Distant Death and Imminent Ignorance

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

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Introduction by Chris North

 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 

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War Trade

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

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

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The Spuds Are Alright

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

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Sierra Leone, 

Introduction by Mark Jones

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

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

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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
 
 

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Bepalmed 

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

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

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Initialdom 

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

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

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Protocol

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

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Basket Case ?

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

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8 August 04, Hal Sirowitz writes:

One Long Continual War

'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

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Kevin John Skinner

POW 

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

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 

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Colin Alcock 

One mother's son, another's daughter

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

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Found 

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

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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

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Prologue

Death Drip Fed

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

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

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A Landing

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

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The Shore

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

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

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

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Burial at Sea

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)

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

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Waiting

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

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

Then stagg'ring by there in that place