The Ballad of Ensign Joy
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THE BALLAD of ENSIGN JOY
IT is the story ofEnsign JoyAnd the obsoleterank withalThat I love for each gentle EnglishboyWho jumped to his country'scall.By their fire and fun, and thedeeds they've done,I would gazette them Second tononeWho faces a gun in Gaul!)IT is also the story of ErmyntrudeA less appropriate nameFor the dearest prig and theprettiest prude!But under it, all the same,The usual consanguineous squadHad made her an honest childof God —And left her to play the game.IT was just when the grind ofthe Special Reserves,Employed upon Coast Defence,Was getting on every Ensign'snerves —Sick-keen to be draftedhence —That they met and played tennisand danced and sang,The lad with the laugh and theschoolboy slang,The girl with the eyes intense.YET it wasn't for him that shelanguished and sighed,But for all of our dear deemedyouth;And it wasn't for her, but hersex, that he cried,If he could but have probedthe truth !Did she? She would none of hishot young heart;As khaki escort he's tall andsmart,As lover a shade uncouth.HE went with his draft. Shereturned to her craft.He wrote in his merry vein:She read him aloud, and theStudio laughed!Ermyntrude bore the strain.He was full of gay bloodshed andOld Man Fritz:His flippancy sent her friendsinto fits.Ermyntrude frowned withpain.HIS tales of the Sergeant whoswore so hardLeft Ermyntrude cold andprim;The tactless truth of the picturejarred,And some of his jokes weregrim.Yet, let him but skate upontender ice,And he had to write to her twiceor thriceBefore she would answer him.YET once she sent him afairy's box,And her pocket felt the bruntOf tinned contraptions andbooks and socks —Which he hailed as "a sportingstunt!"She slaved at his muffler nonethe less,And still took pleasure in mur-muring, "Yes!For a friend of mine at theFront.")ONE fine morning his nameappears —Looking so pretty in print!"Wounded!" she warbles intragedy tears —And pictures the reddeninglint,The drawn damp face and thedraggled hair.But she found him blooming inGrosvenor Square,With a punctured shin in asplint.IT wasn't a haunt of Ermyn-trude's,That grandiose urban pile;Like starlight in arctic altitudesWas the stately Sister's smile.It was just the reverse withEnsign Joy —In his golden greeting no leastalloy —In his shining eyes no guile!HE showed her the bullet thatdid the trick —He showed her the trick,x-ray'd;He showed her a table timed toa tick,And a map that an airmanmade.He spoke of a shell that caused grievous loss —But he never mentioned a certaincrossFor his part in the escapade!SHE saw it herself in a list nextday,And it brought her back to hisbed,With a number of beautifulthings to say,Which were mostly over hishead.Turned pink as his own pyjamas'stripe,To her mind he ceased to em-body a type —Sank into her heart instead.I WONDER that all of youdidn't retire!""My blighters were not thatkind.""But it says you 'advanced un-der murderous fire,Machine-gun and shell com-bined – '""Oh, that's the regular WarOffice wheeze!""'Advanced' – with that leg! —'on his hands and knees'!""I couldn't leave it behind."HE was soon trick-driving aninvalid chair,and dancing about on a crutch;The haute noblesse of GrosvenorSquareFelt bound to oblige as such;They sent him for many a motor-whirl —With the wistful, willowy wisp ofa girlWho never again lost touch.THEIR people were most ofthem dead and gone.They had only themselves toHis pay was enough to marryupon,As every Ensign sees.They would muddle along (asin fact they did)With vast supplies of the tertiumquidYou bracket with bread-and-cheese.please.THEY gave him some leaveafter Grosvenor Square —And bang went a month onbanns;For Ermyntrude had a naturalflairFor the least unusual plans.Her heaviest uncle came downwell,And entertained, at a fair hotel,The dregs of the coupled clans.A CERTAIN number ofcheques accruedTo keep the wolf from thedoor:The economical ErmyntrudeHad charge of the dwindlingstore,When a Board reported herbridegroom fitAs – some expression she didn'tpermit.And he left for the Front oncemore.HIS crowd had been climbingthe jaws of hell:He found them in death's dog-teeth,With little to show but a gooddeal to tellIn their fissure of smokingheath.There were changes – of course– but the change in himWas the ribbon that showed onhis tunic trimAnd the tumult hidden be-neath!FOR all he had suffered andseen beforeSeemed nought to a husband'scare;And the Chinese puzzle of mod-ern warFor subtlety couldn't compareWith the delicate springs of thecomplex lifeTo be led with a highly sensitisedwifeIn a slightly rarefied air!YET it's good to be back withthe old platoon —"A man in a world of men"!Each cheery dog is a henchmanboon —Especially Sergeant Wren!Ermyntrude couldn't endure hisname —Considered bad language no lienon fame,Yet it's good to – hear itagain!BETTER to feel the Ser-geant's grip,Though your fingers ache tothe bone!Better to take the Sergeant's tipThan to make up your mindalone.They can do things together, canWren and Joy —The bristly bear and the beard-less boy —That neither could do on hisown.BUT there's never a wordabout Old Man WrenIn the screeds he scribblesto-day —Though he praises his N.C.O.'sand menIn rather a pointed way.And he rubs it in (with a knittedbrow)That the war's as good as a pic-nic now,And better than any play!HIS booby-hutch is "as safeas the Throne,"And he fares "like the C. – in-Chief,"But has purchased "a top-holegramophoneBy way of comic relief."(And he sighs as he hears themen applaud,While the Woodbine spices arewafted abroadWith the odour of bully-beef.)HE may touch on the latesttype of bomb,But Ermyntrude needn'tblench,For he never says where you hurlit from,And it might be from yourtrench.He never might lead a stealthyband,Or toe the horrors of No Man'sLand,Or swim at the sickly stench..HER letters came up byration-cartAs the men stood-to beforedawn:He followed the chart of hersoaring heartWith face transfigured yetdrawn:It filled him with pride, touchedwith chivalrous shame.But – it spoilt the war, as a first-class game,For this particular pawn.THE Sergeant sees it, anddamns the causeIn a truly terrible flow;But turns and trounces, withouta pause,A junior N. C. O.For the crime of agreeing thatEnsign JoyIsn't altogether the officer boyThat he was four months ago!AT length he's dumfounded(the month being May)By a sample of Ermyntrude'sfun!"You will kindly get leave overChristmas Day,Or make haste and finish theBut Christmas means presents,she bids him beware:"So what do you say to a son andheir?I'm thinking of giving youHun!"WHAT, indeed, does theEnsign say?What does he sit and write?What do his heart-strings drone all day?What do they throb all night?What does he add to his piteousprayers? —"Not for my own sake, Lord, but– theirs,See me safe through …"THEY talk – and he writhes– "of our spirit out here,Our valour and all the rest!There's my poor, lonely, delicatedear,As brave as the very best!We stand or fall in a cheerycrowd,And yet how often we grousealoud!She faces that with a jest!"HE has had no sleep for a dayand a night;He has written her half aream;He has Iain him down to wait forthe light,And at last come sleep – and adream.He's hopping on sticks up thestudio stair:A telegraph-boy is waiting there,And – that is his darling'sscream!HE picks her up in a tenderstorm —But how does it come to passThat he cannot see his reflectedformWith hers in the studio glass?"What's wrong with that mir-ror?"' he cries.But only the Sergeant's voicereplies:"Wake up, Sir! The Gas —the Gas!"IS it a part of the dream ofdread?What are the men about?Each one sticking a hauntedheadInto a spectral clout!Funny, the dearth of gibe andjoke,When each one looks like a pigin a poke,Not omitting the snout!THERE'S your mask, Sir! Notime to lose!"Ugh, what a gallows shape!Partly white cap, and partlynoose!Somebody ties the tape.Goggles of sorts, it seems, inset:Cock them over the parapet,Study the battlescape.ENSIGN JOY'S in the secondline —And more than a bit cut off;A furlong or so down a greeninclineThe fire-trench curls in thetrough.Joy cannot see it – it's in the bedOf a river of poison that brimsinstead.He can only hear – a cough!NOTHING to do for theCompanies there —Nothing but waiting now,While the Gas rolls up on thebalmy air,And a small bird cheeps on abough.All of a sudden the sky seems fullOf trusses of lighted cotton-woolAnd the enemy's big bow-wow!THE firmament cracks withhis airy mines,And an interlacing hailThreshes the clover between ourlines,As a vile invisible flail.And the trench has become amighty viceThat holds us, in skins of moltenice,For the vapors that fringe theveil.IT'S coming – in billowy swirls– as smokeFrom the roof a world on fire.It – comes! And a lad with aheart of oakKnows only that heart's de-sire!His masked lips whimper but onedear name —And so is he lost to inward shameThat he thrills at the word:"Re-tire!"WHOSE is the order, thricerenewed?Ensign Joy cannot tell :Only, that way lies Ermyntrude,And the other way this hell!Three men leap from the pois-oned fosse,Three men plunge from the para-dos,And – their – officer – as well!NOW, as he flies at their fly-ing heels,He awakes to his deep dis-grace,But the yawning pit of his shamerevealsA way of saving his face:He twirls his stick to a shep-herd's crook,To trip and bring one of themback to book,As though he'd been givingchase!HE got back gasping —"They'd too much start!""I'd've shot 'em instead!"said Wren."That was your job, Sir, if you'dthe 'eart —But it wouldn't 've been you,then.I pray my Lord I may live to seeA firing-party in front o' themthree!"(That's what he said to themen.)NOW, Joy and Wren, ofCompany B,Are a favourite firm of mine;And the way they reinforced A,C, and DWas, perhaps, not unduly fine;But it meant a good deal both toWren and Joy —That grim, gaunt man, but thatdesperate boy! —And it didn't weaken the Line.NOT a bad effort of yours,my lad,"The Major deigned to declare."My Sergeant's plan, Sir" —"And that's not bad —But you've lost that ribbonyou wear?""It – must have been eaten awayby the Gas!""Well – ribbons are ribbons —but don't be an ass!It's better to do than dare."DARE! He has dared to de-sert his post —But he daren't acknowledgehis sin!He has dared to face Wren witha lying boast —But Wren is not taken in.None sings his praises so longand loud —With look so loving and loyaland proud!But the boy sees under hisskin.DAILY and gaily he wrote tohis wife,Who had dropped the beati-fied drollAnd was writing to him on theMeaning of LifeAnd the Bonds between Bodyand Soul.Her courage was high – thoughshe mentioned its height;She was putting upon her theArmour of Light —Including her aureole!BUT never a helm had the ladwe know,As he went on his nightly raidsWith a brace of his Blighters, anN. G O.And a bagful of hand-grenadesAnd the way he rattled andharried the Hun —The deeds he did dare, and therisks he would run —Were the gossip of the Bri-gades.HOW he'd stand stockstill asthe trunk of a tree,With his face tucked downout of sight,When a flare went up and theother threeFell prone in the frighteninglight.How the German sandbags, thatmade them quake,Were the only cover he cared totake,But he'd eavesdrop there allnight.MACHINE-GUNS, tappinga phrase in Morse,Grew hot on a random quest,And swarms of bullets buzzeddown the courseLike wasps from a tramplednest.Yet, that last night!They had just set offWhen he pitched on his face witha smothered cough,And a row of holes in his chest.HE left a letter. It savedthe livesOf the three who ran from theGas;A small enclosure alone survives,In Middlesex, under glass:Only the ribbon that left hisbreastOn the day he turned and ranwith the rest,And lied with a lip of brass!BUT the letters they wroteabout the boy,From the Brigadier to themen!They would never forget dearMr. Joy,Not look on his like again.Ermyntrude read them with dry,proud eye.There was only one letter thatmade her cry.It was from Sergeant Wren:THERE never was such a fear-less man,Or one so beloved as he.He was always up to some daringplan,Or some treat for his men andme.There wasn't his match when hewent away;But since he got back, there hasnot been a dayBut what he has earned aV. CA CYNICAL story? That'snot my view.The years since he fell aretwain.What were his chances of comingthrough?Which of his friends remain?But Ermyntrude's training asplendid boyTwenty years younger than En-sign Joy.On balance, a British gain!AND Ermyntrude, did shelose her allOr find it, two years ago?O young girl-wives of the boyswho fall,With your youth and yourbabes to show!No heart but bleeds for yourwidowhood.Yet Life is with you, and Life isgood.No bone of your bone lies low!YOUR blessedness came – asit went – in a day.Deep dread but heightenedyour mirth.Your idols' feet never turned toclay —Never lit upon common earth.Love is the Game but is not theGoal:You played it together, body andsoul,And you had your Candle'sworth.YES! though the Candle lighta Shrine,And heart cannot count thecost,You are Winners yet in its tendershine!Would they choose to havelived and lost?There are chills, you see, for thefinest hearts;But, once it is only old Deaththat parts,There can never come twingeof frost.AND this be our comfort forEvery BoyCut down in his high heyday,Or ever the Sweets of the Morn-ing cloy,Or the Green Leaf witheraway;So a sunlit billow curls to a crest,And shouts as it breaks at itsloveliest,In a glory of rainbow spray!BE it also the making ofErmyntrude,And many a hundred more —Compact of foibles and forti-tude —Woo'd, won, and widow'd, inWar.God, keep us gallant and unde-filed,Worthy of Husband, Lover, or– Child…Sweet as themselves at thecore!