I found these poems folded up very neatly & tucked into one of my Dad's
pocket diaries from the war. They look almost as if they were just put there yesterday.
He must've cut them out from the Anzio Beachhead News.
My Shanty by Sgt S.E. Babcock:
My window frame's a K ration box,
My stove's a five-gallon can;
My lights are made from coffee tins
Burning grease from the frying pan.
I built this shack in the mountains of Italy one day,
I built it out of mud and rocks
To keep shrapnel away.
I call it Home Sweet Home
Though it lacks steam heat and such;
There's only one thing it's needing
And that's a woman's touch!
A Dugout at Anzio by Lt Col Frank R. Drake:
It's not like a palace or villa ornate
With fence all around and a pretty white gate;
No path lined with roses approaches the door
To buoy up my spirits or lighten a chore.
The walls have no windows, the plumbing is nil.
I wake every morning with a cough or a chill;
The rain trickles in at a horrible rate,
Good God, was I destined to suffer this fate?
But, Brother, when Jerry is throwing them in,
And bombs crash around to add to the din,
I don't want a vine or a house with a door -
Just that little dugout so close to shore.
Adjustable Quarters by Pvt Ben Shud:
I think that I shall never see
A one man foxhole that won't hold three.
For when the guns begin to blast
No one runs around to ask;
"Is this my foxhole? The one I dug?
Or was it made by some other mug?"
Hurry the better! For all your worth,
And get protection from Mother Earth.
A wee bit crowded, yes siree
A one-man foxhole and in it three.
