Distant
Death and Imminent Ignorance
The heart sings a silent song,
For the soldiers far away,
A solemn tribute to the lives,
Of those that died today.
We do not feel their pain,
Or see the atrocities they saw.
It's our ignorance that justifies,
The futility that is war.
The heart cries the driest tear,
In contempt of our enemies' cause,
But I ask you would we feel the same?
If the ideals lost had been ours,
No man may look on unbiased,
On the fanatics of yesteryear,
But must the ideas we form tomorrow,
Be the source of more hatred and fear?
Carl P. Monaghan.
20/1/02
This poem is more about the ethics of war in general
than any particular conflict. Though I feel it can be more readily applied
to the more recent conflicts in the Gulf. - CPM
Back
to top of page
Introduction by Chris
North
June, July 04.
I am a retired British Army Royal
Engineers Bomb Disposal Officer, I left the army in 97 after 20 years service,
since then I have been working in war zones around the world, clearing
mines and explosive items and teaching and supervising others.
I served in the Army from 1977 to 1997,
first as an soldier in the Royal Engineers Parachute Squadron, with this
unit I served in Northern Ireland and also the Falklands war, then most
of the rest of my career was with the Royal Engineers Bomb Disposal Regiment.
I am married to my lovely wife Janice and have two great kids, Andrew and
Denise, all of whom give me great support in my chosen career.
Both during my time as a soldier and
since as a humanitarian deminer, I have been writing poetry. Tthe main
reason for this was to act as kind of a self therapy to ease the distress
of some of the things I have seen, dealt with and heard.
Most of this work was destroyed by
me as once it had been written. Iit had served its purpose. In 1997
I was persuaded by a desk top publisher, in my home town of Dunoon on the
west coast of Scotland, to not destroy any more (one of the previous poems
had survived and he was shown this by my wife. I include this poem in this
e mail.War Trade), since then I have saved a lot of my stuff, since then
a few poor attempts at desktop publishing with a view to selling some small
poetry books to raise funds for mine clearance charities have failed. The
charity i was involved in was Handicap International. This charity
has offices world wide including UK and Lyon in France. The web site is
www.handicap-international.org.uk
I do not consider myself as a poet
although a few journalists have referred to me as the poet deminer.. A
label I dislike, the poetry I write I am sure is not technically good poetry,
but it is written for a different purpose than scholastic recognition.
All the work is either based on factual
events that I have witnessed or been told about by those affected, or based
on my feelings as a deminer and as a father and husband, working away from
the family he loves for long periods of time.
I am not sure that any of the stuff
is worthy of inclusion on your web site but you may find some of it interesting.
Chris North, QA/QC advisor, Demining
and EOD, Southern Iraq, Thuraya
Back
to top of page
War Trade
It's quiet here amongst the hills
Not far away fresh blood spills
A mother rocks her child with a love so great
While old friends confront each other with hate
Buildings blaze and bullets fly
And every day the homeless ask why
The women folk weep for husbands and sons
Who fight their neighbours with rockets and guns
Civil war rages in Europe's back yard
When you're fighting for peace the vengeance is hard
Deep-rooted hate is set in each mind
And each act of violence is answered in kind
In a few short weeks from here we'll be gone
But the shooting and killing still rages on
We go back to our homes where war is no threat
But the fight will go on for many years yet
The death toll will rise amid rivers of blood
Another cease-fire!! Will it do any good
The young are the innocent but as they grow
Will war become the only trade they know
They inherit the battles that their fathers start
Draining the life from a country's sad heart.
The death and destruction make strong men cry
But still they fight on, the grieving ask "Why?"
Chris North
Who Knows
It's when I'm alone that it starts to bite
When I've nothing to do and it's late at night
These thoughts creep in
Evoking worry like sorrow
Will I survive the day or be killed tomorrow
Will the next landmine I touch
Be the last thing I see
Will I be killed or maimed
What will happen to me
I'm sure it won't happen but
I know that it might
These thoughts come to haunt me
Sometimes in the night
When night drifts away and
Morning seeps through
My confidence returns in the things that I do
Worries recede as the morning turns bright
I am eager again to get on with the fight
Those haunting memories
Seem like decades away
But they return at the end of each day
Confidence deserts me
The day draws to a close
Will I survive or die tomorrow
Who knows?
Chris North
Back
to top of page
The Spuds Are Alright
In fields so recently sowed
The potatoes begin to grow
But today a child lost her life
All because she didn't know
She didn't know she wasn't allowed
To cross the field to school
How could she be expected to know?
That the farmer would be such a fool
She only took the shortcut
Because she didn't want to be late
She didn't know this shortcut
Would seal her tragic fate
Along with the rows of potatoes
The farmer sowed mines beneath
To protect his few pounds of vegetables
From succumbing to a thief
But it wasn't a thief who found the mine
So cunningly hidden from sight
A sweet innocent child so tragically slain
But the potatoes they are alright.
Chris North
Back
to top of page
Sierra Leone,
Introduction by Mark Jones
Sierra Leone is a small, yet remarkable country. A West
African paradise in so many ways; a land of great physical beauty, abundant
in flora and fauna and rich with potential. Its inhabitants are imbued
with an extraordinary religious tolerance and a passion for learning. To
its credit it is a nation that has chosen to be free of bitterness or rancour
about the colonial era. Saloneans cherish life and are generous of spirit.
It is as if these people are inspied by the example of Bai Bureh, Thomas
Clarkson, Toussaint L'Ouverture and William Wilberforce.
Yet, the very name Sierra Leone is synonymous with
images of forced amputations, conflict diamonds and child soldiers. In
recent times a brutal war ravaged the land for just over a decade. The
effects of this salamandrine conflagration have certainly laid the country
low. The putrid stench of corruption now wafts through the corridors of
power and sadly, the judiciary seems content to wallow self obsessed in
its dotage. Issues such as child trafficking, deforestation and the blight
of Female Genital Mutilation have yet to be addressed, whilst HIV and AIDS
have begun to take their toll.
It might seem that a demi-Eden has been lost, but
my experience of Sierra Leone tells me otherswise. Whilst the people may
be materially poor, they are spiritually rich. The poems that follow are
my musings and thoughts about the dark days, that God willing, are now
at a close.
Mark T Jones.
Kingharman Road Girl
Fly-blown hopes lie caressing the curb
Her sores a nation's stigmata
Would a pye-dog lick thy wounds ?
Or skirt round you like the tide of your brothers
and sisters.
If we could pause but for a moment and prise open
your mind
We too would seek safety in cold stone
Stone far more loving than human hearts
Judgement passed, we hurry on blind, sightless, caring
not.
[The traumatised girl described in this poem had
been raped by rebel soldiers and had had her parents and elder brother
butchered before her very eyes.]
Mark T Jones
Back
to top of page
The War Lord - a poem written to be read
by two people.
Cut, thrust, plunge
Slash, slit, stab
Starve, mame, shoot
Torch, burn, scar
The trumpets herald you with regal glory
Epaulettes glisten and medals gleam
Plunder, loot, steal
Blind, brand, rape
Curse, crush, kidnap
Smash, torture, kill
Your arrival is welcomed with carpets of steel
Ramrod backed your subjects hail you
Bind, bludgeon, bury
Garotte, impale, castrate
Order, imprison, enslave
Censor, cajole, destroy
Your scarlet cape billows as yuou sense fresh converts
Ever more shrill their praises grow.
Barren, bleak, blackened
Shattered, sterile, stricken
Torn, poisoned, defiled
Bloodied, emtombed, rotting
The prize presented on some stolen silver
A maggot riddled remnant of a once serene world.
Mark T Jones
Back
to top of page
Bepalmed
Swaying fronds beckon
Agile men ascend to steal your sustaining source
Let nature through fermentation take its revenge
Your milky sap saps and turns heads soft.
Soon mortal thieves sway frond-like and beckon
Agile men to take them to their rest.
[The citizens of Freetown were in a celebratory mood
on 10th September 2000 for thanks to Operation Barras a maverick militia
group called the West Side Boys were defeated by British forces. As a Brit
that day there was no escaping the local palm wine - powerful stuff that
could floor an elephant!]
Mark T Jones
The Camp - Sierra Leone 2000
Did Peter Brueghel paint here ?
Bestumped innocence sears my sight
How many tears could wash away such a scene ?
Time affords us no such quantity.
Satan's flail has done its work
Limbs harvested and yet unused
Shattered lives as broken columns stand mute
A world unseen, some unseeing.
Did Hieronymous Bosch paint this ?
He surely saw it - a living charnel house writ large
Minds dislocated in the name of some perverted peace
Such a canvas leaves one dumb.
What God has given man has taken
A blasphemy of slash and burn
Pax Africana upon the altar
Seemingly little resurrectional hope for thee.
Did Edvard Munch paint here ?
He must have dreamt it-this fiendish site
Manmade, contorted out of shape and hate
These open wounds framed in guilt.
[One day I walked in to a vast camp filled with 3,500
amputees, some as young as two. The horrifying scene that confronted me
brought to mind certain works by the artists mentioned in this poem.]
Mark T Jones
Back
to top of page
Initialdom
Where once people sang now initials stalk
Acronyms and their attendants decide our fate
Good, bad, near unfathomable
These our servants now roam free, breeding unchecked.
RUF, SLA, AK47, no music in such sounds
Do you put your faith in ECOMOG or UNAMSIL ?
Is the NCRRR or the UNHCR the real route to salvation
?
Far better that you stop and put your faith in GOD.
Mark T Jones
Independence Day - 27th April 1961
Your hast conception not an act of love but of duty
Preparations hurried, rushed and often unseemly
By the book, yet its ink still moist.
The swelling in your womb enlarged by hope
Expectation and wonder filled the air
A birth urged on, induced by the winds of change.
The delivery a public event, bunting and photographs
A ceremonial sword to sver the umbilical cord
All smiles, smart salutes, silver and gold braid.
A new world ready to suckle you on high ideals
Yet harsh realities and global indifference await
Your optimism left clutching its distended stomach.
That heralded arrival soon eclipsed and forgotten
Dissemblers wait to sell your soul and that of future
generations
Liberty's bell now hollow and the haunt of vultures.
Mark T Jones
Back
to top of page
Protocol
"His Excellency the Minister will see you now."
I stand endeavouring to look taller
Hat firmly clasped, heat resisted.
God, how I hate these meetings.
Tawdry furnishings and even cheaper words
Our dignity must be maintained
He must be appeased, his ego massaged
A malodorous minister must be seen to glow.
His bull-necked toadies sit in ill-fitting suits
Biros recording every nuance, every hollow gesture
Whilst in the real world people strive to live
Their futures choked by the rancid fumes of protocol.
[Written in Freetown following meetings with various
Sierra Leone Government Ministers.]
Mark T Jones
Back
to top of page
Basket Case ?
Pliny the Elder was right, if only we knew it
Instead we sit smug and self-satisfied
Spiritual pigmies who have sold what soul we have
for the here and now.
If only we could look as well as see
The Dark Continent seems to elicit predictable headlines
AIDS, atrocities, famine and the psychotic doings
of the self-annointed.
The real truth is there for all to see
An energy and desire for learning that humbles
Innovation, opness and communal joy tempered by corruption.
Africa holds up a mirror to us all
No romance in poverty, but an infusion of faith
In what we see as earthly darkness is the route to
the hereafter.
(Ex Africa semper aliquid novi - There is
always something new out of Africa - Pliny the Elder 23-79AD)
Mark T Jones
29 8 04
Back
to top of page
8 August 04, Hal Sirowitz
writes:
Dear editor - I liked your website and am sending you
a poem in support. It's loosely structured.
I'm the
former Poet Laureate of Queens, New York.
My new book
of poems is 'Father Said' (Softskull Press).
One Long Continual War
'You're still fighting
the Vietnam War,'
father said. 'Everyone
else has forgotten it
and moved to the next one.'
'But we haven't finished it,'
I said. 'We've only moved it
to a different location. We're
repeating the same situation:
a strong nation taking advantage
of a weak one. We're like
the bully who lives on our street.'
'We only fight when we're
provoked,' he said.
'That's what the bully says,' I said.
'Maybe he's right,' he said.
'He can't be right all the time,' I said.
'You're always provoking me,'
he said, 'by telling me our
country is wrong. You have
to admit it's right sometimes.'
'Only if it's not fighting other
countries and starts helping
its own people,' I said.
'And what would we do
about our enemies?' he said.
'Just leave them alone
and watch as they grow stronger.'
'They're not our enemies if
we're not fighting them,' I said.
'That attitude caused the Roman Empire
to fall,' he said.
'Where did you get that idea?' I said.
'From watching the movie 'Ben Hur'
a few times,' he said.
'I saw it and got a completely
different opinion,' I said.
'That's what makes our country great,'
he said. 'We have the freedom to disagree.'
'We've always disagreed,' I said.
'But never on anything as important
as Hollywood,' he said.
Hal Sirowitz
Back
to top of page
Kevin
John Skinner
I was in the army, now I am working
in Kosovo, but no longer in a military capacity. I was just trying
to put across, in a short description, the sense of coldness and detachment,
but capture all the elements that one would not perceive unless you have
been in a similar situation. I hope I manage this.
POW
Dedicated to any POW and the recent captured, prey
that they will be free in mind body and soul.
Its grey, why do I stay,
Its fear entering my ear,
In me it's all I see, I need to get some rest.
Darkened room filled with gloom,
Locked room, I'm in a tomb, my made womb,
I see the light, I just can't fight,
I sit alone, frozen to the bone,
Something not right on this darkened night,
I hear a whisper, giving my mind a roller coaster
twister,
are they words, or Chinese whispers,
My mind begins to blister.
I try to cry, but all is dry, is it time to die,
thoughts of goodbye making me fry,
I cant sleep, I hear a heart beat, I'm in to deep,
to deep to sleep.
I can't eat; I have cold feet, why can't I sleep?
I'm thinking without blinking, I feel myself sinking,
From the grey to the black, I have to watch my back,
I think I taking a panic attack, give my grey back.
I need to get some sleep,
I can't get no sleep...
Kevin John Skinner
Copyright ©2004
A Soldier
Dusk or dawn, all is still, just strange noises shrill.
I lay to hear my prey, I smell of earth, I am the
turf,
hearing sounds, my sweat the salt of dirt. Calm
composed, in my strike pose.
I meditate, thought of home numbed away. A noise!
I poise a delay so to say. Unnatural crackle did
nature tackle.
I smell the air to compare; I can tell they are
there.
I smell the guns, the oil of its used toil, that
scent makes
their foil.
I am nature, I am one, trained environment relater,
about
to be the instigator, queen and countries terminator.
I hear a whisper, the sound of a popping blister,
boots
on the ground, synthetic scuffling sound. Now in
my sight, on
this deadened night.
A flare, a glare, shadows grow, adrenaline flows.
My finger squeezes
slow, I attack, no fire back, slumped shadows, never
to see green meadows,
grounded, body bag founded.
I am a tree, you cant see me, I am a boulder, they
should
have told you, I am a soldier, from dusk to dawn.
Kevin John Skinner
2004 Kosovo
Copyright ©2004
Back
to top of page
Colin Alcock
16 May 03
One mother's son, another's daughter
They lie together
Entwined in lovers' parody
Twisted in silent rebuke
Of their mutual destiny
Neither sought nor deserved.
His face seeks solace in the skies
Flesh ripped and folded
Exposing blood glistened white bone
One eye sightless, staring
Fixed, unfocused.
One socket eyeless
Rimmed with gore.
Jagged bone ripped through flesh
Of arms, of chest, of hip
Lower limbs strangely clean
Athletic, down to white trainers
Spattered red and brown.
Her arm in silken sleeve
Torn from embroidered bodice
Encircles in mock tenderness
A body she'd never known.
A meeting of like souls
Thrown together by chance
She a full 20 metres
From where he stood
Now draped in tortuous pose.
One foot severed, sinuously attached
Sole upwards, toes pointing back
Face buried in a stranger's shoulder
Black hair streaming down
Glinting in sharp sunlight
Heat laden, dust grimed air
Curling wisps gently upward
Caressing her rip torn body.
So is this the peace
For which the soldiers fought
So bravely, so relentlessly?
Arched and broken cadavers
Freed from torment
And crush of dictator's power.
Strewn as rubble
Amongst a broken regime
Their innocence a shattered monument
Far more telling
Than decapitated statues
Razed ministries
Or salute of rolling armour.
Two souls lost to this world
That harboured no evil
That, had they met in life,
May have celebrated amity.
What now of their families
Bereft of loved ones
Not yet knowing of their loss?
One mother's son
Another's daughter
Brushed into the dirt of war
The number of two
Added to thousands more
Civilian and military
Each having embraced
The agonising throes of death.
Or much, much worse
Dismembered, burned and mutilated
To survive in little more than name.
Tagged bodies, pallet strewn
Enduring sparse, though dedicated
care
Flies dancing on their festering wounds.
Does acrid black smoke
Hang still before our eyes
To cloud our vision?
Red sand swirl menacingly
Obliterating our senses
As we carve great swathes
Of needless death
In the name of freedom?
So we become the threat
That relishes war before democracy
Abandoning dialogue
In delusion of supremacy
Pangaea ruptured in mistrust
Firing neighbour against neighbour
In perpetual self destruction
Never learning, never winning
That peace of which we dream.
Now bundled into ragged sheets
Two lives are liberated
Only from this world.
Swept away
To make their separate departures
In rough hewn caskets
Amongst the tears and lamentations
Of those who are left
To rebuild shattered, tortured lives
From the rubble and dust
That was once their pride.
No Generals to praise them
No idolatry of fame
Only the hard soil to embrace them.
This son, this daughter of our time
Memories that fade as generations
pass
While war perpetuates its misery.
Colin Alcock
Copyright ©
Colin Alcock 2003
1 May 2003
Back
to top of page
Found
Rusted bucket,
digs deep into hard earth,
revving engine and screeching clutch
drowning the crack of brittle bone,
whining, straining, lifting
upwards,
shards sifting from soulless steel,
blind to gnarled hands that scrabble
in the trough of desecrated humanity.
Vestiges of identity
clawed out of fading memory,
so long bereft of hope,
now once more with love enfolded,
as, black shrouded, head bowed,
war crushed remnants, tortured and
slain,
plastic bag clutched to her heart,
wailing tearfully, she takes her son
home.
Colin Alcock
Copyright ©
Colin Alcock 2003
16 May 2003
Back
to top of page
Saga
of Sabah
Trevor Morgan
These poems relate mainly to the Indonesian Confrontation
during the time I was there, 1963-64. Some are specific to actions
at Tauau bay and Tauau Airfield in January 1963. They also relate
to emotions since then induced by those actions. Some are immune
to trauma and some are driven to suicide and some are left in an emotional
turmoil by it. Most, I think, belong to the latter. Veterans of wars
tend to know all about feelings.
The first set of verses that I wrote on the subject
of the Indonesian confrontation was called "The Pools by the Shore". Some
of those verses are incorporated within this work. I chose the fourteen
line stanza form as I thought that would consume more time. It did not.
I have not written history here. It is a set of emotional
cameos and impressions. The term "friendly fire" was not in the language
at that time. We never heard of any friendly fire incidents at that time.
We did hear men say "Oh, no, not another bloody balls up" but no doubt
that had a different meaning.
My memories of events and sequences are poor. My
memories of emotions are vivid today. It is sometimes like these things
are still about me. I was a minor cog and not particularly good at the
job I did. My head was in the clouds and not always with the task at hand.
British armed forces are good at what they do. The
following part of a stanza belongs in a work yet to be written down and
is on the theme of the logic of war:-
There is no point in war save but to win
No point in all the chaos, save that one
To kill may be a foul and awful sin
War's only worth the strife where war is won!
I cannot really finish this work as events and consequences
resulting from the "Confrontation" continue to unfold. The rain forests
of Sabah have been mutilated and desecrated by human greed and foolishness.
The populous nation of Indonesia is going through
change. The future for them can hardly be worse than the past. They are
a people who deserve some better times. Fighting against the British is
never the wisest decision. We do make a foe of considerable fortitude.
It is the hallmark of the ordinary British serviceman. I know fortitude
is seen as a virtue and obstinacy is seen as a vice. What I am never clear
about is where the one ends and the other begins. I think, maybe, not being
clear on this, is part of what it takes to be a Tommy or a Jack. Bless
them all I think of those times still sometimes over a pint. For some years
they were in my dreams but those dreams are fading now as I myself must
fade as well.
To me there are three types of war poet. Those who
have no direct experience ( eg Homer and Tennyson) Those who no direct
experience but have a real empathy for those who have (Kipling) Those who
have direct experience (Owen, Sassoon, Love and MacNally) I was a member
of a boat crew landing troops uncomfortably close to things but not that
directly involved. So I am omewhere between Kipling the war journalist
and the front line.
Trevor Morgan, Rockwell Green, 2004
© Trevor Morgan, June 2004, all rights reserved
Back
to top of page
Dedication
To all those
who served in Borneo
Prologue
Death Drip Fed
Death has long been drip-fed
Through all our "post-war" years
And one by one the dead
Cause some to shed their tears
Yet still there are the pains
We feel beneath the scars
There were few grand campaigns
Just lots of little wars
Was any of the cost
Of every fight and raid
For those who are now lost
Worth sacrifices made?
The book is open still
For more to pay that bill.
Delight
The blood and the torment were there
The painful exquisite delight
They had shed the enemies blood
Yet lived to the end of the fight
So all along the shore a war was fought
In action after action won and lost
The forces of the Crown would stop
at nought
Determined there to win and bear the
cost
With bold moves they thrust deep and
far inland
The fight they always took right to
their foe
And mostly things would seem to be
as planned
Small blunders may be made, but who's
to know?
Reports are written up on most events
Explaining all the outcomes of each
day
In later times there may be sad laments
-
Who listens to what veterans may say?
Old men may well feel sad about back
then
For wars are won by slaying other
men
The rivers of Sabah soon rush to flood
Large trees are carried down within
their flow
Much of the shoreline there was treacle
mud
Such places aren't the safest place
to go
Mosquitoes dine on men the whole night
through
Diseases may be there in each small
bite
For all about where ever man may go
Lurked death but it was never there
in sight
There is no point in war save but
to win
No point in all the chaos save this
one
To kill may be a foul and awful sin
War's only worth the strife where
war is won
Grey haired men may feel sad about
things then
Yet wars are won by better stratagem
The men on either side had different
views
The Commonwealth brought its best
to this fight
Back home there was not much said
in the news
Nor much was thought in terms of wrong
or right
Professional men were experts at this
trade
And did this work that was their job
to do
A quiet task not driven by tirade
The fighting of each war was nothing
new
This "confrontation" was an empty
boast
The "liberation" fighters were less
skilled
Where ideals are a driving force for
most
Enthusiasm leads men to be killed
Old fools may lead their people to
defeat
But killing their young men is not
so sweet
Back
to top of page
A Landing
The craft all lay out from the bay
Filled with men prepared for a fight
They'd stayed there all yesterday
And rode the waves most of the night
Their crews were well used to the swell
And waited for orders to come
Soldiers were feeling unwell
Seasickness had left them all dumb
The craft slewed and reared in the
swell
White faces were wet with the spray
Of their thoughts no one could tell
As craft lay off the far shore
When crewmen ate up their ration
Some soldiers had puked on the deck
Faces so grey and ashen
Each had his equipment to check
The diesels had thrummed through the
night
As craft lay off the far shore
Throttles were opened with might
And thrums had turned to a roar
The craft slewed and reared in the
swell
White faces were wet with the spray
Each in his own secret hell
And tensed for the work of the day
The craft all as one made a turn
Bow waves churned up to white crests
Their wakes made great plumes at the
stern
And their hearts beat hard in their
chests
The tracers lit up the east sky
And star shells burst over the shore
Yet none of them there asked "why?"
The diesels continued to roar
The craft slewed and reared on the
swell
White faces were wet with the spray
Each seemed to be in a spell
As the craft sped in to the bay
The craft careered on at full speed
Adrenaline started its flow
The fear then seemed to recede
We were there to "give a good show"
Crafts full of young men in their prime
Each checking equipment once more
This eased the passage of time
As diesels continued to roar
The craft slewed and reared on the
swell
White faces were wet with the spray
Our fate no one could foretell
As we raced on in to the bay
In the great scheme of things of course
There's nothing of worth on those
shores
Radios crackled some Morse
And bow men stood by the bow doors
As mangrove trees loomed into sight
And young hearts beat fast out of
fear
Astern dawn's eerie first light
The sounds of some gunfire seemed
near
The craft slowed and rode a slight
swell
White faces still wet with the spray
There seemed a flatulent smell
As we neared the shore of the bay
Propellers churned up a grey froth
Through mud of the marshy foreshore
The mud like flames to a moth
Stuck us fast and we moved no more
The bow doors slapped down on the mud
The first men sank in far too deep
Terror then froze in their blood
Stuck there for the reaper to reap
The small craft brought us to this
hell
Such places can trap men as prey
Their plan was to charge pell-mell
But this mud here had blocked the
way
They strained as they fought with the
ooze
A battle with men they could win
This fight with some mud they'd lose
The diesel roars made a loud din
Then tracers etched through the dawn
sky
As shells burst beyond the shore line
Minutes then slowly dragged by
In the mud, the muck and the slime
Our craft too were stuck in this hell
And the crews were trapped in the
bay
Shellfire still clattered its knell
And quagmires of mud blocked the way
As diesels churned up a grey froth
Men slithered in mud to the shore
They raged an undignified wrath
They wallowed and sweated and swore
The engines then eased to a hum
The boat crew had failed though they'd
tried
Though mud we could not overcome
We could well float free with the
tide
The craft was then stuck in that hell
And we had to get to the shore
Shellfire still clattered a knell
-
Mud beckoned beyond the bow door .
The mangroves on the shore blocked
land from view
While helicopters flew ahead in land
Boat crews knew landing troops was
hard to do
But tides and flows good seaman understand
Control of open seas gives space to
fight
Darkness of night may cover what's
to be
Sound strategies are better than bold
might
No shore is safe from men who know
the sea
To move along a shore, to pick and
choose
Where to assault and where to feint
a blow
Helps to ensure an enemy may lose
Where victory is the only thing we
know
Yet old men may feel sad now and again
About an old friend who died young
back then
Back
to top of page
The Shore
The shoreline was muddy and flat
Trees seemed to grow out of the sea
He sniffed at the stench and he spat
This was not where he wanted to be
The strange roots all gnarled and knotted
Arched upward beneath every tree
All hope in his soul had rotted
This was not where he wanted to be
We'd squelched through the muddy foreshore
When we'd landed here from the sea
Hauled boxes and sweated and swore
This was not where he wanted to be
Crabs scurried about us right there
He'd wallowed ungainly by me
His eyes had a strange glassy stare
This was not where he wanted to be
Somewhere he lies buried near there
For too soon his soul was set free
Whilst he's not the one with the care
This is not where he wanted to be
Yet all along that shore a war was
fought
A treacherous fight where little could
be seen
Those who did not learn fast were
never taught
But fell beneath a lovely tropic scene
Upon that mud where crabs and fishes
fed
Or others "helped" them yet their
deaths were slow
But care did not stop them from ending
dead
Sometimes that is the way that things
must go
Some deaths were hapless and of no
great note
Sometimes a life was lost so other
men might live
Some floating bodies would soon swell
and bloat
In humid heat few would care to forgive
Some old man may feel sad about back
then
For wars are won by slaying many men
Retrieving a Body
We found him half under the water
Where the crabs had started to dine
It was the day after the slaughter
The weather was splendid and fine
The state of him gave us a shock
For he was so clammy and cool
We hauled him out onto a rock
And crabs ran back into the pool
Yet no one could raise to a rage
For his skin was waxy and blue
More crabs came out of his rib cage
Where the round had drilled him right
through
Yet vengeance was not mine or thine
His killers were already dead
Some lay there by that shore's tide
line
Where more crabs were now being fed
Some boat crews were like undertakers
too
The dead they ferried back out to
the ships
Upon those tropic seas so wond'rous
blue
Some prayers were said through barely
mumbling lips
As coxswains steered their boats back
out to sea
Returning back there in the clear
bright light
With what is left when each soul is
set free
From men who'd come here in the dead
of night
Now bodies soon decay in tropic heat
Their stench is carried far upon the
breeze
An odour partly sickly part quite
sweet
Its recall leaves the soul still ill
at ease
In later days an old man slit his
throat
His blood blocked out the words upon
his note
Returning a Body
The shore was to the lee
The engine's revs were low
Our progress to the sea
Was dignified and slow
He lay there on the boards
An ensign covered him
Flies gathered there in hoards
And he stank something grim
The sailors hymn was sung with reverence
sweet
As funerals at sea were carried out
Then ensigns stowed away all folded
neat
And men got on with tasks they were
about
There's little sentiment on men of
war
Assault ships are kept busy out at
sea
But funerals can't be seen as a chore
As bodies slide from boards out to
the lea
All sewn and weighted then dropped
in the deep
With reverence due but never over
done
It's not seemly when men are seen
to weep
With feelings hid close friends may
feel quite numb
Some old man may feel sad about back
then
When wars are won we always lose good
men
Back
to top of page
Burial at Sea
There under the ensign he lay
As the prayers and sermon were said
I heard a voice inside me say
"But surely he just can't be dead"
Yet under the ensign he lay
Sewn in canvas with a large weight
The knowledge I have to this day
Still tells me it was just his fate
As we listened to the last post
The trumpeter played the last note
There off of that tropical coast
A lump seemed to choke in my throat
His mangled remains were well hid
Sewn in canvas with a large weight
Then from under the ensign he slid
Like others we had seen of late
Yet somehow things didn't seem right
I just wasn't able to weep
I saw as he sank out of sight
Sharks follow him down to the deep
Though time may pass the pain remains
the same
For some bad memories linger on and
on
And loss and shock may both then share
a name
For Trauma's there when hopes are
fled and gone
It's darkness stays like some unwanted
guest
It visits in the dark through troubled
sleep
With nightmares and mad dreams sleep-times
are "blessed"
As sometimes for no reason men may
weep
And sob about what happened long ago
Or talk to ghosts of men who are long
dead
Some secret fears some men may never
show
But who's to listen to what may be
said
Are ramblings of old sailors merely
quaint
Or symptoms of a soul that feels a
taint?
Able Seaman White (dec'd)
As the stars in the firmament gleam
In the arch of the sky of the night
There comes the repeated sad dream
Of a dead able seaman called White
I sat up with a jerk in the night
Saw a man that I'd seen long before
The ghost of the seaman called White
Who died by a rock pool by the shore
And he called me again by my name
Like he'd done many times here before
The same words he then said again
He had said before going ashore
"I must thank you for what you have
done
Because really it does mean a lot"
He'd wanted to walk in the sun
And he just didn't know he'd be shot
And his star in the firmament gleams
In the velvety darkness of night
For he still exists in my dreams
Does that dead able seaman called
White
At long distance there through a gun's
sight
He was seen as he stood by the shore
A bullet was launched on its flight
And he felt a slight jar - nothing
more
The sensation was then receding
Though all seemed like it had been
before
He wondered who could be bleeding
All that blood by the pool by the
shore
Now in life he had drawn the short
straw
There was little more of him to tell
Red coloured the pool by the shore
As he lay where he staggered and fell
Now the stars in the firmament gleam
In the inky dark blackness of night
For he's long sapped my self-esteem
Has that dead able seaman called White
Sun was bright as his day had grown
dim
When he lay there in it's bright light
As darkness closed in around him
And his day had been turned into night
I remember that man here before
How he fell from the shot of a gun
Right there by the pool by the shore
Where he died in the tropical sun
I remember the man of his name
Swapping duties with me just before
A gunner had taken his aim
Where I should have stood by the shore
And his star in the firmament gleams
As his ghost comes to visit at night
And he talks to me in my dreams
That forgotten dead seaman called
White
Yes in life he had drawn the short
straw
But his story is being retold
Red colours the pool by the shore
In the dreams of a man who's grown
old
He say's "Thank you for what you have
done
And I swear that it does mean a lot.
That I have now got me someone,
Yes - got someone - who has not forgot."
Now the night's long and sleepless
once more
All the stars in the firmament gleam
Waves lap by the pools by the shore
When not sleeping I don't have to
dream
There's chaos and confusion
Within a troubled mind
What's real seems an illusion
But old friends all seem kind
And who can find the reason
Sometimes when salt tears flow
They come in any season
But they're not put on show
An action by a bay may have been short
And may have only taken those few
days
An enemy's advance some men may thwart
In very many short and fast affrays
Repulses were repeated by that shore
Well aided by bombardments from the
sea
None asked what all of this may have
been for
It's like all this was simply meant
to be
This is the work professionals must
do
And do it well without the slightest
qualm
With sky above a lovely pastel blue
And water in the bay so wond'rous
calm
When enemy assailants were all dead
Some mud about the bay was coloured
red
Back
to top of page
Waiting
Above us branches shattered
By bullets overhead
We lay there mud bespattered
And waited to be dead
As we cowered in the slime
There seemed an end to time
He lay there badly battered
The mud was turning red
And those crabs pitter-pattered
And waited to be fed
There lying in the slime
There was an end to time
Now the scene is always there
Though not a word is said
While older now and elsewhere
It's still there in my head
Still stuck in all that slime
The mind is trapped in time
Tauau Bay, Sabah
Tracer tracks and the stinking smell of
smoke
For it was there Faith sank without
a splash
As Hope ebbed slowly in the stink
and choke
To the sounds of fire and the distant
flash
Then Charity failed and it just had
to go
As landing craft ran round into the
bay
Helicopters whirled down and flew
in low
The action was fought out on that
fine day
With pressure on triggers so gently
squeezed
Until the gun recoils against your
grip
Death in a vicious spitting hail's
unleashed
This with the flashes from a distant
ship
And with the whine of shells erupting
fire
There came the news stories told by
a liar
Faceless and Dead
Around and around there clattered the
sound
Thuds vibrated through the ground
Ripples ran out along the mud
As terror drained the face of blood
Then stagg'ring by there in that place
|