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Dec. 19,1917.
The Hell Gate of Soissons
My name is Darino, the poet. You have
heard? Yes, Comedie Francalse.
Perchance it has happened, mon ami,
you know of my unworthy lays.
Ah, then, you must guess how my fin
gers are itching to talk to a pen;
For I was at Soissons, and saw it, the
death of the twelve Englishmen.
My leg, malhoureusement, I left it, be
hind on the banks of the Aisne.
Regret? I would pay with the other
to witness their valor again.
A trifle, indeed, I assure you, to give
for the honor to tell
How that handful of British, undaunted
went into the Gateway of Hell.
Let me draw -you a plan of the battle.
Here we French and your Eng
lishmen stood,
Over there a detachment 'of German
sharpshooters lay hid in a wood
A mitrailleuse battery planted on top
of this well-chosen ridge
Held the road for the. Prussians and
covered the direct approach to
the bridge.
It was madness to dare the dense mur
der that spewed from those ghast
ly* machines.
(Only those who have danced to its
music can know what the mit
railleuse means).
But the bridge on the Aisne was a
menace; our safety demanded its
fall:
“Engineers—volunteers!” In a body,
the Royals stood out at the call.
Death at best was the fate of that
mission—to their glory not one
was dismayed.
And they died with their fuses unlight
ed. Another detachment! Again
A sortie is made —again vainly. The
bridge still commanded the Aisne.
We were fighting two foes —Time and
Prussia—the moments were worth
more than troops.
We must blow up the bridge. A lone
sc»dier darts out from the
Royals and swoops
For the fuse! Fate seems with us- We
cheer him; he answers —our
hopes are re-born!
A ball rips his visor—-his khaki shows
red where anotner nas torn.
Will he live- -will he last—will he make
it? Helas! And so near to the
goal!
A second, he dies! Then a third one!
A Fourth! Still the Germans take
toll!
A fifth, magnifique! It is magic! How
does he escape them? He may—
Yes, he does! See, the match flares!
A rifle rings ou from the wood
and says, “Nay!”
Six, seven, eight, nine take their places
six, seven, eight, nine brave
their hail;
Six, seven, eight, nine—how we cou F
them! But the sixth, seventh,
eighth, and ninth fail!
A tenth! Sa ere nom! But these
English are soldiers—they know
how to try.
(He fumbles the place where his jaw
was —they show, too, how heroes
can die.)
Ten we count—ten who ventured un
quailing—ten there were—and
the ten are no more!
Yet another salutes and superbly es
says where the ten failed before.
God of Battles look down and protect
him! Lord, his heart is as Thine
—Let him live!
But the mitrailleuse sputters and stut
ters and riddles him into a
Then I thought of my sins, and sat.
waiting the charge that we could
not withstand.
And I thought of my beautiful Paris,
and gave a last look at the land,
At France, ma belle France, in her
glory of blue sky and green field
and wood.
Death with honor, but never surrender.
And to die with such men —it was
good.
They are forming—the bugles are blar
ing—they will cross in a mo
ment and then . . .
When out of the lin£ of the Royals
(your island, mon ami, breeds
men)
Burst a private, a tawny haired giant—
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it was hopeless, but, ceil! how
he ran!
Bon Dieu, please remember the pat
tern, and make many more on his
plan!
No cheer from our ranks, and the
Germans, they halted in wonder
ment too;
See, he reaches the bridge; ah! he
lights it! Jam dreaming, it can
not be true.
Screams of rage! Fusillade! They
have killed him! Too late though,
the good work is done.
By the valor of twelve English martyrs,
the Hell Gate of Soissons is
won!
Are You Expecting
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Last Sunday, the Augusta office of
the Western Union Telegraph Com
pany received 200 telegrams for sol
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/nfantry Is the
Backbone of Army
A special writer has the followinig to
say concerning the "dough boys” of the
army:®
The backbone of the army is the infan
try. In fact there wouldn’t be any arm.,
it there wasn’t any infantry. The man
who has enlisted in an infantry unit has
taken upon himself the drudgery and
weight of America’s fighting.
In the trenches the men who “carry
on” are the infantrymen. These sturdy
fighters are. the harder,, wonting men in
the army. They are the men who do the
actual fighting and enter into closest com
bat with the enemy.
Trench fighting has robbed war of much
of its romance and adventure, but the in
fantrymen nevertheless are as brave and
courageous as ever. There is no march
ing to battle with flying flags and play
ing bands as in the days gone by. The
infantryman of tday enfbrs the first line
trenches through a communicating
trench, perhaps walking miles and miles
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through a muddy mire with bullets and
shrapnel tearing through the air over hln
head. In the trench he make his home.
Small caves are built in the trench sides
and for a period of one or two weeks the
infantryman makes his home in these
dugouts.
It is always the infantryman who goes
“over the top.” It is the infantryman
who faces the direct fire of the enemy
guns and it is the infantryman who must
charge into the.enemy trenches.
Back of the infantryman there is a
huge establishment, but it is the man
with the blue cord on his hat in the from
line trench who faces the greatest ele
ment of danger.
Modern warfare is specialized. Hence
the old infantry that fought only with
rifle and bayonet is made up of special
ists. Certain companies are specialized
in machine gun operation. Others are
hand grenade throwers, and still others
are expert bayonet men. There are, the
so-called “trench cleaners.” They fol
low the charging men into .the trenches
and deal out death with their bayonets
and in some cases with small side sabres
which they carry.
There is more work and less glory for
the infantryman than any other Amer
ican soldier. Yet the majority of the sol
diers are in tlrs branch of the army.
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