A bunch of Gi’s were whooping it up
		In a pub the other morn
		And drinking toasts with each lifted cup
		Of beer and ale and corn.

		When in walked a stranger with the saddest eyes
		That ever we did see.
		To look at him was to surmise
		A life of misery.

		When up spoke I with questioning tone
		Why do you look so low?
		The stranger sighed and gave a moan
		And told this tale of woe.

		Listen closely while I tell
		Of sleepless nights and days
		Of loud-mouthed guys who shout and yell
		In fifteen hundred ways.

		"Tis run by seargeant sad of face
		And Schaefer is his name.
		Oh why in all this empty space
		Did he this loud hut claim?

		One day a stranger came inside
		To speak to someone here,
		"A first three-grader!" someone cried.
		He fled in mortal fear.

		And when at night all sound has ceased
		And all was quiet and still
		"The area must be policed"
		Was echoed from each hill.

		A box we had, a goodly thing
		But sad for me to say
		Was taken from us in the Spring
		And carried far away.

		Long hours we cried "Don’t take the box!"
		But take the box they did.
		The place I sat to don my socks
		Was taken with no lid.

		And then one night when quiet reigned
		Full fifteen lights shone out.
		"A jailbreak!" someone screamed and gained
		A long and lusty shout.

		The poor CQ who came along
		To see what caused the noise
		Was greeted with this racket strong
		And fled with chastened poise.

		Alas for us the night that we
		Had all the lights put out,
		And Palmer came in bounding glee
		To put the blinds about.

		From end to end, the poor guy ran
		To find who called his name
		"You’ll hear from me," his voice began,
		Then faded like a flame.

		Alas, a shoe had caught him square
		His teeth lay on the floor
		And screaming once he left us there
		And bolted out the door.

		"Who’s got my darts?"  "Who used my brush?"
		Are famous cries by now.
		That hut was always first to rush
		When rev’lle raised its row.

		Three times they slept in early dawn
		While sergeants tore their hair,
		And CQ’s with a face forlorn
		Were forced to find us there.

		So now you know why I’m so blue
		And why my eyes are bagged.
		Oh, brother, what I’ve been through
		Is like a husband nagged.

		Oh save me from hut fifty-one
		Where no one sleeps at night.
		Where every noise is twice outdone
		Where buddies always fight.

		You’ve heard my tale of woe, so now
		You know why I’m so blue.
		I swear to you a solemn vow
		I have not lied to you.

		A hush was on that pub when he
		Had finished with his tale
		And as he crept out wearily
		Dead silence did prevail.

		Then someone raised a glass and said
		"A toast to what was done, 
		And save us from that fate we dread
		That hut called fifty-one."

		Where no one ever sleeps at night
		Where horror always reigns
		O save us from that awful plight
		We’d rather be in chains.

		So heed this warning, all of you.
		Don’t ever get to be
		A member of that motley crew
		That misses reveille.

		Where first three-graders fear to walk
		Where CQ’s fear to tread
		Where sleepless nights each inmate stalk
		While lying in his bed.

		Just heed these words and you will find
		That hut life can be sweet,
		And you will have peace of mind
		Until the last retreat… .

--composed in July, 1944, in Toddington, England, by Bernard L Ford, Company B, 3104th Signal Service Battalion. It was written when a large wooden box that was used by the members of his hut was taken from them in order to build a a stage for a USO troup that was to appear. Originally untitled, it was titled by Gregory Cronin who was the culprit who took the box.

             The ETO is now my home
		And so I write this little poem
		In honor of a dish that we
		Are fed each morn at reveille.
		
		Those golden yellow powdered eggs
		The ones for which each soldier begs
		Are oft the target of much hate
		When they are heaped upon a plate.

		My mess-kit shudders when the cook
		To whom we give a dirty look
		Reaches in his GI pot
		And comes up with a mess of rot

		That look like eggs
		The kind we know
		But sad to state
		It is not so.

		For when we raise a spoonful up
		We quickly grab for our mess cup
		And drown the ugly-tasting dregs
		Of those unholy powdered eggs.

		It’s good for you the cooks all cry.
		Just eat them all and by and by
		You’ll be the soldier we adore
		A tribute to the Signal Corps.

		Day in day out we’re fed these yolks
		Until our minds are tired of jokes.
		We pass them by and hope to win,
		But Lo! The salad has them in.

		Amid the shredded cabbage leaves
		We see the sight which our heart grieves
		For nestling there in all our eats
		Are bits of egg we thought we’d beat.

		You cannot get away, you see.
		They haunt your menu constantly.
		If you don’t eat them first you’ll find
		They’ll soon appear in another kind.

		"They give you strength ," is cried by some,
		But if those few would only come
		And eat with us for one full week
		We’re sure their voices soon would squeak

		Oh spare me from those powdered eggs
		The kind for which each soldier begs
		And if this war is ever won
		By those who do a job well-done,

		We’re sure that they would like to know
		The thing that helped them strike the blow
		That swept the Nazi from his legs
		Those nauseating powdered eggs.

--composed at Toddington, England, approximately July, 1944, by Bernard L Ford, Company B, 3104th Signal Service Battalion.