The Ensign and the Plank

You've pulled a man from the freezing sea all black with ship's oil fuel
You've cleaned him off, and see his wounds and wondered what to do,
You see the whiteness of his ribs where steam has skinned him too.
The guilt you feel when you look at him feeling glad it isn't you
And all you have to ease his pain is aspirin and 'goo.'

You fear to look him in the eye for the question you know will be there
The answer you know is certain death, and there's nothing more you can do.
You light him a fag, and give him your tot as he looks for the rest of his crew.
Then you lay him out on the iron deck knowing that's his lot
Briefly wondering if you did aright by giving him your tot.

For the rest of the watch, with a sail maker's palm with needle and with thread
You sew him up in canvas with the rest of that night's dead.
With a dummy shell between their feet, making certain that they will sink
You sit and sew till the morning's glow, amid the mess and stink.
By dawn's grey light you carry them aft, to the ensign and the plank.
And the hands off watch gather round all bleary eyed and dank.

Then the skipper with his bible says a sailor's prayer
Our father which art in heaven (we hope you're really there).
One by one the dead are gone slid from the greasy plank
A second's pause and then a splash, they sink beneath the main.

The hands go forward, feeling chill, thinking of those that were slain
with a certain knowledge in a while we'll do it all again.
Each one being still alive, breathes a silent prayer of thanks
Wondering, with a cold dark fear, will I be next on the plank?

Petty Officer Stanley Kirby

This poem was introduced to me by his nephew at the launch of Heroes. (From a new book of war poems, Heroes. - November 2011) - DR

A poem in memory of Piper Bill Millin

Tony Church writes occasional verse and is a member of the St. Andrews Pipe Band of Hamble Le Rice. [Hampshire, UK]
On 4th/5th June this year [2011] there is a "Pipefest" on Sword Beach,Normandy, to commemorate Bill Millin, the D Day Piper who died last year, raising funds for a statue in his memory.
Tony Church composed this verse, partly because Bill, piper to Brigadier Lord Lovat, embarked for the D-Day Landings from the Hamble river.

Piper Bill

(The legend of Bill Millin, the D-Day Piper)

The sighing surf on sand abounds, and seabirds call, the only sounds
At break of summers day, and yet, within the hour men will have met
Their destiny as war’s shrill chatter ends this tranquil scene. The clatter
Of machine guns spit their hate, as landing craft nose in to grate
Against the shingle to disgorge their human load who wait to charge
Into oncoming deathly hail, but never faltering, nerves taut, pale
Faced, leaping down into the cold wet breakers, seeking firm foothold.

Struggling forward, arms raised clear to gain refuge ahead, so near
And yet seeming so far away as spiteful guns traverse and spray
The killing ground that lies ahead, already littered with the dead
And dying who would never see this bitter, bloody victory.
Then faintly, through the deafening din, an alien sound is heard, the thin
Melodious wailing cry of highland pipes, though bullets fly
Around him, he is unscathed still. Thus starts the tale of Piper Bill.

Bill, who piped for Brigadier Lord Lovat, raised a special cheer
When, leaving on the previous day, took up his pipes, began to play
“Road to the Isles”, as, leaving Hamble river for this costly gamble,
Lifting spirits of the men, calling, cheered and cheered again,
Who as the Solent slipped away, all knew that on the following day
They’d face their own worst fears and doubts, prayed that when it came about
They would stand firm and conquer fear to face the perils that appeared.

And now, amid the smoke and roar of high explosives, Bill endures
The hail of death, which all around leaves him untouched, while yet the sound
Of “Highland Laddie” fills the air as fingers on the chanter dare
To still defy the lethal storm, this awesome hell in all its forms.
Yet death and wholesale demolition, backdrop to this exhibition
Of the art of Scottish piping, even with the bullets sniping,
Will not quiet this hardy Scot, surviving mortar shell and shot.

He marches at the waters edge, still playing, able still to dredge
From deep within his mortal soul the courage to maintain and hold
Himself upright despite the urge to run for safety, then emerge
When all is still and quiet again, escape the trauma and the pain.
But Bill is made of sterner stuff, clutching his pipes he starts to puff
And fill the bag, then with a squeeze, his hands again with practiced ease
Launch into yet another air, lifting spirits everywhere.

And so the legend now is born, as Bill continues to perform
Beyond this strip of golden sand known as Sword Beach, where many men
Have fallen, sacrificed their all in answering their country’s call,
But in this page of history this part of France will always be
Where Highland Bagpipes did their part with inspiration, and gave heart
To all who witnessed Bill that day, who, when he crossed that beach to play,
With all his great panache and poise, gave the Highland Pipes their voice.

Tony Church

Ode to the full moon during an "alert", 1942

Full moon, brilliant, all-revealing, quiescent,
Spirit of silver silence, soul of night,
I have waited since the first pale crescent
Of your nascent beauty touched the world with light;
I have watched the envious stars grow dimmer;
Orion’s girdle faintly glimmer,
Fading beyond your fair translucency.
And, now, the earth, resplendent, caught in dreams,
The incarnation of those long desires,
Her woods aflame with lambent fires,
Her diaphanous streams
Transcended by a deep tranquillity….

Thus I, the poet, extol with eloquence
The full moon’s loveliness
And light,
Her calm magnificence;
Dreams of a happy lover!
How, then, can I confess
The beauty hides a cold malevolence,
A hideous, furtive hate?
That, in the myriad pathways of the night,
Soon Death will hover,
Death indiscriminate?
Bodies, fearful now, will cringe and press
Close to the heart of earth;
That Hell will burst through Heaven, the wild, mad cry,
A devil’s scream of terrifying mirth,
As foul destruction thunders down the sky;
A crashing, cataclysmic violence
That shatters babies at their hour of birth,
Dispassionately, age and innocence!

Moon, ally of hate and man’s vile desecrations,
No more the world will know your madrigals,
But, be the symbol of the shame of nations
Until the last star falls.

Namur King

Namur King 1915-68

NAMUR KING was born in Blackwood (South Wales) on the day British Army won the battle at theBelgian town of Namur. Hence the name. (5 of his brothers all named John had previously died of TB.)

In 1939, at 24 years old, he volunteered for the British Expeditionary Force to France. he saw action as Da dispatch rider and driver, coming under enemy fire. He was vacuated at Dunkirk.

Subsequently he was stationed in the Falkland Islands, as S.America was under threat of Japanese attack.

More poems by Namur King may be found on the Remembrance page.

Bloody War  -  The Cause

Tom Walker, now almost 90 (June 2010), served in the Royal Navy in World War Two. He wrote many poems and is particularly proud of this one since few war poems address the causes of war.

When greed sups with the devil
And principles are shed
When power is corrupted
And truth stands on its head
When fear pervades the confused mind
And fools are easy led
When reason is a prisoner
The bell tolls for the dead.

Tom Walker

George Fraser Gallie – Poems discovered amongst his papers in 2009

It’s rare to find a war poem, such as this first poem, expressing pleasure. George Fraser Gallie 1922-2006 wrote a number of poems whilst serving in Italy and North Africa with the Royal Engineers around 1943 when he was 21. They have recently been discovered amongst his papers by his son.

The poems below are two of several that were mailed home to his mother who lived in Penmaenmawr, North Wales.

In the first poem there is a reference to 'Craig Mor'. This was the family home, and the 'Hut' was the seaside hut in the area where his peacetime holidays were spent.

A Voyager’s Song

I drove through the desert of dusty tracks
Through many a Sicilian street.
Past acres of vineyards and Orchards and flax
And mile after mile of red poppies and wheat.

I drove past the Sphinx and the Cairo zoo,
And remembered the trips that I used to do.
And I thought of my friends
And I thought of ‘Craig Mor’

And the old Austin 10
And the hut on the shore.
I lay on the sands of Syracuse
in the heat of a Mediterranean noon

I nakedly swam in the crystal hues
Of the silvery sea by the August moon.
I dived in the foam of the breaking wave
And remembered the spots where I used to bathe.

And I thought of my friends
And I thought of ‘Craig Mor’
Of the rattling stones
And the hut on the shore.

I sauntered down the rutted track
Which wound its way past white-washed farms,
I felt the sun on my naked back
The Italian sun on my face and arms,

I smoked my pipe as I went my way
And remembered the pleasures of yesterday.
And I thought of my friends
And the hut on the shore,

And I thought of ‘Craig Malin’
‘Cregneish’ and ‘Craig Mor’

George Fraser Gallie 1943 aged 21.

Rocca San Giovanni
 
It is quiet here now, the valley is silent.
Only the birds and the stream have their noise,
The twittering, bubbling sweet sounds of nature.
Apart from this – silence which nothing destroys.
 
The smell is a faint one of morning and pine trees,
Of bracken and water, of woodland and stream,
The sight is of rushes, of mill house and lime trees.
The feel is of peacefulness sweet as a dream.
 
But at one time this valley, this valley of heaven,
Became a most torturous valley of hell.
For the fighting was bitter, the Hun held on grimly,
Regardless of losses, and many men fell.
 
For the British came north and the silence was shattered,
By rifle – machine gun – trench mortar – grenade.
The Messerschmitt diving bought sickening terror,
The valley vibrated with Death’s serenade.
 
But the British advanced and the valley was taken,
The fighting moved northward as Gerry moved back,
And the only remains to give proof of the fighting,
Are freshly dug graves at the side of the track.
 
Again it is peaceful, the valley is silent,
Only the birds and the stream have their noise,
The twittering, bubbling sounds of nature.
Apart from this – silence which nothing destroys.
 
George Fraser Gallie, November, 1943.

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Leon Adams

The God of War

Thoughts on the Italian Invasion of Ethiopia


Mars has again descended from his throne

To ravage earth with bloody human strife;

To break away the bonds of peace and love

And send one nation warring with another,

As sparrows combat o'er a trifling crumb;

To wash the verdant earth with sickening blood

And herald death into a million homes.

The fields are strewn with reeking, dying men

Filled with the thoughts and hopes of worlds gone mad.

The future? Famine! Poverty! And Strife!

Wars are made by men who seek to line

Their itchy pockets with dishonoured loot.

God sighs. Life goes on.


Leon Adams

St. Catharines, Ontario, 11 November, 1935

Threnody of the Nations

We have hated and fought,

We have murdered and fled,

But the peace that we sought

Is alone with the dead.


We have offered ourselves

On the altar of greed;

We have poisoned our sons

With our venomous creed.


We have bombed and destroyed;

We have raped and diseased,

Till the earth has grown dark

With our war-obsequies.


We have sung our wild song

In the ghouls' jubilee,

And, O Love, once again

We have crucified Thee.


Leon Adams
Lennoxville, Quebec, May 16, 1940.

Tea at Olivier's


We shall have tea at Olivier's and eat

patisserie francaise

served by a waitress

in blue dress,

white apron, and

white cap.



We shall sip hot tea

and chat about

the battle of Britain,

the latest German move,

our men,

our lovers,

and our hopes.



We shall drink tea

while bombs tear out the hearts

of twisted men;

we shall eat

patisserie francaise

while they are tasting

Death.

Leon Adams

Sherbrooke, Quebec, 29 November 1940.

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Curtis D. Bennett

Harbingers

(From Normandy)

Frail, old men with weathered hands stand,
Alone, lost on the wide sandy beaches,
Each turning back his rusty mind clock
Piercing the veil of memories
When they were young, anxious and terrified,
Boy-soldiers in battle fighting for their lives,
Experiencing the gamut of fear and death
Watching friends died horribly,
Scarring their young minds.forever.

Blue beaches murmur waves
Splashing old, rusted war remnants.
A sea bird flaps wet beaches
Where the sea swells and crashes gently on wet sand,
Retreating back erasing all footprints.
The men stare the distance,
At blurred memories through tears.
Trickling down their cheeks dripping softly,
To merge with the sea like before.

They came to say good-bye to their friends,
To a confused past which has no answers.
The graveyard crosses watch in stony silence,
Stoically from tree shadows on soft meadows,
In eternal military formation fronted by small, flags,
Wind-shivering in the hush of silence.
Marching the stillness in quiet precision
Protecting the young soldiers buried there,
Frozen in time and death

The old veterans stand awkward, unsure with the dead.
Experiencing those familiar, dreaded, sick feelings
Of remorse, regret, blame, and fault for what happened
To their generation who gave so much for their country.
They have gathered one final time
To share history, blame and guilt for all eternity
Banding together as one, they embrace the moment,
Experiencing once more, this terrible place of
memories.

And the same salt sea air, still blows up from the beach
Once inhaled in panic by all the young fighting men
Mired in the beach mud conducting the senseless slaughter of children,
Trapped forever in the obscenity and vulgarity of war,
The pain returns for a moment, overwhelming them,
It hangs suspended, as real as yesterday, then drifts away and mellows away.
Now time, history, and denial blessedly blur the horror and inhumanity
Of what they did; of what was done to them.

The War President from America
Mounts the podiums to prattle the virtues of war,
Attempting to rewrite history, to deny war's reality,
He exploits the moment for selfish means,
To justify his war as a noble cause, ignoring its brutality,
Thoughtlessly attempting to validate, substantiate, and authenticate,

War's vicious crimes against civilization
Turning the senseless slaughter of innocents
Into a righteous cause, to be proud of and condone..
Turning war into a sound-bite of empty words
Of praise, blessing, glory, and accomplishment.
Something to be proud of, to revel in,
To relish with sacred, biblical rhetoric
From a shallow, self-centered political opportunist.
Whose meanings and oratory become quickly lost,
His words floating away with the wind, out of relevance, out of touch
Out of context, drifting, beyond the restive crowds.
To fall useless and disappear, in the cold, impassionate mud.
Falling deaf on the ears of the dead warriors
The ultimate, wasted sacrifice, from another generation

It is at this moment, the old veterans
Eyes mist up, overflow, and tears flow shamelessly

As they at last comprehend all their sacrifice, all their pain,
All their sorrow, all their suffering, all the death,
Did not change or alter a thing, was not a lesson learned
Nor an experience not to be repeated..
Realizing their friend's painful, brutal, ultimate sacrifice
Was only a necessary evil of Mankind's political process
Which has never changed, and never will,
For each generation brings anew to the world
Its own self-styled madness of universal death, tragedy and suffering,
In wars to be fought by the young, bright-eyed children of the world
Unknowingly raised as sacrificial lambs of slaughter,
To be killed and gone forever, for nothing.
That is why, all Veterans cry.

In this hallowed place of the dead
The lonely graves of war's youthful victims
Who died for a thought,
an idea, for a cause
Promulgated by selfish, insane men in power
These war graves and cemeteries are Harbingers
Of the eternal, mindless death cycle of war.
Young men killed by politicians' words and mindless acts,
Their promise and existence forever ended too soon.
Now, forever sleep beneath the green muffled grass
Sharing the earth with the youth and victims of past wars,
Too numerous to count, to numbing to contemplate,
The dead, as powerless and impotent as the now living
To change or alter, or detour the inexorable course of madmen,
They patiently wait for the next generation to join them.

Curtis D. Bennett

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Jan Theuninck

Stalag Zehn B

the feldwebel became a general

the campdoctor , a professor

and we the jews - it's banal

we stayed jewish - no error .

Jan Theuninck

Shoa

wandering jew,damned jew

and no words on them are forbidden

suspected of crimes and treason

they have been put in jail

they have been tortured and murdered

in the name of an insane idea

and now - more than ever -

who is next, please ?

Jan Theuninck

Mauthausen 186

Stone by stone

we made a step

Step by step

we went to heaven.

Jan Theuninck

Zuydcote

the sun shines

on the dune

the bunkers hide

the undesirable

all of them lose

their innocence

lost blood

on the beach

the sea...

guilty !

Jan Theuninck

Papirac

The real post-war power

is still the one of the "Uebermenschen"

and this "democracy" can't be realized

but on the back of the "Untermenschen" !

Jan Theuninck

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Clare Stewart

"Wish me luck...”

She waits
In the late twilight,
Shivering in the wind
That scoops up
Over the lip
Of the chalk cliff.

She waits,
Listening to the
Throb of the
Wimpy’s engines
As the squadron nears
Her look-out post.

She waits
For a glimpse of a
Gauntleted hand
Waving at her eye level,
The hand that caressed
Now ready to trigger the tail guns.

She waits,
Keeping watch
Ears straining to catch
The returning flight,
Waiting to count the returned
And the missing.

She waits
Past the dawn...
Waits for the missing...
Waits...
And waits...
And waits.
Clare Stewart

20 October, 2002

Clare Stewart is the daughter of a Second World War Canadian soldier and a British War Bride, and was born in Canada after the war. She is very proud of the service her family has given to their countries since the time of the American Revolution.


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Hitler was a killer

(I do not know what you think of this but wrote it as a child , for my granddad, it has always stuck in my mind it was written in 1987 I thought I would finally share it with someone.)

Hitler was a Killer , who killed our British men
Upon the Beaches of Dunkirk He killed so Many Men

Upon the mighty Battlefield he never showed a tear
He sent them off to prison camps which filled them full of fear

He Whipped the Jew he gassed the Jew until so many were dead

He fought to be the Führer but his path was hell instead .

Steve Petch at the age of 11