It may be that you know him. A slim and likely kid; Red-headed, tall, and soft of speech and glance. He never took a prize at school ( his talents always hid ), And yet he's got a medal from the Government of France!
He did n't kill a lot of men; He never injured one; He did n't hold a trench alone; He never manned a gun;
He drove an ambulance — that's all; But those above him knew He'd take it into hell and back If he was ordered to!
That night ( he'd been right on the job For twenty hours or more ) They telephoned again for him — And as he cranked — he swore.
Half dead for sleep, he drove too far, Straight into No Man's Land, And there he gathered up four men Who did n't understand
Or care what happened.... Then a chap Sagging with gobs of mud He shoved into his throbbing car That smelled of drugs and blood.
The other roared, but Briggs, sleep-deaf, Stared at the moon on high — ‘ Twas like some spent star-shell glued on A blue-black, tired sky —
And did n'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 did n'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 does n't like to have you talk about the thing he did — And yet he's got a medal from the Government of France.
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