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t the moon on high-- 'Twas like some spent star-shell glued on A blue-black, tired sky-- And didn't try to hear or think; He only tried to keep His car from sliding off the road-- And not to fall asleep. The ambulance went skidding back (His chains had lost themselves), While now and then a growl came from Its stretcher-ladened shelves. Briggs never stopped, but when the groans Were punctured with a curse He told the weary moon, "At least This flivver is no hearse!" And slowly yawned again.... At last They rounded Trouble Bend, Base Eight before them--and that ride Was at a welcome end.... The blood-stained orderlies came out To take the wounded in, Opened the doors to lift the wrecks.... Before they could begin There tumbled out the mud-caked man, Whose mouth was shot away; A man who stared like some wild beast Finally brought to bay; For Briggs, Base Eight, American, Had brought (beside his four) A German officer, half drunk For need of rest! who swore And cried, and then sank back again And fell asleep.... That's why They've decorated little Briggs-- Red-headed, tall, and shy! "I didn't do a thing," he growls; "'Twas just a fool mistake, And he'd have captured me, of course, If _he_ had been awake. He tried to talk (his battered mouth Was just a shredded scar); But we were wasting time, and so I pushed him in the car And came on back.... Now, what is there About that sort of stuff To make a fuss for? I am not A hero.... I'm a bluff!" The surgeon smiles.... "If he can make A capture in the night When doing Red Cross work, what would He do if he should _fight_?" He asks, and looks a long way off To where the pounding guns Are making other harmless wrecks Of one-time hellish Huns. I wonder if you know him? A slim and quiet kid, Red-headed, tall, and soft of speech and glance; He doesn't like to have you talk about the thing he did-- And yet he's got a medal from the Government of France. THE PENGUIN DRIVER At home, he drove a taxi, A job he'd now disdain; He's learning (on a queer machine) To drive an aeroplane. It doesn't fly--it glumps along And bumps him, ev'ry chance; His tumbling, rumbling "Penguin" Out there--Somewhere in France. It isn't fun to drive it, But he's not out for fun; He's going to le
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