From "Marconi Service News" (March, 1919), p. 23:

"It is now Christmas morning. Christmas of 1918, somewhere in France....Of our detachment of 52 at Garden City, 18 have been killed at the front, 20 have been wounded, 9 have been decorated by the French or Americans, 3 are prisoners in Germany, 1 is interned in Switzerland, and I have been permanently hurt in an aeroplane accident. Quite a record for our detachment, don't you think?

...Here is a new song I'll sing you on arrival:


Beside a Belgian water-tank, on a cold and wintry day,
Beneath his busted bi-plane, a poor observer lay.
His pilot lay on a telegraph pole, and he was almost dead,
While he listened to the last words the poor observer said:

Oh, I'm going to a better land, a land that's always bright,
Where cocktails grow on bushes, and you stay up all the night.
You never have to work at all — not even change your socks,
And sparkling "Vauvray" on each side,
A trickling down the rocks.

(Vauvray is a famous wine of Touraine, upon which officers and soldiers subsist during periods of depression and homesickness. It possesses the quality of rendering the person indifferent to sadness, reverses, cracked skulls and blackened eyes, traffic, etc., sometimes even to bodily discomforts, for frquently persons after drinking this magical potion have been found reposing upon hard paving blocks, apparently in sound and refreshing sleep.)

***

Reaching farther back into my archives:

From Henry Mayers, "Ye A.E.F. Hymnal" (Nancy, France, 1918-19), p.6:

BESIDE A BELGIAN WATER TANK

               I

Beside a Belgian water tank
One cold and wintry day,
Beneath his busted Biplane,
The young observer lay;
His pilot hung from a telegraph pole
But not entirely dead
And he listened to the last words
This young observer said.

CHORUS

"Oh, I'm going to a better land
Where everything is bright,
Where handouts grow on bushes
And they stay out late at night.
You do not have to work at all
Nor even change your socks,
And drops of Johnny Walker
Come trickling thru the rocks."

                II

The pilot breathed his last few gasps,
Before he passed away;
"I ll tell you how it happened -
The flippers fell away.
The motor would'nt work at all,
The ailerons flivered too;
A shot went through the gas tank
And let the gas leak thru."

                III

Their spirits left their bodies
And as they upward flew
Said the Pilot to the Observer,
I'll tell you what we'll do -
We'll get Old Pete to give us wings
And back to earth we'll fly
And h[a]unt those gol-darned Ki-wis
Until the day they die.


[Kiwi = nonflying officer]

****
"Evening Public Ledger" (Phila.) (Dec. 11, 1919), Sports Extra, p.10:

"Clipped from Flights and Landings, the newspaper edited at Seventh A.I.C. It is by H. R. Bowman, who delivered the original the Ninety-seventh Squadron show. ... It is entitled "The Dying Grease-Hound," which, we are informed, means an expiring aviation mechanic. We wish we had space for more of it:

My Mademoiselle in Clermont
My face no more will see,
Those wild, wild girls in Aulnat
I know they'll think of me,
And when they call the muster roll
They'll call my name in vain
For I've eaten my last mess of beans,
Drunk my last cup of rain.

I'm going to a better land
Where everything is bright,
Where Vichy passes grow on trees
And you can stay out every night.
Where the M.P.'s will not bother you,
And you needn't change your sox
And little streams of Cognac
Come trickling down the rocks.

[A.I.C. = Aviation Instruction Center; cup of rain = cup of weak (army) coffee]

******


From "Les Voyageurs Song Book" (Ann Arbor, Mich.: Minnie Maes Root, 1926), pp. 42-43:

                   BELGIAN WATER TANK

Beside a Belgian water tank
On a bright mid-summer's day,
Beneath his shattered aeroplane
The young observer lay;
His pilot hung on a telephone pole.
He was completely dead.
As we listened to the dying words
The young observer said.

"We're going to a better land,
"Where everything is bright,
"Where whiskey grows on bushes,
"Play poker every night;
"We'll never do a bit of work,
"Just sit around and sing;
"Oh, grave where is thy victory,
"Oh, death, where is thy sting."

The gates of hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling,
For you, not me;
I hear the angels sing-a-ling-a-ling
Not you, for me;
Oh, death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling,
Oh, grave, thy victory;
Ting-a-ling-aling, sting-a-ling-a-ling,
Sing-a-ling-a-ling for me.

Usually it's the "bells" of hell that go ting-a-ling-a-ling. As here, from the Melbourne "Argus" (Jan. 30, 1943), p.2:

                BESIDE A PAPUAN WATERFALL

Beside a Papuan waterfall, one bright September day,
Beside his shattered Kittyhawk a young PO he lay,
And as he hung on a coconut tree not yet completely dead,
Oh, listen to the very last words, the young PO he said:

I'm going to a better land where everything is bright,
Where whisky grows on coconut trees, they play poker every night,
There is no work to do all day, just sit around and sing,
Il y beaucoup women, too. Oh, death, where is thy sting!

Oh, death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling,
Where, grave, thy victory?
The bells of hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling
For you, but not for me.
I asked her would she marry, marry me,
But all that she could say,
Was ting-a-ling-a-ling, oh, ting-a-llng-a-ling,
Ting-a-ling-a-ling all day.

[P.O. = pilot officer]

There are several more recent but comparable versions.