I watched him in the tournament,And when he bowled a lineI saw the way his eyes would smileWhen things were going fine.I saw the lonely little frownThat made him look so graveAnd older than his twenty yearsWhen things would not behave.And then we did not meet again;I heard that he was dead.The savage sea, not you nor me,Knows where he is instead.
I watched him in the tournament,And when he bowled a lineI saw the way his eyes would smileWhen things were going fine.I saw the lonely little frownThat made him look so graveAnd older than his twenty yearsWhen things would not behave.And then we did not meet again;I heard that he was dead.The savage sea, not you nor me,Knows where he is instead.
I watched him in the tournament,And when he bowled a lineI saw the way his eyes would smileWhen things were going fine.
I saw the lonely little frownThat made him look so graveAnd older than his twenty yearsWhen things would not behave.
And then we did not meet again;I heard that he was dead.The savage sea, not you nor me,Knows where he is instead.
How often had the sun been redThe sky as deep a blueBehind long, tired stretched-out cloudsWhen I was then with you.How often had the evening seaWhich you so much admiredWith archipelagos of foamBeen bright and ruby-fired.Oh, all these things tonight are hereUpon a distant sea,But I have found no other oneTo stand and watch with me.
How often had the sun been redThe sky as deep a blueBehind long, tired stretched-out cloudsWhen I was then with you.How often had the evening seaWhich you so much admiredWith archipelagos of foamBeen bright and ruby-fired.Oh, all these things tonight are hereUpon a distant sea,But I have found no other oneTo stand and watch with me.
How often had the sun been redThe sky as deep a blueBehind long, tired stretched-out cloudsWhen I was then with you.
How often had the evening seaWhich you so much admiredWith archipelagos of foamBeen bright and ruby-fired.
Oh, all these things tonight are hereUpon a distant sea,But I have found no other oneTo stand and watch with me.
He was just a little deck-apeWith a happy kind of smile,And a line of boyish chatterThat could make you laugh awhile.He was just a little deck-apeAlways ready with a handWhen a shipmate needed someoneWho would help or understand.He was just a little deck-ape,And we buried him at seaWhen he stopped a strafer’s bulletThat was meant, I think, for me.
He was just a little deck-apeWith a happy kind of smile,And a line of boyish chatterThat could make you laugh awhile.He was just a little deck-apeAlways ready with a handWhen a shipmate needed someoneWho would help or understand.He was just a little deck-ape,And we buried him at seaWhen he stopped a strafer’s bulletThat was meant, I think, for me.
He was just a little deck-apeWith a happy kind of smile,And a line of boyish chatterThat could make you laugh awhile.
He was just a little deck-apeAlways ready with a handWhen a shipmate needed someoneWho would help or understand.
He was just a little deck-ape,And we buried him at seaWhen he stopped a strafer’s bulletThat was meant, I think, for me.
Upon a railway station bench he lies,Majestic image of a heathen godCast down unknown centuries of time,And on his back for all the world to see.He sleeps the silence of unspoken love,A smile upon his lips, his cheeks aglowWith all the fire of his rhythmic heartBetraying there the secret of his dream.And breath and life are one where fills his chest,And where the texture of his thighs impressThe pagan phallic frontlet in his loinsHe testifies unknowingly to youth.Unstirring in the rapture of his thoughtsHe slumbers in the wakeful watchOf envy and desire!
Upon a railway station bench he lies,Majestic image of a heathen godCast down unknown centuries of time,And on his back for all the world to see.He sleeps the silence of unspoken love,A smile upon his lips, his cheeks aglowWith all the fire of his rhythmic heartBetraying there the secret of his dream.And breath and life are one where fills his chest,And where the texture of his thighs impressThe pagan phallic frontlet in his loinsHe testifies unknowingly to youth.Unstirring in the rapture of his thoughtsHe slumbers in the wakeful watchOf envy and desire!
Upon a railway station bench he lies,Majestic image of a heathen godCast down unknown centuries of time,And on his back for all the world to see.
He sleeps the silence of unspoken love,A smile upon his lips, his cheeks aglowWith all the fire of his rhythmic heartBetraying there the secret of his dream.
And breath and life are one where fills his chest,And where the texture of his thighs impressThe pagan phallic frontlet in his loinsHe testifies unknowingly to youth.
Unstirring in the rapture of his thoughtsHe slumbers in the wakeful watchOf envy and desire!
Avenge! Avenge! Great sword of God,The massacre of theseTen thousand Polish soldier lads,All hung from gallows’ trees.Send down Thy angels armed with fire,Send down Thy fiery lake,Avenge the tortured, fiercely marred,And killed for killing’s sake,Brave prisoners of Guam, Bataan, Corregidor, and Wake!O hasten, hasten, wrath of God!Five times five thousand slainIn one red week of murderous lust,New Christs, new cross, new pain!Our patience and our mercy waitWhile they who slaughter don’t.Annihilate! Annihilate!We’ll do it if You won’t!
Avenge! Avenge! Great sword of God,The massacre of theseTen thousand Polish soldier lads,All hung from gallows’ trees.Send down Thy angels armed with fire,Send down Thy fiery lake,Avenge the tortured, fiercely marred,And killed for killing’s sake,Brave prisoners of Guam, Bataan, Corregidor, and Wake!O hasten, hasten, wrath of God!Five times five thousand slainIn one red week of murderous lust,New Christs, new cross, new pain!Our patience and our mercy waitWhile they who slaughter don’t.Annihilate! Annihilate!We’ll do it if You won’t!
Avenge! Avenge! Great sword of God,The massacre of theseTen thousand Polish soldier lads,All hung from gallows’ trees.
Send down Thy angels armed with fire,Send down Thy fiery lake,Avenge the tortured, fiercely marred,And killed for killing’s sake,Brave prisoners of Guam, Bataan, Corregidor, and Wake!
O hasten, hasten, wrath of God!Five times five thousand slainIn one red week of murderous lust,New Christs, new cross, new pain!
Our patience and our mercy waitWhile they who slaughter don’t.Annihilate! Annihilate!We’ll do it if You won’t!
And what is the talk we make tonightAs we fill our glasses amber brightAnd drink to the guys who are in the fight,The crossing of the Rhine.And the song we sing is a simple thingOf a tune that moves with a martial swingTo a set of words that have caught the ring,The crossing of the Rhine.We laugh and we jest, and we wish them well,And then we remember the lads who fellBy blasted bridge and screaming shell,The crossing of the Rhine.Let’s stand as we pledge the guys who are there,The guys who are fighting everywhereThrough blood and guts and the power of prayer,The crossing of the Rhine!
And what is the talk we make tonightAs we fill our glasses amber brightAnd drink to the guys who are in the fight,The crossing of the Rhine.And the song we sing is a simple thingOf a tune that moves with a martial swingTo a set of words that have caught the ring,The crossing of the Rhine.We laugh and we jest, and we wish them well,And then we remember the lads who fellBy blasted bridge and screaming shell,The crossing of the Rhine.Let’s stand as we pledge the guys who are there,The guys who are fighting everywhereThrough blood and guts and the power of prayer,The crossing of the Rhine!
And what is the talk we make tonightAs we fill our glasses amber brightAnd drink to the guys who are in the fight,The crossing of the Rhine.
And the song we sing is a simple thingOf a tune that moves with a martial swingTo a set of words that have caught the ring,The crossing of the Rhine.
We laugh and we jest, and we wish them well,And then we remember the lads who fellBy blasted bridge and screaming shell,The crossing of the Rhine.
Let’s stand as we pledge the guys who are there,The guys who are fighting everywhereThrough blood and guts and the power of prayer,The crossing of the Rhine!
Oh, where are the rest of my shipmates,And why am I not at sea,And what is this lonely valleyWhere no one is but me?Have they sailed away without me?Will they ever again return?I never thought when he was deadA sailor’s heart would yearn.Oh, how did I die? In battle?Or how did I die? Asleep?Were there any who laughed when they heard it?Were any too stunned to weep?But who dressed me up so neatly?Who brushed and combed my hair?Some fellow just doing his dutyOr someone who tried to care?Whoever it was I thank him,But what have they done to my heartThat it will not rest like a lonesome guestIn this world where they’ve set me apart?Must I still call out for companionsAnd want them again at my side,Though breath is forbidden me everAs the longing I want to confide?O you who are shipmates together,Look well at each other today,Or you’ll lie deep as I in your anguish,And pine your dead heart away.
Oh, where are the rest of my shipmates,And why am I not at sea,And what is this lonely valleyWhere no one is but me?Have they sailed away without me?Will they ever again return?I never thought when he was deadA sailor’s heart would yearn.Oh, how did I die? In battle?Or how did I die? Asleep?Were there any who laughed when they heard it?Were any too stunned to weep?But who dressed me up so neatly?Who brushed and combed my hair?Some fellow just doing his dutyOr someone who tried to care?Whoever it was I thank him,But what have they done to my heartThat it will not rest like a lonesome guestIn this world where they’ve set me apart?Must I still call out for companionsAnd want them again at my side,Though breath is forbidden me everAs the longing I want to confide?O you who are shipmates together,Look well at each other today,Or you’ll lie deep as I in your anguish,And pine your dead heart away.
Oh, where are the rest of my shipmates,And why am I not at sea,And what is this lonely valleyWhere no one is but me?
Have they sailed away without me?Will they ever again return?I never thought when he was deadA sailor’s heart would yearn.
Oh, how did I die? In battle?Or how did I die? Asleep?Were there any who laughed when they heard it?Were any too stunned to weep?
But who dressed me up so neatly?Who brushed and combed my hair?Some fellow just doing his dutyOr someone who tried to care?
Whoever it was I thank him,But what have they done to my heartThat it will not rest like a lonesome guestIn this world where they’ve set me apart?
Must I still call out for companionsAnd want them again at my side,Though breath is forbidden me everAs the longing I want to confide?
O you who are shipmates together,Look well at each other today,Or you’ll lie deep as I in your anguish,And pine your dead heart away.
On Christmas Day in forty-threeThe NaziScharnhorstput to sea,For word somehow had reached BerlinAn Allied convoy was withinTwo hundred miles of where she layIn some Norwegian, hidden bay.She went ahead, two-thirds her speed,A mighty, master-monster steed,She left the fjords, mountain walled,Where oft her echoing bugles called,She cleared the channel, marked the landDrop far astern on either hand.She steamed through fog and arctic day,And then at night, when darkness layCompletely over all the waste,TheScharnhorstcharged with fuller hasteTo intercept the Allied shipsWhich dared these bold Murmansk-bound trips.Meanwhile the convoy, slow, serene,Behind an escort naval screen,Proceeded eastward off North Cape.TheScharnhorstsensed the coming rape,And manned her guns that early dawn,But this is what she came upon:The cruisersNorfolk, andBelfast,AndSheffield, all the long night pastHad known the wild sea horse was freeTo terrorize the Northern Sea,And they had placed themselves betweenThe chargingScharnhorstand the screen.The winter’s dawn was blackboard gray.TheScharnhorstheld her plotted way.TheNorfolk,Sheffield, andBelfastWere tense with waiting. Hours passedAs closer these two forces drew,Determined ships, determined crew.The British sensed the approach of doom.TheScharnhorstpaused within the gloom,But then a star shell, bursting high,Illumined her against the sky.The great seabeast began to snortFrom every nostril turret fort.TheSheffield’sguns belched smoke and flame;Belfast’squick turrets did the same,TheNorfolk’sscreaming shell bursts bitThe monster’s triple hull, a hit!TheScharnhorstscreamed, she turned and fledTo mend her wound, to count her dead.Belfastforbade his ships pursue.He judged whatScharnhorstmeant to do,Pretend retreat and then renewAttack upon the convoy later.Scharnhorst’sspeed he knew was greater,So he kept his course the straighter.Scharnhorstcircled east and nor’ward,Hoped to bring her power forward.But the convoy changed its courseTo shun this grim, abhorrent horse.The cruisers cut the arc and thenAwaitedScharnhorst’scharge again.When, hours later, tense with rage,The Scharnhorst, plotted to engageJust merchant ships and escort craft,Had reappeared to run the raft,She met instead the concerted blastOfNorfolk,SheffieldandBelfast.Once again the salvos thundered.Scharnhorstknew that she had blundered,While her gunners cursed and wonderedShells and fire as beforeThrough the gloomy twilight tore,Swiftly, surely, more and more.TheNorfolk’safterdeck was hit,A blaze of flame, the air was lit.TheScharnhorstdid not wait to seeWhat damage or what victory.She turned once more in fearful dread,Homeward set her course and fled.ForScharnhorstwas a worthy prize.Correctly had she made surmiseThat other ships, the British fleet,Would steam to intercept or meet,And so she fled, a wounded beast,To seek the dark, protective east.But all this while, to interplaceBetween theScharnhorstand her base,To cut the Nazi monster’s course,To bridle all her vicious force,To leave a wreck of twisted torque,There steamed the mightyDuke of York.Two hundred miles away or moreTheDukeand her destroyers boreWhen first the battle message came.Belfastcontinued to proclaimTheScharnhorst’scourse, and from this plotTheDuke, her speed, position got.For braveBelfast, andSheffield, too,AndNorfolkthis time did pursue.TheScharnhorstturned, she headed south,And flung herself into the mouthOfDuke,Jamaica, and the horde,Saumarez,Savage,Scorpion,Stord.“Illuminate the enemy!”Belfast’sbright shell broke high and free.The heavy night with heavy hazeHad been descending, but the blazeOf light and brilliance caught the steed,Betrayed her form, her frothing speed.TheDuke’sgreat turrets boldly spoke,Belched shell and fire, fume and smoke.Concussion tore the night around.The shells went screaming through the soundAnd landed close aboard the Hun,A “straddle” salvo number one.TheDukecorrected plot and rangeAnd there began a fierce exchangeOf shell and suffering.ScharnhorstblazedWhere blasts and flame her structures razed.She turned to east in panicked frightAnd sought the dark, descending night.TheDukesped after, sending shell,Fired havoc, roaring hellRaining down upon the fleeingBattered, bruised and barely seeingNazi supership which spedEver more and more ahead.At last theDukehad lost the range.Her guns were silenced, but a strangeNew battle lit the horizon’s edgeAnd smote theScharnhorstlike a sledge.She reared and tossed and bellowed towardSaumarez,Savage,Scorpion,Stord.She did not flee as fast, for they,More swiftly speeding on their way,O’ertook her and on either bowEngaged the bleedingScharnhorstnow.Her voice was wild, her aim was bad;She fought with all the guns she had.At forty knots the destroyers came.Ten thousand yards, they took their aim;Six thousand yards, without a changeOf course or speed they closed the range.Two thousand yards, they launched their dreadTorpedoes, and away they sped.TheScharnhorstsnorted, scored a hit.Saumarezfelt the blast of it.But then the launched torpedoes struck,AndScharnhorst’sinner heart was stuck.Her guns began a wild, red fire,She’d lost her speed, could not retire.By now theDuke of Yorkhad closed,And with another force composedOfSheffield,Norfolk, andBelfast,Jamaica, and come up at last,Four escorts from the convoy screen,Began a new approach routine.TheScharnhorstshuddered, shell on shellFrom eight destroyers upon her fell.From four crack cruisers she sustainedThe heavy, horrid fire they trained.Each salvo from theDuke of YorkLeft her unsteady as a cork.Around and round the battle raged,On every side she was engagedBy greater force and stronger will,A broken thing of beauty still;And then the ships received commandTo stand well clear on every hand.The battle paused. The night returned,And in that dark theScharnhorstburned.The swift and final act began.Jamaicaleft the cruiser vanAnd headed toward the trembling pileWhere life and metal burned the while.A neat destroyer trained her lightsUpon the target and the sightsAboardJamaica, set to kill,Could pledge the beast her final thrill.Jamaicaswung. Torpedoes leapt,Their course and their appointment kept.A last great roar theScharnhorstgave,Then rolled her fires beneath the wave,A wretched, moving, dying thingWithin the watchful naval ring.The black, salt sea her vitals drank,And, quenched her thirst, theScharnhorstsank.
On Christmas Day in forty-threeThe NaziScharnhorstput to sea,For word somehow had reached BerlinAn Allied convoy was withinTwo hundred miles of where she layIn some Norwegian, hidden bay.She went ahead, two-thirds her speed,A mighty, master-monster steed,She left the fjords, mountain walled,Where oft her echoing bugles called,She cleared the channel, marked the landDrop far astern on either hand.She steamed through fog and arctic day,And then at night, when darkness layCompletely over all the waste,TheScharnhorstcharged with fuller hasteTo intercept the Allied shipsWhich dared these bold Murmansk-bound trips.Meanwhile the convoy, slow, serene,Behind an escort naval screen,Proceeded eastward off North Cape.TheScharnhorstsensed the coming rape,And manned her guns that early dawn,But this is what she came upon:The cruisersNorfolk, andBelfast,AndSheffield, all the long night pastHad known the wild sea horse was freeTo terrorize the Northern Sea,And they had placed themselves betweenThe chargingScharnhorstand the screen.The winter’s dawn was blackboard gray.TheScharnhorstheld her plotted way.TheNorfolk,Sheffield, andBelfastWere tense with waiting. Hours passedAs closer these two forces drew,Determined ships, determined crew.The British sensed the approach of doom.TheScharnhorstpaused within the gloom,But then a star shell, bursting high,Illumined her against the sky.The great seabeast began to snortFrom every nostril turret fort.TheSheffield’sguns belched smoke and flame;Belfast’squick turrets did the same,TheNorfolk’sscreaming shell bursts bitThe monster’s triple hull, a hit!TheScharnhorstscreamed, she turned and fledTo mend her wound, to count her dead.Belfastforbade his ships pursue.He judged whatScharnhorstmeant to do,Pretend retreat and then renewAttack upon the convoy later.Scharnhorst’sspeed he knew was greater,So he kept his course the straighter.Scharnhorstcircled east and nor’ward,Hoped to bring her power forward.But the convoy changed its courseTo shun this grim, abhorrent horse.The cruisers cut the arc and thenAwaitedScharnhorst’scharge again.When, hours later, tense with rage,The Scharnhorst, plotted to engageJust merchant ships and escort craft,Had reappeared to run the raft,She met instead the concerted blastOfNorfolk,SheffieldandBelfast.Once again the salvos thundered.Scharnhorstknew that she had blundered,While her gunners cursed and wonderedShells and fire as beforeThrough the gloomy twilight tore,Swiftly, surely, more and more.TheNorfolk’safterdeck was hit,A blaze of flame, the air was lit.TheScharnhorstdid not wait to seeWhat damage or what victory.She turned once more in fearful dread,Homeward set her course and fled.ForScharnhorstwas a worthy prize.Correctly had she made surmiseThat other ships, the British fleet,Would steam to intercept or meet,And so she fled, a wounded beast,To seek the dark, protective east.But all this while, to interplaceBetween theScharnhorstand her base,To cut the Nazi monster’s course,To bridle all her vicious force,To leave a wreck of twisted torque,There steamed the mightyDuke of York.Two hundred miles away or moreTheDukeand her destroyers boreWhen first the battle message came.Belfastcontinued to proclaimTheScharnhorst’scourse, and from this plotTheDuke, her speed, position got.For braveBelfast, andSheffield, too,AndNorfolkthis time did pursue.TheScharnhorstturned, she headed south,And flung herself into the mouthOfDuke,Jamaica, and the horde,Saumarez,Savage,Scorpion,Stord.“Illuminate the enemy!”Belfast’sbright shell broke high and free.The heavy night with heavy hazeHad been descending, but the blazeOf light and brilliance caught the steed,Betrayed her form, her frothing speed.TheDuke’sgreat turrets boldly spoke,Belched shell and fire, fume and smoke.Concussion tore the night around.The shells went screaming through the soundAnd landed close aboard the Hun,A “straddle” salvo number one.TheDukecorrected plot and rangeAnd there began a fierce exchangeOf shell and suffering.ScharnhorstblazedWhere blasts and flame her structures razed.She turned to east in panicked frightAnd sought the dark, descending night.TheDukesped after, sending shell,Fired havoc, roaring hellRaining down upon the fleeingBattered, bruised and barely seeingNazi supership which spedEver more and more ahead.At last theDukehad lost the range.Her guns were silenced, but a strangeNew battle lit the horizon’s edgeAnd smote theScharnhorstlike a sledge.She reared and tossed and bellowed towardSaumarez,Savage,Scorpion,Stord.She did not flee as fast, for they,More swiftly speeding on their way,O’ertook her and on either bowEngaged the bleedingScharnhorstnow.Her voice was wild, her aim was bad;She fought with all the guns she had.At forty knots the destroyers came.Ten thousand yards, they took their aim;Six thousand yards, without a changeOf course or speed they closed the range.Two thousand yards, they launched their dreadTorpedoes, and away they sped.TheScharnhorstsnorted, scored a hit.Saumarezfelt the blast of it.But then the launched torpedoes struck,AndScharnhorst’sinner heart was stuck.Her guns began a wild, red fire,She’d lost her speed, could not retire.By now theDuke of Yorkhad closed,And with another force composedOfSheffield,Norfolk, andBelfast,Jamaica, and come up at last,Four escorts from the convoy screen,Began a new approach routine.TheScharnhorstshuddered, shell on shellFrom eight destroyers upon her fell.From four crack cruisers she sustainedThe heavy, horrid fire they trained.Each salvo from theDuke of YorkLeft her unsteady as a cork.Around and round the battle raged,On every side she was engagedBy greater force and stronger will,A broken thing of beauty still;And then the ships received commandTo stand well clear on every hand.The battle paused. The night returned,And in that dark theScharnhorstburned.The swift and final act began.Jamaicaleft the cruiser vanAnd headed toward the trembling pileWhere life and metal burned the while.A neat destroyer trained her lightsUpon the target and the sightsAboardJamaica, set to kill,Could pledge the beast her final thrill.Jamaicaswung. Torpedoes leapt,Their course and their appointment kept.A last great roar theScharnhorstgave,Then rolled her fires beneath the wave,A wretched, moving, dying thingWithin the watchful naval ring.The black, salt sea her vitals drank,And, quenched her thirst, theScharnhorstsank.
On Christmas Day in forty-threeThe NaziScharnhorstput to sea,For word somehow had reached BerlinAn Allied convoy was withinTwo hundred miles of where she layIn some Norwegian, hidden bay.
She went ahead, two-thirds her speed,A mighty, master-monster steed,She left the fjords, mountain walled,Where oft her echoing bugles called,She cleared the channel, marked the landDrop far astern on either hand.
She steamed through fog and arctic day,And then at night, when darkness layCompletely over all the waste,TheScharnhorstcharged with fuller hasteTo intercept the Allied shipsWhich dared these bold Murmansk-bound trips.
Meanwhile the convoy, slow, serene,Behind an escort naval screen,Proceeded eastward off North Cape.TheScharnhorstsensed the coming rape,And manned her guns that early dawn,But this is what she came upon:
The cruisersNorfolk, andBelfast,AndSheffield, all the long night pastHad known the wild sea horse was freeTo terrorize the Northern Sea,And they had placed themselves betweenThe chargingScharnhorstand the screen.
The winter’s dawn was blackboard gray.TheScharnhorstheld her plotted way.TheNorfolk,Sheffield, andBelfastWere tense with waiting. Hours passedAs closer these two forces drew,Determined ships, determined crew.
The British sensed the approach of doom.TheScharnhorstpaused within the gloom,But then a star shell, bursting high,Illumined her against the sky.The great seabeast began to snortFrom every nostril turret fort.
TheSheffield’sguns belched smoke and flame;Belfast’squick turrets did the same,TheNorfolk’sscreaming shell bursts bitThe monster’s triple hull, a hit!TheScharnhorstscreamed, she turned and fledTo mend her wound, to count her dead.
Belfastforbade his ships pursue.He judged whatScharnhorstmeant to do,Pretend retreat and then renewAttack upon the convoy later.Scharnhorst’sspeed he knew was greater,So he kept his course the straighter.
Scharnhorstcircled east and nor’ward,Hoped to bring her power forward.But the convoy changed its courseTo shun this grim, abhorrent horse.The cruisers cut the arc and thenAwaitedScharnhorst’scharge again.
When, hours later, tense with rage,The Scharnhorst, plotted to engageJust merchant ships and escort craft,Had reappeared to run the raft,She met instead the concerted blastOfNorfolk,SheffieldandBelfast.
Once again the salvos thundered.Scharnhorstknew that she had blundered,While her gunners cursed and wonderedShells and fire as beforeThrough the gloomy twilight tore,Swiftly, surely, more and more.
TheNorfolk’safterdeck was hit,A blaze of flame, the air was lit.TheScharnhorstdid not wait to seeWhat damage or what victory.She turned once more in fearful dread,Homeward set her course and fled.
ForScharnhorstwas a worthy prize.Correctly had she made surmiseThat other ships, the British fleet,Would steam to intercept or meet,And so she fled, a wounded beast,To seek the dark, protective east.
But all this while, to interplaceBetween theScharnhorstand her base,To cut the Nazi monster’s course,To bridle all her vicious force,To leave a wreck of twisted torque,There steamed the mightyDuke of York.
Two hundred miles away or moreTheDukeand her destroyers boreWhen first the battle message came.Belfastcontinued to proclaimTheScharnhorst’scourse, and from this plotTheDuke, her speed, position got.
For braveBelfast, andSheffield, too,AndNorfolkthis time did pursue.TheScharnhorstturned, she headed south,And flung herself into the mouthOfDuke,Jamaica, and the horde,Saumarez,Savage,Scorpion,Stord.
“Illuminate the enemy!”Belfast’sbright shell broke high and free.The heavy night with heavy hazeHad been descending, but the blazeOf light and brilliance caught the steed,Betrayed her form, her frothing speed.
TheDuke’sgreat turrets boldly spoke,Belched shell and fire, fume and smoke.Concussion tore the night around.The shells went screaming through the soundAnd landed close aboard the Hun,A “straddle” salvo number one.
TheDukecorrected plot and rangeAnd there began a fierce exchangeOf shell and suffering.ScharnhorstblazedWhere blasts and flame her structures razed.She turned to east in panicked frightAnd sought the dark, descending night.
TheDukesped after, sending shell,Fired havoc, roaring hellRaining down upon the fleeingBattered, bruised and barely seeingNazi supership which spedEver more and more ahead.
At last theDukehad lost the range.Her guns were silenced, but a strangeNew battle lit the horizon’s edgeAnd smote theScharnhorstlike a sledge.She reared and tossed and bellowed towardSaumarez,Savage,Scorpion,Stord.
She did not flee as fast, for they,More swiftly speeding on their way,O’ertook her and on either bowEngaged the bleedingScharnhorstnow.Her voice was wild, her aim was bad;She fought with all the guns she had.
At forty knots the destroyers came.Ten thousand yards, they took their aim;Six thousand yards, without a changeOf course or speed they closed the range.Two thousand yards, they launched their dreadTorpedoes, and away they sped.
TheScharnhorstsnorted, scored a hit.Saumarezfelt the blast of it.But then the launched torpedoes struck,AndScharnhorst’sinner heart was stuck.Her guns began a wild, red fire,She’d lost her speed, could not retire.
By now theDuke of Yorkhad closed,And with another force composedOfSheffield,Norfolk, andBelfast,Jamaica, and come up at last,Four escorts from the convoy screen,Began a new approach routine.
TheScharnhorstshuddered, shell on shellFrom eight destroyers upon her fell.From four crack cruisers she sustainedThe heavy, horrid fire they trained.Each salvo from theDuke of YorkLeft her unsteady as a cork.
Around and round the battle raged,On every side she was engagedBy greater force and stronger will,A broken thing of beauty still;And then the ships received commandTo stand well clear on every hand.
The battle paused. The night returned,And in that dark theScharnhorstburned.The swift and final act began.Jamaicaleft the cruiser vanAnd headed toward the trembling pileWhere life and metal burned the while.
A neat destroyer trained her lightsUpon the target and the sightsAboardJamaica, set to kill,Could pledge the beast her final thrill.Jamaicaswung. Torpedoes leapt,Their course and their appointment kept.
A last great roar theScharnhorstgave,Then rolled her fires beneath the wave,A wretched, moving, dying thingWithin the watchful naval ring.The black, salt sea her vitals drank,And, quenched her thirst, theScharnhorstsank.
Little boys and little dogsAre made for one another.For show me, sir, a little dogJust taken from its motherThat will not find a tendernessAnd clumsy kind of joyIn the care, and taking care, ofA loving little boy.
Little boys and little dogsAre made for one another.For show me, sir, a little dogJust taken from its motherThat will not find a tendernessAnd clumsy kind of joyIn the care, and taking care, ofA loving little boy.
Little boys and little dogsAre made for one another.For show me, sir, a little dogJust taken from its motherThat will not find a tendernessAnd clumsy kind of joyIn the care, and taking care, ofA loving little boy.
We did not recognize her as she sank among us here,A wretched hulk, dismasted, disemboweled and stripped of gear.We did not recognize her. They were selling her for junkWhen she listed like a derelict, abandoned, wrecked, and sunk.For we were sea-dead sailors wandering aimlessly the deep,Without a ship, without a bunk, without a place to sleep,For we were sea-dead sailors of a ship that killed us allWhen she rolled her weight upon us as the bombs began to fall.We loved that ship. Her lines were trim, her speed was fleet and free,And when she joined maneuvers she was beautiful to see.That morning when torpodoes struck, with water, oil and bloodShe swiftly filled and overturned her masthead in the mud.How long we lived, how long lay dead within her flooded sidesTill all awakened, spirit-drifted, ebbing with the tides!Oh, some were brave but could not save the other, some afraid,And all upon a hillside we were later, gently laid.We did not recognize her, for the ship we loved so wellHad died with us that morning in the harbor’s flaming Hell,And our remembrance was not this, a scrapped and broken hullThat came among us timid as a shy and lonely gull.We turned our backs upon her; she was not of our command,But suddenly a seaman with a flashlight in his handBegan to signal frantically. We turned and somehow knewShe was theOklahomaand she knew we were her crew.We wept, we cried, we swarmed aboard, we kissed her weary decks,We made a thousand seaweed leis and hung them round our necks.We danced, we laughed; our salted eyes flowed tears without relief,For it was good to know at last the end of all her grief.We built a superstructure, casemates, turrets, funnel, jack.We fitted out compartments and we put the galley back.We mustered on the quarterdeck and bowed our heads in thanks,And mourned for those, our shipmates, who were missing from the ranks.We stationed watch and quarters and we stowed our gear below.We manned the bridge and sea-details, and rode the undertow.Some evening in the sunset of a bright and happy dayWe’ll come steaming through the Golden Gate for San Francisco Bay!
We did not recognize her as she sank among us here,A wretched hulk, dismasted, disemboweled and stripped of gear.We did not recognize her. They were selling her for junkWhen she listed like a derelict, abandoned, wrecked, and sunk.For we were sea-dead sailors wandering aimlessly the deep,Without a ship, without a bunk, without a place to sleep,For we were sea-dead sailors of a ship that killed us allWhen she rolled her weight upon us as the bombs began to fall.We loved that ship. Her lines were trim, her speed was fleet and free,And when she joined maneuvers she was beautiful to see.That morning when torpodoes struck, with water, oil and bloodShe swiftly filled and overturned her masthead in the mud.How long we lived, how long lay dead within her flooded sidesTill all awakened, spirit-drifted, ebbing with the tides!Oh, some were brave but could not save the other, some afraid,And all upon a hillside we were later, gently laid.We did not recognize her, for the ship we loved so wellHad died with us that morning in the harbor’s flaming Hell,And our remembrance was not this, a scrapped and broken hullThat came among us timid as a shy and lonely gull.We turned our backs upon her; she was not of our command,But suddenly a seaman with a flashlight in his handBegan to signal frantically. We turned and somehow knewShe was theOklahomaand she knew we were her crew.We wept, we cried, we swarmed aboard, we kissed her weary decks,We made a thousand seaweed leis and hung them round our necks.We danced, we laughed; our salted eyes flowed tears without relief,For it was good to know at last the end of all her grief.We built a superstructure, casemates, turrets, funnel, jack.We fitted out compartments and we put the galley back.We mustered on the quarterdeck and bowed our heads in thanks,And mourned for those, our shipmates, who were missing from the ranks.We stationed watch and quarters and we stowed our gear below.We manned the bridge and sea-details, and rode the undertow.Some evening in the sunset of a bright and happy dayWe’ll come steaming through the Golden Gate for San Francisco Bay!
We did not recognize her as she sank among us here,A wretched hulk, dismasted, disemboweled and stripped of gear.We did not recognize her. They were selling her for junkWhen she listed like a derelict, abandoned, wrecked, and sunk.
For we were sea-dead sailors wandering aimlessly the deep,Without a ship, without a bunk, without a place to sleep,For we were sea-dead sailors of a ship that killed us allWhen she rolled her weight upon us as the bombs began to fall.
We loved that ship. Her lines were trim, her speed was fleet and free,And when she joined maneuvers she was beautiful to see.That morning when torpodoes struck, with water, oil and bloodShe swiftly filled and overturned her masthead in the mud.
How long we lived, how long lay dead within her flooded sidesTill all awakened, spirit-drifted, ebbing with the tides!Oh, some were brave but could not save the other, some afraid,And all upon a hillside we were later, gently laid.
We did not recognize her, for the ship we loved so wellHad died with us that morning in the harbor’s flaming Hell,And our remembrance was not this, a scrapped and broken hullThat came among us timid as a shy and lonely gull.
We turned our backs upon her; she was not of our command,But suddenly a seaman with a flashlight in his handBegan to signal frantically. We turned and somehow knewShe was theOklahomaand she knew we were her crew.
We wept, we cried, we swarmed aboard, we kissed her weary decks,We made a thousand seaweed leis and hung them round our necks.We danced, we laughed; our salted eyes flowed tears without relief,For it was good to know at last the end of all her grief.
We built a superstructure, casemates, turrets, funnel, jack.We fitted out compartments and we put the galley back.We mustered on the quarterdeck and bowed our heads in thanks,And mourned for those, our shipmates, who were missing from the ranks.
We stationed watch and quarters and we stowed our gear below.We manned the bridge and sea-details, and rode the undertow.Some evening in the sunset of a bright and happy dayWe’ll come steaming through the Golden Gate for San Francisco Bay!
Night is a stricken bird whose breast is laid against the earth,Whose broken wings both comfort and surround the compassed air.Night is a fallen sparrow boys have stoned in spending smallOr token sums of their vast wealth’s amazing cruelty.Night is a stricken bird whose heart has throbbed against my own,Whose broken wings have brushed my cheek, whose beak has hit my lip.Night is a restless fellow gone to bed, who cannot sleep,Yet will not rise to walk the parks and barter with desire.Night is all the sewers of a frustrate mindSpewing up positioned nudes inseminating one another!
Night is a stricken bird whose breast is laid against the earth,Whose broken wings both comfort and surround the compassed air.Night is a fallen sparrow boys have stoned in spending smallOr token sums of their vast wealth’s amazing cruelty.Night is a stricken bird whose heart has throbbed against my own,Whose broken wings have brushed my cheek, whose beak has hit my lip.Night is a restless fellow gone to bed, who cannot sleep,Yet will not rise to walk the parks and barter with desire.Night is all the sewers of a frustrate mindSpewing up positioned nudes inseminating one another!
Night is a stricken bird whose breast is laid against the earth,Whose broken wings both comfort and surround the compassed air.Night is a fallen sparrow boys have stoned in spending smallOr token sums of their vast wealth’s amazing cruelty.
Night is a stricken bird whose heart has throbbed against my own,Whose broken wings have brushed my cheek, whose beak has hit my lip.Night is a restless fellow gone to bed, who cannot sleep,Yet will not rise to walk the parks and barter with desire.Night is all the sewers of a frustrate mindSpewing up positioned nudes inseminating one another!
Here are the guys who have died for the world,Died for the battles in which they were hurled,Died for the flags that have long since been furled,And on this cross, Christ!Here are the bastard, expendable lot,Here are the laughs when the laughter is not,Here are the guys who are always forgot,And on this cross, Christ!Look, you! Behold through the beard and the blood,The face of the lover inflamed with the crud;See the strong limbs that lie still in the mud.Look on the red lips that open no more.What does it matter by what gods they swore?War’s the procurer and here lies his whore!What can you say to a guy when he’s dead?Kneel down beside him, lift up his head?Thank what you thank it was not you instead?And on this cross?God love you and keep you, you son of a bitch,Scratching your ass or wherever you itch,Restless in sleep as you jump and you twitch.Go, when you’re called from your haunts and your sports;Go, be a number in battle’s reports.Drown your desires and shoot in your shortsTake up your rifle and take up your clip,Take the canteen and water you’ll sip.You’ve got a class that you don’t want to skip,As on this cross, Christ!
Here are the guys who have died for the world,Died for the battles in which they were hurled,Died for the flags that have long since been furled,And on this cross, Christ!Here are the bastard, expendable lot,Here are the laughs when the laughter is not,Here are the guys who are always forgot,And on this cross, Christ!Look, you! Behold through the beard and the blood,The face of the lover inflamed with the crud;See the strong limbs that lie still in the mud.Look on the red lips that open no more.What does it matter by what gods they swore?War’s the procurer and here lies his whore!What can you say to a guy when he’s dead?Kneel down beside him, lift up his head?Thank what you thank it was not you instead?And on this cross?God love you and keep you, you son of a bitch,Scratching your ass or wherever you itch,Restless in sleep as you jump and you twitch.Go, when you’re called from your haunts and your sports;Go, be a number in battle’s reports.Drown your desires and shoot in your shortsTake up your rifle and take up your clip,Take the canteen and water you’ll sip.You’ve got a class that you don’t want to skip,As on this cross, Christ!
Here are the guys who have died for the world,Died for the battles in which they were hurled,Died for the flags that have long since been furled,And on this cross, Christ!
Here are the bastard, expendable lot,Here are the laughs when the laughter is not,Here are the guys who are always forgot,And on this cross, Christ!
Look, you! Behold through the beard and the blood,The face of the lover inflamed with the crud;See the strong limbs that lie still in the mud.Look on the red lips that open no more.What does it matter by what gods they swore?War’s the procurer and here lies his whore!What can you say to a guy when he’s dead?Kneel down beside him, lift up his head?Thank what you thank it was not you instead?And on this cross?
God love you and keep you, you son of a bitch,Scratching your ass or wherever you itch,Restless in sleep as you jump and you twitch.Go, when you’re called from your haunts and your sports;Go, be a number in battle’s reports.Drown your desires and shoot in your shortsTake up your rifle and take up your clip,Take the canteen and water you’ll sip.You’ve got a class that you don’t want to skip,As on this cross, Christ!
Your nearness thundered through me and I shook,And when you said, “You’re trembling.” I said, “Yes.”And then you asked, “Ya scared?” What could I say?We two had been together since the StatesAnd I had kept the bluff and we were friends.Why, I remember how it was we met.We both were standing naked. You were soapedFrom head to foot and then the shower quit.I never heard a rhythmic stream of wordsSo finely mouthed, and chewed and spitted outBut now we lie together in the sandUpon a tropic beach. The enemy,For all our air and sea and boasted might,Had held his little island and opposedOur coming with such surety of aimThat half our comrades dropped face down, face up,And did not feel the black and blooded washThat played between their sprawled and spreaded legs.We two were forward on the farthest flankThat hoped to outmaneuver and destroyThe deep pillbox entrenchment where the NipHad taken his position and commandOf all the open, dead-man beach between.We’d found a little dune and dug us in,And all the long tormented afternoonWe lobbed our ineffectual grenadesAgainst the fort foreknowledge of the Jap.When night came on we got the word to hold,But silence and the darkness held us closeAnd I could hear your breathing, feel you near.And then there went through me an echoing roarAs when a mountainside of snow and iceLets loose its frantic grip and tumbles down.And then you said, “You’re trembling.” I said, “Yes.”You asked, “Ya scared?” And I said, “Yes,” again.The silence fell between us for a while.Your hand reached out and rudely grasped my arm.“You’re lying, kid.” Your grip was strong and fierce.You held me there as if to make me shoutWith pain or ecstasy, and time rushed byUnclocked. You shuddered then and let me go.“You’re lying, kid, and so, sweet God, am I.”The blast of brilliance, flame and heat that cameExploding close beside us threw the sand,And shell, and death and you and me apart.How long we lay half buried none will tellI know I wakened somewhere near the dawnAnd saw you stretched and saw your trousers torn.I crawled beside you, brushed away the sandThat filled your eyes. I held you in my arms,And pressed my mouth to yours as if my breathWithin your lungs would bring your arms around me.I know I sobbed, and wept, and cursed, and prayed.My fevered hands I burned beneath your blouseTo touch your unresponsive, frigid flesh.And then I knew that you were dead,That you were dead,That you were dead,That we should lie no more!
Your nearness thundered through me and I shook,And when you said, “You’re trembling.” I said, “Yes.”And then you asked, “Ya scared?” What could I say?We two had been together since the StatesAnd I had kept the bluff and we were friends.Why, I remember how it was we met.We both were standing naked. You were soapedFrom head to foot and then the shower quit.I never heard a rhythmic stream of wordsSo finely mouthed, and chewed and spitted outBut now we lie together in the sandUpon a tropic beach. The enemy,For all our air and sea and boasted might,Had held his little island and opposedOur coming with such surety of aimThat half our comrades dropped face down, face up,And did not feel the black and blooded washThat played between their sprawled and spreaded legs.We two were forward on the farthest flankThat hoped to outmaneuver and destroyThe deep pillbox entrenchment where the NipHad taken his position and commandOf all the open, dead-man beach between.We’d found a little dune and dug us in,And all the long tormented afternoonWe lobbed our ineffectual grenadesAgainst the fort foreknowledge of the Jap.When night came on we got the word to hold,But silence and the darkness held us closeAnd I could hear your breathing, feel you near.And then there went through me an echoing roarAs when a mountainside of snow and iceLets loose its frantic grip and tumbles down.And then you said, “You’re trembling.” I said, “Yes.”You asked, “Ya scared?” And I said, “Yes,” again.The silence fell between us for a while.Your hand reached out and rudely grasped my arm.“You’re lying, kid.” Your grip was strong and fierce.You held me there as if to make me shoutWith pain or ecstasy, and time rushed byUnclocked. You shuddered then and let me go.“You’re lying, kid, and so, sweet God, am I.”The blast of brilliance, flame and heat that cameExploding close beside us threw the sand,And shell, and death and you and me apart.How long we lay half buried none will tellI know I wakened somewhere near the dawnAnd saw you stretched and saw your trousers torn.I crawled beside you, brushed away the sandThat filled your eyes. I held you in my arms,And pressed my mouth to yours as if my breathWithin your lungs would bring your arms around me.I know I sobbed, and wept, and cursed, and prayed.My fevered hands I burned beneath your blouseTo touch your unresponsive, frigid flesh.And then I knew that you were dead,That you were dead,That you were dead,That we should lie no more!
Your nearness thundered through me and I shook,And when you said, “You’re trembling.” I said, “Yes.”And then you asked, “Ya scared?” What could I say?We two had been together since the StatesAnd I had kept the bluff and we were friends.
Why, I remember how it was we met.We both were standing naked. You were soapedFrom head to foot and then the shower quit.I never heard a rhythmic stream of wordsSo finely mouthed, and chewed and spitted out
But now we lie together in the sandUpon a tropic beach. The enemy,For all our air and sea and boasted might,Had held his little island and opposedOur coming with such surety of aimThat half our comrades dropped face down, face up,And did not feel the black and blooded washThat played between their sprawled and spreaded legs.
We two were forward on the farthest flankThat hoped to outmaneuver and destroyThe deep pillbox entrenchment where the NipHad taken his position and commandOf all the open, dead-man beach between.We’d found a little dune and dug us in,And all the long tormented afternoonWe lobbed our ineffectual grenadesAgainst the fort foreknowledge of the Jap.
When night came on we got the word to hold,But silence and the darkness held us closeAnd I could hear your breathing, feel you near.And then there went through me an echoing roarAs when a mountainside of snow and iceLets loose its frantic grip and tumbles down.And then you said, “You’re trembling.” I said, “Yes.”You asked, “Ya scared?” And I said, “Yes,” again.
The silence fell between us for a while.Your hand reached out and rudely grasped my arm.“You’re lying, kid.” Your grip was strong and fierce.You held me there as if to make me shoutWith pain or ecstasy, and time rushed byUnclocked. You shuddered then and let me go.“You’re lying, kid, and so, sweet God, am I.”
The blast of brilliance, flame and heat that cameExploding close beside us threw the sand,And shell, and death and you and me apart.How long we lay half buried none will tellI know I wakened somewhere near the dawnAnd saw you stretched and saw your trousers torn.I crawled beside you, brushed away the sandThat filled your eyes. I held you in my arms,And pressed my mouth to yours as if my breathWithin your lungs would bring your arms around me.I know I sobbed, and wept, and cursed, and prayed.My fevered hands I burned beneath your blouseTo touch your unresponsive, frigid flesh.And then I knew that you were dead,That you were dead,That you were dead,That we should lie no more!
Bury him! Not where the rough, raw earthWith his fathers’ bones is filled,Nor bury him there where the old chiefs’ bloodOn the rich, rolled plain is spilled,And bury him not where he’ll be forgot,With the reason for which he was killed,But, bury him. Bury him.Bury him not in a lonely plotIn the midst of the fools who criedOf his race and his face, and forgot every traceOf the reason for which he died,While the heart of the nation’s demoralizationBegan to ascend as it sighed,“Bury him. Bury him.”Bury him well. Let the bugler tellTo the listening wind and the woodHow an Indian boy, who was somebody’s joyAnd the pride of a small neighborhood,Met his death in the yell of a Korean hell,And, returned to his home, was accusedOf his race and his place in a nation’s disgrace,And his burial there was refused.Let the volley resound and the hollows be foundTo re-echo the bugle and gun,Till the echoes grow dim and we know that in himWe bury all men in this one.For we bury the stain when we bury the slainIn these wars that are yet to be won.Bury him, then, where such comrades shall lieSide by side in the long marbled sleep,As have longed long for sleeping, and there in their keepingAssign him the grave he shall keep.In that company of others, his spiritual brothers,Whose tears all were salt when they’d weep.Bury him. Bury him.Bury him mournfully, he who was scornfullyThought to be brought to disgrace among men.Bury heroically here all the stoicallySuffered injustice and wrong that has been.Bury the dead and defeated, repeatedMistakes that have tumbled our honor again.Bury the past with its hate and its slaughter,And from this sweet grave make beginning. Come, then,Bury him! Bury him!
Bury him! Not where the rough, raw earthWith his fathers’ bones is filled,Nor bury him there where the old chiefs’ bloodOn the rich, rolled plain is spilled,And bury him not where he’ll be forgot,With the reason for which he was killed,But, bury him. Bury him.Bury him not in a lonely plotIn the midst of the fools who criedOf his race and his face, and forgot every traceOf the reason for which he died,While the heart of the nation’s demoralizationBegan to ascend as it sighed,“Bury him. Bury him.”Bury him well. Let the bugler tellTo the listening wind and the woodHow an Indian boy, who was somebody’s joyAnd the pride of a small neighborhood,Met his death in the yell of a Korean hell,And, returned to his home, was accusedOf his race and his place in a nation’s disgrace,And his burial there was refused.Let the volley resound and the hollows be foundTo re-echo the bugle and gun,Till the echoes grow dim and we know that in himWe bury all men in this one.For we bury the stain when we bury the slainIn these wars that are yet to be won.Bury him, then, where such comrades shall lieSide by side in the long marbled sleep,As have longed long for sleeping, and there in their keepingAssign him the grave he shall keep.In that company of others, his spiritual brothers,Whose tears all were salt when they’d weep.Bury him. Bury him.Bury him mournfully, he who was scornfullyThought to be brought to disgrace among men.Bury heroically here all the stoicallySuffered injustice and wrong that has been.Bury the dead and defeated, repeatedMistakes that have tumbled our honor again.Bury the past with its hate and its slaughter,And from this sweet grave make beginning. Come, then,Bury him! Bury him!
Bury him! Not where the rough, raw earthWith his fathers’ bones is filled,Nor bury him there where the old chiefs’ bloodOn the rich, rolled plain is spilled,And bury him not where he’ll be forgot,With the reason for which he was killed,But, bury him. Bury him.
Bury him not in a lonely plotIn the midst of the fools who criedOf his race and his face, and forgot every traceOf the reason for which he died,While the heart of the nation’s demoralizationBegan to ascend as it sighed,“Bury him. Bury him.”
Bury him well. Let the bugler tellTo the listening wind and the woodHow an Indian boy, who was somebody’s joyAnd the pride of a small neighborhood,Met his death in the yell of a Korean hell,And, returned to his home, was accusedOf his race and his place in a nation’s disgrace,And his burial there was refused.
Let the volley resound and the hollows be foundTo re-echo the bugle and gun,Till the echoes grow dim and we know that in himWe bury all men in this one.For we bury the stain when we bury the slainIn these wars that are yet to be won.
Bury him, then, where such comrades shall lieSide by side in the long marbled sleep,As have longed long for sleeping, and there in their keepingAssign him the grave he shall keep.In that company of others, his spiritual brothers,Whose tears all were salt when they’d weep.Bury him. Bury him.
Bury him mournfully, he who was scornfullyThought to be brought to disgrace among men.Bury heroically here all the stoicallySuffered injustice and wrong that has been.Bury the dead and defeated, repeatedMistakes that have tumbled our honor again.Bury the past with its hate and its slaughter,And from this sweet grave make beginning. Come, then,Bury him! Bury him!
$2.50THE DEATHOF THESCHARNHORSTAnd Other PoemsbyArch Alfred McKillenIn the powerful narrative poem which furnishes the title for this impressive first volume, Arch Alfred McKillen tells the dramatic story of the sinking of the German battleshipScharnhorst, during World War II—an important day for the Allied Forces.These poems could have been written only by a man who has experienced deeply the emotions of which he writes. War is not the only subject of Mr. McKillen’s poems. He writes of love; and indignation prompts him to write strongly against racial prejudice. Sharpness and simplicity of style contribute greatly to the forceful effects which he achieves. Too often a reader’s enjoyment of poetry is marred by obscurity of meaning, but the clarity of thought and euphony of expression of the author, in this volume, leave no doubt in the reader’s mind of his intent.ReadingThe Death of the Scharnhorst and Other Poemswill be a memorable experience for poetry lovers.AVANTAGEBOOK
$2.50
THE DEATHOF THESCHARNHORSTAnd Other PoemsbyArch Alfred McKillen
In the powerful narrative poem which furnishes the title for this impressive first volume, Arch Alfred McKillen tells the dramatic story of the sinking of the German battleshipScharnhorst, during World War II—an important day for the Allied Forces.
These poems could have been written only by a man who has experienced deeply the emotions of which he writes. War is not the only subject of Mr. McKillen’s poems. He writes of love; and indignation prompts him to write strongly against racial prejudice. Sharpness and simplicity of style contribute greatly to the forceful effects which he achieves. Too often a reader’s enjoyment of poetry is marred by obscurity of meaning, but the clarity of thought and euphony of expression of the author, in this volume, leave no doubt in the reader’s mind of his intent.
ReadingThe Death of the Scharnhorst and Other Poemswill be a memorable experience for poetry lovers.
AVANTAGEBOOK
About the Author ...
Arch Alfred McKillen was born in Chicago, in 1914. Upon completion of high school, he went to work in a wire-winding factory. Later he worked in a mail-order house, and as a bonded messenger.
In 1939, Mr. McKillen enlisted in the United States Navy. He was stationed aboard theU.S.S. Tennesseeat Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941, when the Japanese attacked. Later, he served aboard other battleships in both the Pacific and the Atlantic, and finally was transferred to a Logistic Support Company on Okinawa.
Mr. McKillen is now a bookseller. In his spare time he is doing research for his next book.
VANTAGE PRESS, INC., 230 W. 41 Street, New York 36.