DIY History | Transcribe | World War I Diaries and Letters | Robert Morriss Browning correspondence to Mabel C. Williams, January-March 1918 | 1918-02-28 Robert M. Browning to Dr. Mabel C. Williams Page 3

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Robert Morriss Browning correspondence to Mabel C. Williams, January-March 1918

1918-02-28 Robert M. Browning to Dr. Mabel C. Williams Page 3 - ""Murad: The Turkish Cigarette""

Murad the Turkish Cigarette
Fags by Corporal Jack Turner
What tobacco really means to a soldier has been voiced in more poetry - good bad and indifferent, but always heart felt than almost any other subject of the war. Here is a poem from the British army which became so popular abroad that it has been re-printed and widely distributed :
When the cold is making ice cream of the marrow of your bones,
When you're shaking like a jelly and your feet are dead as stones,
When your clothes and boots and blankets, and your rifle and your kit,
Are soaked from Hell to Breakfast, and the dugout where you sit
Is leaking like a basket and upon the muddy floor
The water lies in filthy pools, six inches deep or more,
Tho' life seems cols and mis'rable and all the world is wet,
You'll always get thro' somehow if you've got a cigarette.
When you're lying in a listening post way out betond the wire
While a blasted Hun behind a gun is doing rapid fire
When the bullets whine above your head and sputter on the groud
When your eyes are strained for every move, your ears for every sound--
You'd bet your life a Hun patrol is prowling somewhere near
A shiver runs along your spine that's very much like fear;
You'll stick it to the finish - but, I'll make a little bet,
You'd feel a whole lot better if you had
a cigarette.
When Fritz is starting something and his
guns are on the bust,
When the parapet goes up in chunks, and
settles down in dust,
When the roly-poly " rum-jar" comes a
wobbling through the air,
'Til it lands upon a dugout-and the dug-out isn't there;
When the air is full of dust, and smoke,
and scraps of steel, and noise,
And you think you're booked for golden
crowns and other Heavenly joys,
When your nerves are all a-tremble and
your brain is all a-fret-
It isn't half so hopeless it you've got a
cigarette.
When you're waiting for the whistle, and
your foot is on the step.
You bluff yourself it's lots of fun, and
all the time, you're hep
To the fact that you may stop one 'fore
you've gone a dozen feet.
And you wonder what it feels like, and
your thoughts are far from sweet ;
Then you think about a little grave with
R.I.P. on top,
And you know you've got to go across -
altho' you'd like to stop ;
When your backbone's limp as water,
and you're bathed in icy sweat,
Why, you'll feel a lot more cheerful if
you puff your cigarette.
Then, when you stop a good one, and the
stretcher bearers come
And patch you up with strings, and
splints and bandages, and gum;
When you think you've got a million
wounds and fifty thousand breaks,
And your body's just a blasted sack
packed full of pains and aches ;
Then you feel you've reached the finish,
and you're sure your number's up,
And you feel as weak as Belgian beer, and
helpless as a pup
But you know that you're not down and
out, that life's worth living yet,
When some old war-wise Red Cross guy
slips you a cigarette,.
We can do without MacConachies, and
Bully, and hard tack,
When Fritz's curtain fire keeps the ration parties back ;
We can do without our greatcoats, and
our socks, and shirts, and shoes,
We might almost - tho' I doubt it - get
along without our booze :
We can do without " K. R. & O:," and
"Military Law,"
We can beat the ancient Israelites at
making bricks, sans straw ;
We can do without a lot of things and
still win out, you bet,
But I'd hate to think of soldiering, without a cigarette.

Saving...

Murad the Turkish Cigarette Fags by Corporal Jack Turner What tobacco really means to a soldier has been voiced in more poetry - good bad and indifferent, but always heart felt than almost any other subject of the war. Here is a poem from the British army which became so popular abroad that it has been re-printed and widely distributed : When the cold is making ice cream of the marrow of your bones, When you're shaking like a jelly and your feet are dead as stones, When your clothes and boots and blankets, and your rifle and your kit, Are soaked from Hell to Breakfast, and the dugout where you sit Is leaking like a basket and upon the muddy floor The water lies in filthy pools, six inches deep or more, Tho' life seems cols and mis'rable and all the world is wet, You'll always get thro' somehow if you've got a cigarette. When you're lying in a listening post way out betond the wire While a blasted Hun behind a gun is doing rapid fire When the bullets whine above your head and sputter on the groud When your eyes are strained for every move, your ears for every sound-- You'd bet your life a Hun patrol is prowling somewhere near A shiver runs along your spine that's very much like fear; You'll stick it to the finish - but, I'll make a little bet, You'd feel a whole lot better if you had a cigarette. When Fritz is starting something and his guns are on the bust, When the parapet goes up in chunks, and settles down in dust, When the roly-poly " rum-jar" comes a wobbling through the air, 'Til it lands upon a dugout-and the dug-out isn't there; When the air is full of dust, and smoke, and scraps of steel, and noise, And you think you're booked for golden crowns and other Heavenly joys, When your nerves are all a-tremble and your brain is all a-fret- It isn't half so hopeless it you've got a cigarette. When you're waiting for the whistle, and your foot is on the step. You bluff yourself it's lots of fun, and all the time, you're hep To the fact that you may stop one 'fore you've gone a dozen feet. And you wonder what it feels like, and your thoughts are far from sweet ; Then you think about a little grave with R.I.P. on top, And you know you've got to go across - altho' you'd like to stop ; When your backbone's limp as water, and you're bathed in icy sweat, Why, you'll feel a lot more cheerful if you puff your cigarette. Then, when you stop a good one, and the stretcher bearers come And patch you up with strings, and splints and bandages, and gum; When you think you've got a million wounds and fifty thousand breaks, And your body's just a blasted sack packed full of pains and aches ; Then you feel you've reached the finish, and you're sure your number's up, And you feel as weak as Belgian beer, and helpless as a pup But you know that you're not down and out, that life's worth living yet, When some old war-wise Red Cross guy slips you a cigarette,. We can do without MacConachies, and Bully, and hard tack, When Fritz's curtain fire keeps the ration parties back ; We can do without our greatcoats, and our socks, and shirts, and shoes, We might almost - tho' I doubt it - get along without our booze : We can do without " K. R. & O:," and "Military Law," We can beat the ancient Israelites at making bricks, sans straw ; We can do without a lot of things and still win out, you bet, But I'd hate to think of soldiering, without a cigarette.