The First Fleet

We slid into the harbor here, A line of battle-cruisers gray, With hungry guns as silent as The bands aboard that did not play. The fog was soft, the fog was damp, The hush was thick and wide as space, But ev'ry man was standing at Attention in his given place.

We'd made the port, with time to spare-- And Uncle Sam's first Fleet was there!

Then came those other navy men-- Our allies in this troubled cause-- Weary of holding back the Hun, Clipping, too slow, his cruel claws. Our Admiral, a few-words man, Greeted the visitors.... "We're here," He said, and that was all. They smiled-- And said they hoped the weather'd clear.

But still those men with tired eyes Felt mighty grateful, I surmise!

Around our Fleet--not very large-- We took them, thoughtful faces set; And then back to the fog-soaked town They went--uncomfortably wet; But in those eyes a happier light, That told him what they'd like to say-- That they were glad he had come back, As he had hoped to do some day.

Another fleet, with fresher men, Gave them a chance to breathe again!

Before they left to go ashore (A crowd had gathered on the quay), "When can you start to work?" they asked. "How many hours will it be Before you're ready?" With a smile Our fighting Admiral replied (And there was joy in what he said, Mingled with pardonable pride):

"Soon as the enemy we meet!... We're ready now--men, guns, and Fleet."

So that is how we started in To do our share--the Navy's "bit"; They were surprised, but Admiral Sims Had surely made a three-base hit With what he said.... And now it's up To us to do our hearty best To make the seas the old-time seas; Till that is done there'll be no rest.

It is a job to stop the Hun, But--it's a job that must be done!

BRIGGS OF BASE No. 8

It may be that you know him. A slim and likely kid; Red-headed, tall, and soft of speech and glance. He never took a prize at school (his talents always hid), And yet he's got a medal from the Government of France!

He didn't kill a lot of men; He never injured one; He didn't hold a trench alone; He never manned a gun; He drove an ambulance--that's all; But those above him knew He'd take it into hell and back If he was ordered to!

That night (he'd been right on the job For twenty hours or more) They telephoned again for him-- And as he cranked--he swore. Half dead for sleep, he drove too far, Straight into No Man's Land, And there he gathered up four men Who didn't understand Or care what happened.... Then a chap Sagging with gobs of mud He shoved into his throbbing car That smelled of drugs and blood.

The other roared, but Briggs, sleep-deaf, Stared at the moon on high-- 'Twas like some spent star-shell glued on A blue-black, tired sky-- And didn't try to hear or think; He only tried to keep His car from sliding off the road-- And not to fall asleep. The ambulance went skidding back (His chains had lost themselves), While now and then a growl came from Its stretcher-ladened shelves. Briggs never stopped, but when the groans Were punctured with a curse He told the weary moon, "At least This flivver is no hearse!" And slowly yawned again.... At last They rounded Trouble Bend, Base Eight before them--and that ride Was at a welcome end.... The blood-stained orderlies came out To take the wounded in, Opened the doors to lift the wrecks.... Before they could begin There tumbled out the mud-caked man, Whose mouth was shot away; A man who stared like some wild beast Finally brought to bay; For Briggs, Base Eight, American, Had brought (beside his four) A German officer, half drunk For need of rest! who swore And cried, and then sank back again And fell asleep.... That's why They've decorated little Briggs-- Red-headed, tall, and shy!

"I didn't do a thing," he growls; "'Twas just a fool mistake, And he'd have captured me, of course, If he had been awake. He tried to talk (his battered mouth Was just a shredded scar); But we were wasting time, and so I pushed him in the car And came on back.... Now, what is there About that sort of stuff To make a fuss for? I am not A hero.... I'm a bluff!" The surgeon smiles.... "If he can make A capture in the night When doing Red Cross work, what would He do if he should fight?" He asks, and looks a long way off To where the pounding guns Are making other harmless wrecks Of one-time hellish Huns.

I wonder if you know him? A slim and quiet kid, Red-headed, tall, and soft of speech and glance; He doesn't like to have you talk about the thing he did-- And yet he's got a medal from the Government of France.