APPENDIX A LV 



Many are expressing themselves in similar outbursts of utmost 

 sincerity. Then there are ruder things of ballad type, with the 

 ring of valor and the interest of truth: 



"THE TAKING OF THE RIDGE" 

 (By Sapper J. T. Peck, C.E.F., 2005647). 



'Twas a beast of a night. God ! the mud 

 Up to our necks and red with blood. 

 Held fast like glue, both horse and gun — 

 That night the famous ridge was won. 



For months we had stood a grilling fire 

 From Fritz's guns across the mire, 

 Our graveyards grew mid the bursting shell. 

 The living breathed and tasted hell. 



Mud — ^the cursed Flanders mud: — 

 Up to our necks and red with blood 

 Barred the way to that coveted ridge 

 Where the heaping corpses made a bridge. 



O'er No Man's Land, a bog of hell. 



A seething mass of hissing shell. 



Lit by the tongues of a thousand guns; 



Our brave lads dashed to meet the Huns. 



On, on through the mud they pressed their way. 

 Machine guns spat, but ne'er did stay 

 That gallant charge o'er No Man's Land, 

 Where war is hell, and hell is grand; 



The dawn rose grey, when a British cheer 

 From the lofty ridge broke strong and clear; 

 It drowned the cowardly cry "Kamerade"] 

 From the cowering Hun who feared the blade; 



We marched them down through the oozing mud. 

 With the dead piled high, congealed in blood. 

 Those fiends of hell, they paved the way 

 From the conquered ridge in suits of grey; 



But no one knows how the ridge was won; 

 Save those who faced the hated Hun 

 And our pals who rest beneath yon sod 

 Who lie in peace at rest with God. 



In the silent depth of the Flanders mud 

 Made sacred by their own heart's blood 

 God rest their souls, and Heaven keep 

 Their loved ones, waiting across the deep." 



Proc, Sig. 5 



