St Anthony High School - Tattler Yearbook (St Anthony, ID)

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THE TA TTLER llllllilllllllllllliilllliiiiiiiiiiiiliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiliiililiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiililiilllliiiilllllllllllllliliiiiiiiiiiliililiilliiliill Then, when you stop a good one, and the stretcher bearers come And patch you up with strings, and splints, and bandages, and gum, When you think you ' ve got a million wounds and fifty thousand breaks. And your body ' s just a blasted sack packed full of pains and aches. Then you feel you ' ve reached the finish, and you ' re sure your number ' s up. And you feel as weak as Belgian beer, and helpless as a pup — But you know that you ' re not down and out, that life ' s worth living yet. When some old war-wise Red Cross guy slips you a cigarette. We can do without MacConachies, and Bully, and hard tack. When Fritz ' s curtain fire keeps the ration parties back; We can do without our great coats, and our socks, and shirts, and shoes, We might almost — tho ' I doubt it — get along without our booze; We can do without “ K . R. O.” and “ Military Law,” We can do without a lot of things and still win out, you bet. We can beat the ancient Israelites at making bricks, and straw; But I ' d hate to think of soldiering without a cigarette. (By request of a soldier who did his bit Over There.) Page Twenty-six

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THE TATTLER IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIUMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMIIMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII Cigarettes W hen the cold is making ice cream of the marrow in your bones, W hen you ' re shaking like a jelly and your feet are dead as stones. When your clothing and boots and blankets, and your rifle and your kit. Are soaked from Hell to Breakfast, and the dugout where you sit Is leaking like a basket, and upon the muddy floor The water lies in filthy pools, six inches deep or more; Tho ' the life seems cold and mis ' ruble, and all the world is wet, Tou ' ll always get thro ' somehow if you ' ve got a cigarette. When you ' re lying in a listening post ' way out beyond the wire. While a blasted Hun, behind a gun, is doing rapid fire; When the bullets whine above your head, and sputter on the ground. When your eyes are strained for every move, your ears for every sound — - You ' d bet your life a Hun patrol is prowling somewhere near; A shiver runs along your spine that ' s very much like fear; You ' ll stick it to the finish — but. I ' ll make a little bet. You ' d feel a whole lot better if you had a cigarette. When Fritz is starting something and his guns are on the bust, W hen the parapet goes up in chunks, and settles down in dust, W hen the roly-poly rum- jar comes a-uobbling thro ' the air. Till it lands upon a dugout — and the dugout isn ' t there; If hen the air is full of dust, and smoke, and scraps of steel, and noise. And you think you ' re booked for golden crowns and other heavenly joys. If hen your nerves are all a-tremble, and your brain is all a-fret — It isn ' t half so hopeless if you ' ve got a cigarette. When you ' re waiting for the whistle, and your foot is on the step. You bluff yourself, it ' s lots of fun, and all the time you ' re hep To the fact that you may stop one ' fore you ' ve gone a dozen feet. And you wonder uhat it feels like, and your thoughts are far from sweet; Then you think about a little grave, with R. I. P. on top. And you know you ' ve got to go across — alt ho ' you ' d like to stop. When you ' re backbone ' s limp as water, and you ' re bathed in icy sweat. Why, you ' ll feel a lot more cheerful if you puff your cigarette. Page Twenty-five

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THE TATTLER IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMIIIIIIIIIIMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII1IIIIIIIMI tllllllllMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII Soldiering In France It is just a few lines I am writing , As I sit in a barn-loft in France, And weary weeks and months of hardships Pass before me all in a glance. And it is to you back home, “ Over Yonder , Know naught of the trials we bear. That I speak though not complaining Of a soldier s life Over Here. Have you ever started from somewhere. And walked mile after mile thru the night. Knowing not whither you are going Or how long until rest is in sight ? And the rain beats down upon you. And you ' re wet clear thru to the skin. Yet you know your journey s just starting. As another mile you begin. Have you ever seen shafts of light pierce the dark As the guns burst forth uith a roar. And the very earth trembles with terror. W hile the wind shrieks in fury for gore? Yet you plod ever onward in silence. Only knowing the plight you are in: That your pack is so awfully heavy And your clothes are dreadfully thin. Have you ever felt a burning within you. That heartache for home far away, IF hich no fair maiden can alter Nor dreams of great power can stay? Have you ever seen life stop so sudden — Just a passing moment, that ' s all? Yet ivith it fond hopes and ambitions Are crumbled to atoms and fall. I ' age Twenty-seven