A Belgian Hero

The drums were rolling the reveille, But the Belgian dozed in his trench; A Turco yelled in his ear, “Away, The Huns are whipping the French.”

The Turco’s shout was like the last trump, And our soldier jumped to his feet— “Lead on,” he cried, and brandished his gun— “A charge boys, never defeat!”

The Turco grinned, his white teeth shone, The French around him guffahed;— Our Belgian hero, clutched in a dream, Waved cap in the air,—and hurrahed.

He flourished his gun, and with the butt end Laid the Turco flat on the ground; And while he shouted, “A-bas le Boche!” King Albert happened around.

“What ails you, my man?” the brave king said, And our wild-eyed hero replied, “In that deep ditch my dear wife’s corpse, And her infant dead at her side.—

“My God, I cannot begin to tell The horrors I saw that night— Those brutes caught my wife and our dear child And slaughtered them in my sight.

“And that was not all; I stood there bound, To sharpen their brutal fun; And while I raved my captor laughed And prodded me with his gun.

“Oh, see you not there in that foul ditch, That beautiful woman lies? That poor, poor clay is my dear wife, And Death looks up from her eyes.”

“Enough, my good man,” the brave king said, “’Tis not the end of this war.” And the laughter was hushed, and stern and grim Were they who had laughed before.

Then up from the ground the Turco rose, Majestic in six foot three; He swore a great oath as dark as himself, And his eyes were as green as the sea.

Two strides—he stood by the grief-struck man, Who had nearly broken his head, And standing there, like a bronze statue, Saluted the king and said:

“Together we fight, my comrade he, We give-a the Boches hell.”— As he walked away with a panther’s step, You could see the great muscles swell.

Hot coffee was passed along the ranks, And the soldiers gave a cheer; Before they could eat the cannons roared, As would make the arch-devil fear.

Destruction rained from the east and the west, Hot sheets of flame shot out, And a multitude of German lungs Broke forth in a mighty shout.

An order was given to charge the guns, And “Vive la France” went the round— O Christ! what a glorious sight to see Those men on the shot-swept ground!

Ahead of the line our Belgian ran, A frenzy rolled in his eye; Around him they fell but his life was charmed, He had no reason to die.

Now at them! his vengeance three-fold fierce, He lunged in reckless hate; His bayonet dripped with Teuton blood; It seemed he could play with fate.

And always beside him the Turco fought, Superb in his six foot three; To right, to left, he guarded his friend,— Too blind in his rage to see.

A rout, a rout! the German host Scattered like chaff on the plain;— But the French fell back, for the multitude Of foes that rallied again.

And as they retreated our Belgian fell; He would not take the alarm; But the Turco gently picked him up, And tucked him under his arm.

He cocked a bright plume above his right ear; He swaggered as if on parade; The petrified Germans halted pursuit, Astonished, not whipped or afraid.

No halo of mist, as the poets tell, Nor angel nor saint appeared, But the rattle of arms was stopped a while, As the soldiers shouted and cheered.

’Twas only a small man crazed with wrong, Whose vengeance caused the deed; ’Twas only a dark man reckless of life, When a friend of his had need.

With never a look back he crossed that field, And went where the good king stood, And laid on the ground, with never a word, The mangled man covered with blood.

King Albert knelt to the shattered form, And felt his pulse with care, And a holy dew welled in his eyes When he knew that life was there.

And when he got up he said a few words That a thousand thoughts revealed— “The man is not dead, the war is not done, There’s a God of the battle field.”