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