Huddled beneath the sunless day, dripping and drear the Forest lay:

The water of Autumn’s endless rain lay puddled on the soaked terrain,

And filled the brook whose muddy flow Poured down the Vale of Charlevaux

From the crest above, where tree and vine, hid the grim gunned Giselher Line,

The Boche crept down, whenever he could, to hurl grenades from the tanglewood:

And upward hurl derisive hoots, as our planes dropped mis-aimed parachutes

With food and medicines–all to go to the jeering Germans’ hands below.

Probing the woods, to south and west, patrols were out on a fruitless quest.

They found some foes who fired and ran; and Whittlesey’s runners, dead, to a man;

But never a live American; No friend in olive dressed.

Each day new runners, in vain assay, died where the earlier runners lay;

And the Enemy Chief, to give him due, messaged, “I don’t want to murder you!”

Give up, and you will be treated well!” Which Whittlesey answered , “Go to Hell!”

The only messenger—only chance, to get relief for the trapped advance.

The other pigeon man was dead, Tollefson with a shattered head;

And the other crate the pigeons fled, lay smashed on the face of France.

And thus forlorn, they tossed their plea into the air with Cher Ami.

He spiralled up—they held their breath—he circled over the scene of death—

Then out of the forest fire flew! The enemy saw him— well they knew

Of the reasons why he should be stayed, so they filled the air with a fusilade.

One of the bullets glancing low, hit his breast like a hammer blow,

Knocking him down to a limb, too weak—but to stroke his feathers with his beak.

And knowing not of his injured bone, they pelted his perch with stick and stone:

And shouted at him to make him fly from his place in the broken branches high—

Finally Richards climbed the tree, and reaching, shook off Cher Ami.

With tortured muscles flexed in pain the wounded bird took off again;

And towering now, from the beechen shade, he entered that awful enfilade.

Up, out of the loom of La Palette, the metal stream was fiercer yet;

But into that tearing torrent , still drove Cher Ami toward Binarville.

Buffeted, battered on either side; over under, the iron tide

Twisted the air he had to ride, across the Dead Man’s Hill.

Hunters who hunt the Bandtail dwell on the shot he carries, and carries well;

But none would choose a six inch shell as a load for a pigeon kill!

Whipped to the side and beaten back, he bounced, as a plane in a bracket flack;

And scarlet blood, whence a leg had been, streamed out like the jess of a Peregrine.

And of his eyes but one could see through its ruby ring of royalty;

The other from sightless socket, gone—but still the great wings drove him on;

With reach and drive, and never a rest, from the agony of his broken breast.

Below now lay the loud-mouthed guns; and in the West the setting sun’s

Last rays lighted the dirty sky, as he scanned the land with his only eye.

Far to the left lay Neuvilly; Its shattered spire he could see,

Mist-shrouded; and the lovely Aire flowing north in its valley fair.

And down the right the silver Aisne lay shining on the broad champaign:

Between the two the loft was plain and he was almost there.

But the will to fly was waning fast, when he broke the steady beat, at last;

And, pinions set, he hurtled down as the falcon stoops o’er Montfaucon;

But never a falcon, falling free, had need as great as Cher Ami,

When bathed in blood, his body soft fell on landing—of the loft.

The excited loftman found him there and got on the phone to Delaware;

And the shelling ceased—Coincident? For every command was innocent,

And none had fired the fatal shoot; had proof, and alibis to boot—

And Delaware One, at the Major’s trench, later laid it on the French.

And those who would cover eyed askance, the Major’s orders to advance,

On which his units moved, and took their famous stand along the Brook.

Charges were talked of, but too much the Press had told of the feat; and such

Was the glory in the States—In brief they gave the Major a Silver Leaf—

They hung a medal on Cher Ami, for sharing the common casualty,

Of which they both would surely die, but not in a common graveyard lie.