GIVENCHY � OCTOBER 1916 -John Scott
Three things chiefly I remember of a little place named Gorre.
Somewhere out in France, September, Nineteen-sixteen, First World War!
First, an unexpected meeting with another home-town guy;
Time for just a wave, a greeting from the ranks as we passed by.
Next, the Padre�s invitation to a service if we�d go,
And we met in a plantation, in the grounds of some chateau;
Last, that road from Gorre, shellshattered, echoing to our marching feet,-
The canal road to, where battered, lay Givenchy�s ruined street!
Rain and howling wind together round Givenchy�s billets blew;
Houses open to the weather, doors and windows all �Napoo�
On the current situation each one having aired his views,
In OUR cellar, conversation turned upon the latest news-
�Pickles caught on duty boozing! Sergeant Pickles shoved in clink!�
In the corner cafe, choosing just the wrong time for a drink!
Happily inebriated, gaily his vin blanc he swipes,
For his sins now relegated- shoved in clink and lost his stripes!
In a corner sits a stranger,- a newcomer to our mob-
For the first time facing danger, since he left his Blighty job.
Davy�s business was recruiting [Davy Levy, that�s the name]
He�d had naught to do with shooting, hunting rookies was his game.
For the Army [or the Navy] he�d passed hundreds of recruits,
Till one day they came for Davy- dished him out with Army boots!
Sorting out the keen and fit men, Dave sat back and took his ease;
Got the big shock of his life when he was drafted overseas!
There he reels off many a story, forgetting his woes the while,
With his chestnuts old and hoary, trying hard to raise a smile.
Stories smutty, stories witty, from this non-stop yarning Jew.
There�s a youngster letter- writing in a dismal room upstairs,
Finds a way p�raps more inviting to forget about HIS cares.
Though the autumn wind is driving through the rent and gaping walls
Of that ruin, bleak surviving, and the rain incessant falls-
Falls on tangled leaves and grasses where the garden used to be,
And the doleful wind that passes whines like shells, unceasingly!
Writing home to cheer the old folks; kids them up things aren�t too bad,
When the situation�s no joke, writes of happy times he�s had.
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