OUT in that vague, vast “somewhere” of The Line
They killed Old Jim, a proven friend of mine.
Killed him at night, while he was on patrol;
All the company found was just a hole
A damned boche shell had dug out where he’d gone.
The outfit passed the place just after dawn
And saw some bodies; but they couldn’t tell
Which one was which. They all were smashed to hell!
They put Jim on the list, “Reported Dead”;
“Missing in Action,” the home papers said.
I wasn’t in The Line when Jim went out.
A piece of shrapnel had hit me a clout
Which kept me pretty quiet for a while—
Gray days when it was mighty hard to smile.
And when I learned Old Jim had topped the ridge
I fell to thinking what a privilege
It was to know him. Jim was just the kind
That stops to pet a dog or help the blind.
The sort you turn to when things don’t go right,
And then forget when all the world is bright.
Jim had a kindly eye that seemed to see
The best in men. What could he see in me?
I never knew; but Jim was always glad
To give me half of everything he had.
That’s why, you see, it cut me mighty deep
To know Old Jim was Out There—in a heap.
I’ve said Old Jim was not identified.
All the outfit ever knew was—he died!
And though there is no way to prove it’s so
This Unknown Soldier is Old Jim. I know!
The Congress Medal and the D. S. C.,
Have been given this Lost Identity;
And knowing that they both were earned by him,
I know the Unknown Soldier is—Old Jim!
THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER ARMISTICE DAY AT ARLINGTON
GRANTLAND RICE
in The New York Tribune
Permission to reproduce in this book
THE wind to-day is full of ghosts with ghostly bugles blowing,
Where shadows steal across the world, as silent as the dew.
Where golden youth is yellow dust, by haunted rivers flowing
Through valleys where the crosses grow, as harvest wheat is growing,
And only dead men see the line that passes in review.
The gripping clay once more gives way before the Mighty Mother
Who waits with everlasting arms to guard her sleeping sons.
And lonely mates in silent fields call out to one another
The story of an empty grave, where each has lost a brother,
Who takes the long, long trail at last beyond the rusting guns.
Gently the east wind brought him home to meet the south wind sighing.
Softly the north wind breathes his name that none of us may know.
For only those who fell with him, out in the darkness lying,
Can tell his company or rank, and they are unreplying,
As each dreams on through summer dawns or mantling snow.