Dawn Fraser: Echoes From Labor's War

The Reward

The following rhyme was written with prophetic vision early in 1917. We do not claim that the condition is general, but we do say that it is not uncommon. It is an open question among returned men today whether to wear the button is an advantage or otherwise. Our own attitude is undecided, but we certainly have heard returned men say that displaying the button handicaps them socially and in a business way An old lady told me that she would not have returned men around her house, as anybody who was full of cooties for four years was likely to have an odd one still about his person. Perhaps there is some excuse for this idea, but is it not a sad condition to find that returned men are hiding their buttons as if they were ashamed of them?

'Twas a western town—but no matter—'twas not the fault of the town
Time was—well, no matter—'twas after the sun went down;
'Twas after the war was over, and in a crowded saloon,
Crowds that were feasting and drinking, the orchestra playing a tune.
But there was one in the party who did not seem to belong,
His gaze was shifty and timid, like one who had got in wrong;
One wasted arm hung over a crutch, one eye had a look of despair;
The other arm off at the elbow—the other eye wasn't there.
He staggered up to the counter, with features faded and gaunt,
The boss looked up with disfavor and growled, "What d'ya want?"
"If you'd spare a coin for some food, sir, I am weary of travelling too,
I am something of a cripple, you see, and it's hard to get work to do;
Before the war it was different—before I was hit by the bomb
I have been some time in France, sir, and lost my arm at the Somme."

"We don't lend money," the boss replied, "more like you want it for rum
That story is old as hell—we get it from every bum.
Last night 'twas a drunken brakeman, careless with his fool neck,
Couldn't let the booze alone and got mixed up in a wreck.
I don't want to see your button—beat it and stow your gaff!"
I saw him wave the man away, I heard the gay crowd laugh;
Thus encouraged, the boss went on, with a kind of injured glance:
"As if I could afford to pay the board of every cripple from France."
And his prosperous patrons agreed with him—said some-thing should be done
That since the war these bums were a bore, a menace to everyone.
Then I saw the cripple clutch his crutch and tap his way to the door,
And it struck me then, but I couldn't say when, I'd seen the man before.
He seemed to be sort of shy of me, afraid he wouldn't be heard,
But I'd bet my pay 'twas Sergt. Gray, who crossed with the 93rd.

I had last seen Gray one summer day, one early morn in June,
And remembered then how these very men had cheered for his platoon.
One of the first when the war-cloud burst, when the call to arms was heard,
He forgot his all at the nation's call, and joined the 93rd.
There were others too, and not a few—men who risked their all,
Left home and friends, threw careers to the winds, to answer the country's call.
These volunteers gained the country's cheers, their names were on every tongue,
When they sailed away that summer's day, the heroes of old and young;
And I wondered why, if to do or die he bravely marched away,
His standard fell, when shot to hell, he stood in the town today.
And the very men who were shy of a gun, and ducked at the great showdown,
And riches sought, while others fought for their country, home and town,
Were the men today of the party gay, who laughed and failed to heed
When the hero bright of another night wanted a stake for a feed.

It's not every cheer that is all sincere, but a means to a selfish end,
And the vulgar crowd with acclaims aloud is not always your friend.
If you do the work that others shirk, if you play the willing goat,
They tolerate and declare you great, while the medals shine on your coat.
As long as you live and have something to give—your comfort, your wealth or your time,
You'll find these friends with selfish ends to trim you down to a dime;
But lose your wealth, or lose your health, or show any signs of wear,
Get knocked about, or down and out, and the cheers are no longer there.
In this world of sin you've got to win, and you can't get by on a past;
While you're fit for strife, for war to the knife, so long will your glory last.

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