Judge, 1918-02-02 · page 36 of 36
Judge — February 2, 1918 — page 36: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a WWI soldier's poem celebrating cigarettes as essential morale-boosters during combat. Written by "Corporal Jack Turner," "Fags" (British slang for cigarettes) describes the brutal conditions of trench warfare—cold, mud, shelling, fear, and exhaustion—and argues that cigarettes provide crucial psychological relief. The text emphasizes that soldiers can endure deprivation (no food, supplies, or comfort) if they have cigarettes. Lines like "it isn't half so hopeless if you've got a cigarette" and "I'd hate to think of soldiering without a cigarette" frame smoking as essential to survival. The ornate border illustrations depict chaotic battle scenes—explosions, soldiers in combat, casualties. Together, image and text constitute **cigarette advertising disguised as patriotic poetry**—a common WWI marketing tactic that associated the product with military service, masculinity, and national sacrifice. The "Murad" brand name anchors this as a commercial promotion for Turkish cigarettes.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
URAD SN THE 4E TURKISH CIGARETTE FAGS By Corporal Jack Turner When the cold is making ice cream of the When yo ing like a jelly and you your clothes and boots and blanket raked from Hell to Breakf. ind upon the narrow of your bones, feet are dead as stones, ind your rifle and your kit, dugout where you sit ‘The water lies in fithy pools, six inches deep or more: Th seems coki and mis rable and all ¢ You'll always get t When you're | ind a gun, When the bullets whine above your head. s When your eyes 1 for ever You'd bet your A shiver runs along your You'll stick the fin Ul make e world is wet, a cigarette. nd sputter on the ground, your ears for every sound— somewhere near; uch like fear; a little bet You'd feel a wi tter if you had a cigarette. When n the bust When the parapet gues up in chunks, a settles d wn in dust, When the ling thro’ the air, Til it tans ot ul the dugout isn’t there; When the aii ail of dust/and smoke And you think y ed for golden and seraps of steel, and noise rowns and other Heavenly joys, When your nerves are all 2 nble, and your brain is all a-fret— It isn’t half so hopeles: u've got a When you're waiting for the whist You bluff yourself, it's Jots of rette your foot is on the step. ime you're hep To the fact t ay ne ‘fore you've gone a dozen feet, And you wonder w nd your thoughts are far from sweet: Then you think about a little grave, with R. L. P. on top, And you know you've got to go across altho" you'd like to stop: When your backbe as water, and you're bathed in icy sweat, Why. you'll feel a lot more cheerful if you puff your cigarett when you stop a good one, an vu feel as weak you know that y When some old wa: We can do without MacConachies, and Bu When Fr u tire keeps the ra without our g almost—tho' I d fut I'd hate to think of so! her bearers come n and gum: usand breaks, $a pup— worth living yet, hard tack comicbooks.com