Near the shell-gashed and mutilated church are two rows of unadorned wooden crosses, simple memorials of a soldier burial ground. Come vividly back into the scene the winter funerals in that yard of our buddies, brave men who, loving life, had been laid away there, having died soldier-like for a cause they had only dimly understood. And the crosses now rise up, mute, eloquent testimony to the cost of this strange, inexplicable war of North Russia.
We cast off from the dirty quay and steamed out to sea. On the deck was many a reminiscent one who looked back bare-headed on the paling shores, in his heart a tribute to those who, in the battle field’s burial spot or in the little Russian churchyards stayed behind while we departed homeward bound.
This closes our narrative. It is imperfectly told. We could wish we had time to add another volume of anecdotes and stories of heroic deeds. For errors and omissions we beg the indulgence of our comrades. We trust that the main facts have been clearly told. Here by way of further dedication of this book to our honored dead, whose names appear at the head of our lengthy casualty list of five hundred sixty-three, let us add a few simple verses of sentiment, the first two of which were written by “Dad” Hillman and the others added on by one of the writers.
THE HONOR ROLL of the
AMERICAN EXPEDITION WHO FOUGHT AGAINST THE BOLSHEVIKI IN NORTH RUSSIA
1918–1919
IN RUSSIA’s FIELDS
(After Flanders Fields)
In Russia’s fields no poppies grow
There are no crosses row on row
To mark the places where we lie,
No larks so gayly singing fly
As in the fields of Flanders.
We are the dead. Not long ago
We fought beside you in the snow
And gave our lives, and here we lie
Though scarcely knowing reason why
Like those who died in Flanders.
At Ust Padenga where we fell
On Railroad, Kodish, shot and shell
We faced, from just as fierce a foe
As those who sleep where poppies grow,
Our comrades brave in Flanders.
In Toulgas woods we scattered sleep,
Chekuevo and Kitsa’s tangles creep
Across our lonely graves. At night
The doleful screech owl’s dismal flight
Heart-breaking screams in Russia.
Near railroad bridge at Four-five-eight,
And Chamova’s woods, our bitter fate
We met. We fell before the Reds
Where wolves now howl above our heads
In far off lonely Russia.
In Shegovari’s desperate fight,
Vistavka’s siege and Seltso’s night,
In Bolsheozerki’s hemmed-in wood,
In Karpogor, till death we stood
Like they who died in Flanders.
And some in Archangel are laid
’Neath rows of crosses Russian-made
With marker of the Stars and Stripes
Not minding bugle, drum or pipes
We sleep, the brave, in Russia.
And comrades as you gather far away
In God’s own land on some bright day
And think of us who died and rest
Just tell our folks we did our best
In far off fields of Russia.
