Loyola University Maryland - Evergreen / Green and Gray Yearbook (Baltimore, MD)

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thought) entered in the Army records as the 165th U. S. Infantry, thereby losing all the prestige naturally associated with a unit which had so distinguished itself. For a week or two after the coming of the division the front was as serene as a placid lake. Then came the fifth of March, with the Ger- man raiding party, followed by the American counter-attack on the ninth. Days characterized by the trying monotony of dawn and twilight vigils seemed once again the rule rather th an the exception. EAYMOND B. FURLONG, ’21. Another of our soldier boys who is just fluishiug Junior Class. He enlisted in the Maryland Coast Artillery from Sophomore and saw actiye service abroad with the Rainbow Division from Octoljer 1917, until the end, spending eighteen months overseas. On the seventeenth, just after “stand to” everyone, exhausted by the early morning watch, had sought asylum and comfort such as it was, in the musty dinginess of the dugouts. Suddenly everyone was astir; “they” were sending a few over; first a few shells, then a few more, then an avalanche of artillery burst forth. To us one missed its mark; to the Hun it was a perfect shot. For indeed it had “stopped its flight at the dugout stair, touched its prey and left them there clay to clay.” 26

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Slip ISnugp Unuqupt of Sloyrp iCtlntpr. Raymond B. Furlong, ‘ 21 . One of the essential attributes of literature whether it he in the form of an essay or a poem is suggestiveness; the appeal to our emotions and imagination rather than to our intellect. It should bring to our minds a thought, a delicate scene, or an event lovingly cherished by us in our memories — garbed in the regal robes of poetic expression by the vivid imagery, the delicate sensitiveness and emotional language peculiarly characteristic of poets. The possession of this rare quality, coupled with the fruits of an exemplary life must needs place the name of Joyce Kilmer in the cate- gorv with those who may well be called “the immortals. ‘‘ It is to his immortal fame that his poems were suggestive, beauti- fully so and with a sublimeness that is worthy of this devout soldier. The charm of his poetry lies, not in what he writes, hut in that which he awakens in us. Who could but read his “Rouge Bouquet,” feel its stirring appeal and not bless the writer or refrain from sending one, long, heartfelt prayer to the God of Compassion for those about whom it was written. For indeed the “brave young spirits are hut th e disin- carnate spmts of those who loved and were loved.” And the “Rouge Bouquet” is but what remains of a one-time forest lu’imeval where the murmuring pines and hemlocks stood ‘like Druids of eld.’ But now they are changed; the trees mangled and torn by the ubiquitous shrapnel; the verdure and freshness of spring tainted, insipid and lifeless from the devitalizing fumes of the poisonous gases. Now, over these self-same woods star-shells flicker, dissipating a blind- ing light, lengthening the fantastic shadows as it burns and falls; its life ebbing away slowly but surely, symbolic, perhaps, of those lying near whose days, hours — yea, and minutes are numbered; those whose last hours are like unto the torments of the damned ;mangled, torn, poor, bleeding bodies, hut with souls like that of Evangeline “strong in the hour of affliction.” This, indeed, is the “affection that hopes and endures and is patient.” It was in these very woods and those surrounding the Forest de Parroy that the Rainbow Division first saw service as a combatant unit of the allied armies. Here was grouped what was supposed to be a division of the best National Guard units of America. Here, too, was New York’s famous “Fighting Sixty-ninth, ' ’ now sacrilegiously (as they 25

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Jus t how many fighting Irishmen were buried alive was never known to me but we did know that they were there in “that place of pain and pride.” Hardly an appropriate grave for fighting men — just a labyrynth of logs, rocks and sandbags. Yet “it was a worthy grave, that place, where they nobly fought and nobly died.” Ever submis- sive were they “that pain may cease they yield their flesh to pain, to banish war they must warriors be.” ’Twas in the Rouge Bouquet. “Such was their life and the end thereof.” This is the story of Kilmer’s Rouge Bouquet, but who could tell it as he did? Who could bring before our minds the awful gruesomeness of that incident in such style that it would appeal so strongly to us? And as he wrote of his comrades of the “Fighting Sixty-ninth” so it must be written of him that “he nobly fought and nobly died.” For Sergeant Joyce Kilmer was killed on July 30, 1918, in the advance on the Ourcq. And on the banks of this historic river he was buried in much the same fashion as Thomas More, “with not a drum heard nor a funeral note.” Thy soul was like a star and dwelt apart Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free; So did’st thou travel on life ' s common way In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 27