.
On either side the purple ridge, the veldt land sickly brown,
The 'distant off' says 'Welcome,' and the 'Home' says 'Come ye in.'

( Two thousand guardsmen rushed the Kop – a score are buried here,
And here are laid some Fusiliers – they fell to give Line Clear. )

Line Clear to Graspan: so I run adown the gentle grade,
Nor notice in my joyful haste the kopje stubble grown,
And wildly bouldered foot to crest where fell a half brigade,
What time the bristling mountain-side with segment shell was sown.

( The mess-deck and the ward-room thinned to give the line pratique
Line Clear from Graspan – so, half-mast the Ensign at the Peak. )

Line Clear: along the new-spliced wires that droop from pole to pole,
By Enslin, where the helio glared fitfully and fleet,
The word is passed across the plain to where the rivers roll, —
To where, tree-fringed in eddying swirls, the Modder meets the Riet.

( In heat and thirst and weariness a hundred dying lay,
A hundred bloody forms grew stiff to give me Right Away. )

Line Clear: I face the grim gaunt range that stretches east and west
('Twas by its base, near Magers farm, that Wauchope's men went down):
I skirt the ridge that hid the guns, and gleefully I breast
The easy rise that brings in view the long-beleaguered town.

( Line Clear: o'er blood, and sweat, and pain, and sorrow's
road I ran,
And every sleeper was a wound, and every rail a man. )

When you're pickin' your men for a fight,
When choosin' the corps that'll serve,
It's only quite proper an' right
To fix upon muscle an' nerve,
An' so, to your heavy Dragoons —
Your Granny-dear Guards an' their band —
To your Sappers with bridgin' pontoons,
You can buckle the Lower Deck Hand!

( The Lower Deck Hand
Doesn't want any band;
He's grit, an he's sand
Is the Lower Deck Hand. )

His march is a go-as-you-please;
He most keeps step with hisself!
For his boots ain't conducive to ease,
Bein' mostly kept packed on a shelf!
Tho' he isn't so span or so spic —
Tho' his marchin' ain't what you'd call grand —
He gets to the front just as quick
Does the elegant Lower Deck Hand!

( The Lower Deck Hand
Wasn't reared in the Strand;
But he's good to command,
Is the Lower Deck Hand. )

You may swear by the jolly marines,
'Per marey, per tarey' they fight —
Not speakin' for them in their 'teens —
I don't mind admittin' your right.
But all that the Joey has got,
As I'd have all the world understand,
He's learnt – well, he's learnt quite a lot
From his tooter – the Lower Deck Hand!

( The Lower Deck Hand
Is a mine that's unpanned;
An' he's yours to command,
Is the Lower Deck Hand. )

He doesn't shape well at Reviews,
I've known him to spit in the ranks;
But we've never been asked to excuse
A fault, when he's guarding the flanks.
An' when there's a break in the square
Or a place where the Line cannot stand,
I'll tell you the chap to put there —
'Jack Mullow' – the Lower Deck Hand.

( The Lower Deck Hand
Will die as he 'll stand;
He's tempered an land,
Is the Lower Deck Hand. )

When you're hemmed in a tight little hole,
By a greatly outnumbering foe,
It's a matter of stokin' an' coal
How far we're away from the foe.
When the Infantry's needin' some aid,
When the 'tillery gets under-man'd, —
Make way for the Naval Brigade! —
His Highness the Lower Deck Hand!

( The Lower Deck Hand
With his guns he can land,
An he'll kick up some sand,
Will the Lower Deck Hand. )

There's risk on the ballasted roadway,
There's death on the girdered bridge,
Red ruin from sleeper to sleeper,
And wreck on the bouldered ridge.
No signal to herald my coming,
No whistle to waken the plain;
Stand clear – I am out for patrolling!
Make way for the Armoured Train!

I run not to time, nor to table,
I'm neither an 'Up' nor a 'Down,'
But 'Full speed ahead' is my order,
When skirting the enemy's town.
My mails have a backing of cordite,
My luggage is powder and shell,
With smoke-stack a-blazing I thunder,
A traveller's sample of Hell!

They have laid me a mine by a culvert,
They have loosened a bolt by a curve,
But thrice-tested steel is my muscle,
And thrice-tested brass is my nerve.
A curse for their bungling folly,
A laugh for the death-trap that fails,
A hang for the enemy's miner,
So long as I keep to the rails.

A cheer – and I pull from the township
To spy out the enemy's line;
A plunge – and I rush into darkness
As reckless of wreckage as mine.
And what if a rail has been lifted?
And what if a river's unspanned?
I fail, but I know in the failing
I strove at the Empire's command.

They were men who at Badajos conquered,
They were men who for Wellington struck,
And a Man is the Man at the Throttle,
And a Man is the Man on the Truck.
Undismayed I may go to destruction.
For I know at the end I may feel
I die with the men on the footplate,
I pass with my brothers in steel.

When the depôt soldier's dinin' on three-quarters of a pound,
If there's too much bone to please 'im, or the meat is extry tough,
'E 'as got a chance of grousin' when 'is orficer goes round,
'E can draw upon the mess-book, if 's rations ain't enough.
But it's make your own arrangements! Make your own arrangements!
When you're cut orf from the column, an' supplies are runnin' low,
It ain't no 'too much fat, sir!'
But it's bread – an' glad of that, sir!
O it's bake your own arrangements – out of flour – as you go!

When the depôt soldier's on parade 'e sparkles an' 'e shines.
When the depôt soldier's drillin' 'e must make each motion 'tell.'
When the depôt soldier's marchin' 'e must march on drill-book lines.
'E 'as got a drill-instructor, an' 'e does it very well.
But it's make your own arrangements! Make your own arrangements!
When the camp is rushed at midnight, an' you're fallin' in – to die!
O there ain't no drill-rules set there,
But it's take your gun – an' get there!
When you make your own arrangements, you must grab your belt an' fly.