A Rifleman Went to War

in the mass as we go.

A very sensitive and active pen long ago wrote the last word about “that man who hath no music in his soul.” The psychologists and psychiatrists who have lately been probing into this universal and little known realm will probably add a great deal to our understanding of it and not much to the truth, save in the way of substantiation; not by condemning, as “fit for treason, stratagem, spoils,” a great many men now considered non-musical, but by disclosing a trifle of music in their souls. They may even succeed in enabling them to liberate it, hot audibly, perhaps, but essentially. That is what the band does, quickening it into rhythm that makes the step as well as the heart lighter. It means a great deal thus to awaken the inner man and bring his strength into unison with the outer on a long march.

And when there is no band, a lilting song will do it — and did do it. I doubt if there was a single company that did not have at all times the necessary two or three men, at least one of whom was ready when the time came to start a song. And it was not always the songster who did it. Some hard old mug who bore every appearance of having long ago soured on the world might suggest it, or manage to have it done.

“How about a little song there, Scotty,” he would say to the next man.

Scotty, he knew, didn’t sing much, but he would instantly raise his voice: “How about a little song?”

Maybe it came to nothing, then. The time wasn’t quite ripe. There was neither that ebullience of spirit which demanded an outlet in song nor that weariness or monotony which required a song to dissipate it. Perhaps some one would start, but finding no response, he quickly gave up. Had he been articulate, he might have explained the failure of the pious sing-songsters to impose their pretty patterns or to palm off the products of Tin-Pan Alley when that center became active in the military ballad business. All credit to the wise and subtle ones who trained what they found. Songs must be spontaneous.

Half an hour later someone raised his voice:

“Keep your head down, Allemand — ”

With the second measure a dozen voices had taken it up. The wise platoon commander stepped out of line and reviewed his straggling platoon. By the time he had fallen in at the rear, nearly everyone was singing, the files had closed up, the straggler had pulled himself together. When the song was over, a ripple of bantering conversation ran up and down the column. Then another song.

“Madamoiselle from Armentieres, parlez-vous — ”

I have sometimes encountered the notion that this one came with the United States troops. I suspect it originated with the Canadians.

Armentieres was in their territory. It is certainly much older than United States participation. There must have been hundreds of stanzas set to this measure and they sprang from as many estaminets, billets, brothels and dugouts, from Frenchmen, Yankees and Englishmen. It may be that the true origin was known to Frenchmen before the war.

The authorship of many of the most popular songs, I am sure, could not be traced. There was none. An incident was remembered for a phrase. The phrase became a jest; the jest was mended and grew and became a song. I should like to tell you of one called Souvenir. It seems never to have got very far; but it was good, though the words which suited it never found the satisfactory music — at least for marching — and it did not survive. It was a charming bit, and I hope that somebody will let us have it as it ought to be.

It is difficult to say what decided the acceptance or rejection of a song. Some from this side — those inspired by the same sentiment that placed stars in the windows — became popular. Others were adapted, satirized, vulgarized or scorned. God Save The King was frequently heard on the march, largely, I sometimes thought, for the satisfaction it gave the grousing soldier to punctuate it with appropriate remarks. But let me add that His Majesty was popular and respected.

There was a song called West Sandling, by which I best remember singing in England. It is, I suspect, one of those that was bom on paper. A training camp is not the sort of place that produces soldier’s songs. And the efforts of sing-songsters there were largely futile. A canary sings when he wishes and when he has something to sing for. In leaving billets, for example, to proceed toward the line, it was as a rule useless to attempt to start a song. There might be a spurt at the beginning, celebrating events, amorous, convivial and otherwise, of the past few days, and sort of shaking things down. Then, for a time, marching took care of itself. When things became monotonous the songs commenced.

“Sing a song of bonnie Scotland,
Any old song will do—”

And most any song would do — unless it was one of those definitely rejected importations. So far as the rhythm went, it could nearly always be brought to the proper swing. There was one, I remember, which was popular, but which, as I first heard it, seemed far removed from a marching song, though it exactly suited the steps of the singer at that time — if steps they were. He was drifting about in leisurely search, it appeared, of a fair tide that should take him to his billet; and mumbling in a thin and vague falsetto:

“What a blow to Rotten Row when I go over the sea!
I know I can do without London; but can London do without me?”

It was a sure sign that there was not a place open where one might get another drink. It was the final curfew, the last lugubrious good-night, and it took a long time in the saying. It was a genial proclamation to all that Dad had had a successful evening. He had had many of them, in many parts of the world, and they had left their mark on his gray old face, bleached his hair and removed most of his teeth. But he was happy in the morning when somebody picked up his song, quickened its movement, and kidded him about it a little.

Occasionally a man returning from leave would bring something current in the London Music Halls. Of one such, I remember the injunction:

“Don’t pity a man disabled, find him a job.” and again

“He’s a father for your children, give him a job.”

This came about the time I left, so I don’t know if it was kept alive.

The French national anthem was a good one, but most men had to resort to wordless sounds in lieu of words. Other popular ones were: There’s a Long, Long Trail a-Winding; Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit-Bag; I Want to Go Home, with interesting and infinite variations; John Brown’s Body, or, rather, its illegitimate sister, Mary Ann McCarthy, She Went Out to Gather Clams; also The Pride of Dundee. The endless verses that celebrate the rambling of the bull should not be forgotten; nor, perhaps, should Bang Away My Lulu. The tragic, somewhat sorry, but highly esoteric and agreeable adventures of Christopher Columbo, not commonly known to school-children, are doubtless immortal. Anyone may add a few of the hymns that are his favorites. Then there are Loch Lomond and Annie Laurie and The Irish Jauntin’ Car.

I am always forgetting the best jokes. Possibly I have forgotten the best of these songs. I think they are worth remembering. They have no value, perhaps, to the military strategist; but they make the cobblestones softer for the man with the rifle who wins the wars.

The songs die out when the battalion has reached the vicinity of the G.H.Q. Line, which they do, generally, as soon as possible after dark. If they were early, they have halted at some point beyond observation and waited for darkness. If they have marched very far, the field kitchens will be here and the men fall out and have a hot supper. While, if they are going in on their old front or for any other reason have been billetted nearby, they have had their last meal at the field-kitchens before leaving. The men sprawl about on the sides of the road in comfortable attitudes, chatting indifferently about nothing, much as might a group of them at home awaiting an inter-urban train. If it is raining, some of them pull out their ground-sheets for use as ponchos; others do not. The principal indication that they know that there is a war going on is in the brief remarks by which they take note of the nature