From 'I Was There - With the Yanks on the Western Front 1917 - 1919'
By C. Leroy Baldridge, PVT. A.E.F. together with verses by Himar R. Baukhage PVT. A.E.F.
The Loot is getting wabbly,
With his dinky little pack,—
He can hear the sergeant cussing
But he doesn't dare look back.
But we ain't saying nothing
Since we got the order "route,"
Too dog-dead for even wond'ring
If we'll ever hear "fall out."
My damn rifle and my helmet
Keep on getting in the way,
And my brains are numb and dopey
Try'n' to cuss and try'n' to pray.
My throat's as dry as sawdust
And my right arm's gone to sleep,
And the pack-strap on my shoulder
Cuts a slit two inches deep.
I just lift one foot and shove it
And it hits most any place,
Then I lift and shove the other
T'keep from falling on my face.
If the guide should change the cadence
I'll be damned if I could stop;
If you pushed me with a feather—
Well, I'd just curl up and drop.
And I know damn well there's stragglers
That'll ride up on a truck—
Guess if you ain't born a quitter,
You're just simply outa luck.