There's an S. O. S. behind the Lines
That feeds us shells and hardtack,
And guns and clothes and beans and things,
And heals our wounds and pain.
There's an S. O. S. across the seas
That knits for us and writes to us,
Buys bonds and whoops it up for us,
And cheers us on again.
There's an S. O. S. behind the Lines,
We could not do without it:
Just go and ask the Army,
If you'd know the reasons why.
There's an S. O. S. across the seas,
And if you ever doubt it,
Just go and ask a soldier,
Who will promptly black your eye.