THEY BELIEVE IN US BACK HOME

"Lots of love to our lieutenant,"
Writes my mother;
And the letters from my brother
Contain facetious remarks about "majors" . . .
He calls me "The Colonel" and laughs. . . .
But they mean it seriously,
Those back home.
They can't seem to realize
How shaky is our berth up here . . .
How every "Retreat" means a brief respite;
Each "Reveille" the dread
Of some more foolish blunder . . .
Some new bone-play.
And yet sometimes our timid vanity
Blossoms under the warmth of their regard;
Our hopes take strength from their confidence in us.
There came a blue envelope in the mail today.
A square envelope delicately scented with myrrh. . . .
And she ended with
"Adieu, cher Capitaine."
That very morning
I started even our sphinx-faced commander
By bawling out: "Right dress—MARCH!"
"Adieu, cher Capitaine,"
She had written,
And I can see the flecks of soft star dust in her eyes
As she thought it.
Bitterly I swore at my luck . . .
Then
Sent her that photograph taken of me
On July Fourth. . . .
Of me astride the horse of an officer.
I scrawled a jest under it.
But what else could I do?