On Patrol

John Graham Bower        , Klaxon

On Patrol

TOD. V. BTHEY watch us leaving harbour for the greatest game of all,And wonder if we're coming back across the greedy sea;They never know the fighting thrill or high adventure's call —I rather think the women folk are better men than we.But I suspect they say of us as out to sea we go,In all our panoply of pride from Orkney to the Nore:"It keeps them quiet, we suppose – they like the work, we know —And soon perhaps they'll tire and play some safer game than War."

TO —

HE went to sea on the long patrol,Away to the East from the Corton Shoal,But now he's overdue.He signalled me as he bore away(A flickering lamp through leaping spray,And darkness then till judgment day),"So long! Good luck to you!"He's waiting out on the long patrol,Till the names are called at the muster-rollOf seamen overdue.Far above him, in wind and rain,Another is on patrol again —The gap is closed in the Naval ChainWhere all the links are new.Over his head the seas are white,And the wind is blowing a gale to-night,As if the Storm-King knew,And roared a ballad of sleet and snowTo the man that lies on the sand below,A trumpet-song for the winds to blowTo seamen overdue.Was it sudden or slow – the death that came?Roaring water or sheets of flame?The end with none to view?No man can tell us the way he died,But over the clouds Valkyries rideTo open the gates and hold them wideFor seamen overdue.But whether the end was swift or slow,By the Hand of God, or a German blow,My messmate overdue —You went to Death – and the whisper ranAs over the Gates the horns began,Splendour of God! We have found a man—Good-bye! Good luck to you!

OLD WOMEN

FAINT against the twilight, dim against the evening,Fading into darkness against the lapping sea,She sailed away from harbour, from safety into danger,The ship that took him from me – my sailor boy from me.He went away to join her, from me that loved and bore him,Loved him ere I bore him, that was all the world to me."No time for leave, mother, must be back this evening,Time for our patrol again, across the winter sea."Six times over, since he went to join her,Came he to see me, to run back again."Four hours' leave, mother – still got the steam up,Going on patrol to-night – the old East lane.""Seven times lucky, and perhaps we'll have a battle,Then I'll bring a medal back and give it you to keep."And his name is in the paper, with close upon a hundred,Who lie there beside him, many fathom deep.And beside him in the paper, somebody is writing,– God! but how I hate him – a liar and a fool, —"Where is the British Navy – is it staying in the harbours?Has the Nelson spirit in the Fleet begun to cool?"

CHIN UP

ARE the prices high and taxes stiff, is the prospect sad and dark?Have you seen your capital dwindle down as low as the German mark?Do you feel your troubles around you rise in an endless dreary wall?Well – thank your God you were born in time for the Greatest War of all.It will be all right in a thousand years – you won't be bankrupt then.This isn't the time of stocks and shares, it's just the age of men.The one that sticks it out will win – so don't lie down and bawl,But thank your God you've helped to win the noblest War of all.Away to the East in Flanders' mud, through Dante's dream of Hell,The troops are working hard for peace with bayonet, bomb, and shell,With poison gas and roaring guns beneath a smoking pall;Yes – thank your God your kin are there – the finest troops of all.You may be stripped of all you have – it may be all you say,But you'll have your life and eyesight left, so stow your talk of pay.You won't be dead in a bed of lime with those that heard the Call;So thank your God you've an easy job in the Greatest War of all.It isn't the money that's going to count when the Flanders' men return,And a shake of your hand from Flanders' men is a thing you've got to earn.Just think how cold it's going to be in the Nation's Judgment Hall;So damn your troubles and find your soul in the Greatest War of all!

"… THAT HAVE NO DOUBTS"

– Rudyard Kipling.THE last resort of Kings are we, but the voice of peoples too—Ask the guns of Valmy Ridge —Lost at the Beresina Bridge,When the Russian guns were roaring death and the Guard was charging through.Ultima Ratio Regis, we – but he who has may hold,Se curantes Dei curant,Hear the gunners that strain and pant,As when before the rising gale the Great Armada rolled.Guns of fifty – sixty tons that roared at Jutland fight,Clatter and clang of hoisting shell;See the flame where the salvo fellAmidst the flash of German guns against the wall of white.The sons of English carronade or Spanish culverin—The Danish windows shivered and brokeWhen over the sea the children spoke,And groaning turrets rocked again as we went out and in.We have no passions to call our own, we work for serf or lord,Load us well and sponge us clean —Be your woman a slave or queen —And we will clear the road for you who hold us by the sword.We come into our own again and wake to life anew—Put your paper and pens away,For the whole of the world is ours to-day,And we shall do the talking now to smooth the way for you.Howitzer gun or Seventy-five, the game is ours to play,And hills may quiver and mountains shake,But the line in front shall bend or break.What is it to us if the world is mad? For we are the Kings to-day.

SKY SIGNS

WHEN all the guns are sponged and cleaned, and fuzes go to store,when all the wireless stations cry – "come home, you ships of war" —"come home again and leave patrol, no matter where you be."We'll see the lights of England shine,Flashing again on the steaming line,As out of the dark the long grey hulls come rolling in from sea.The long-forgotten lights will shine and gild the clouds ahead,Over the dark horizon-line, across the dreaming deadThat went to sea with the dark behind and the spin of a coin before.Mark the gleam of Orfordness,Showing a road we used to guess,From the Shetland Isles to Dover cliffs – the shaded lane of war.Up the channel with gleaming ports will homing squadrons go,And see the English coast alight with headlands all aglowWith thirty thousand candle-power flung up from far Gris-nez.Portland Bill and the Needles' Light —Tompions back in the guns to-night —For English lights are meeting French across the Soldiers' Way.When we come back to England then, with all the warring done,And paint and polish come up the side to rule on tube and gun,We'll know before the anchor's down, the tidings won't be new.Lizard along to the Isle of Wight,Every lamp was burning bright,Northern Lights or Trinity House – we had the news from you!

AN ENTENTE

AS we were running the Channel along, with a rising wind abeam,Steering home from an escort trip as fast as she could steam,I'd just come up, relieving Bill, to look for Fritz again,When I turns to the Skipper an', "Sir," I says, "I 'ears an aeroplane."An' sure enough, from out o' the clouds astern, we seed 'im come,An' down the wind the engine sang with a reg'lar oarin' 'um.The Skipper 'e puts 'is glasses down, an' smilin' says to me,"We needn't be pointin' guns at 'im – 'e's one o' the R.F.C.We don't expect to meet the Boche, or any o' his machines,From here to France an' back again – except for submarines."An' 'e looks again at the 'plane above, an' says, "I do believeIt's a fightin' bus – good luck to them – an' lots of London leave."An' jolly good luck, says I, says I,To you that's overhead;An' may you never go dry, go dry,Or want for a decent bed.With yer gaudy patch, says I, says I,Of Red an' White an' Blue —Oh, may the bullets go by, go by,An' not be findin' you.Astonishing luck, says I, says I,To you an' yer aeroplane;An' if it's yer joss to die, to die,When you go back again —May the enemy say as you drop below,An' you start your final dive:"Three of us left to see him go,An' it must be nice for him to know,That wasn't afraid o' five."

A BATTLE-PRAYER

SUBMARINESWHEN the breaking wavelets pass all sparkling to the sky,When beyond their crests we see the slender masts go by,When the glimpses alternate in bubbles white and green,And funnels grey against the sky show clear and fair between,When the word is passed along – "Stern and beam and bow" —"Action stations fore and aft – all torpedoes now!"When the hissing tubes are still, as if with bated breathThey waited for the word to loose the silver bolts of death,When the Watch beneath the Sea shall crown the great Desire,And hear the coughing rush of air that greets the word to fire,We'll ask for no advantage, Lord – but only we would prayThat they may meet this boat of ours upon their outward way.THE BATTLE-FLEETTHE moment we have waited longIs closing on us fast,When, cutting short the turret-gong,We'll hear the Cordite's Battle-songThat hails the Day at last.The clashing rams come driving forthTo meet the waiting shell,And far away to East and NorthOur targets steam to meet Thy Wrath,And dare the Gates of Hell.We do not ask Thee, Lord, to-dayTo stay the sinking sun —But hear Thy steel-clad servants pray,And keep, O Lord, Thy mists awayUntil Thy work is done.DESTROYERSTHROUGH the dark nightAnd the fury of battlePass the destroyers in showers of spray.As the Wolf-pack to the flank of the cattle,We shall close in on them – shadows of grey.In from ahead,Through shell-flashes red,We shall come down to them, after the Day.Whistle and crashOf salvo and volleyRound us and into us while we attack.Light on our target they'll flash in their folly,Splitting our ears with the shrapnel-crack.Fire as they will,We'll come to them still,Roar as they may at us – Back – Go Back!White though the seaTo the shell-flashes foaming,We shall be there at the death of the Hun.Only we pray for a star in the gloaming(Light for torpedoes and none for a gun).Lord – of Thy GraceMake it a race,Over the sea with the night to run.

AN ADMINISTRATIVE VICTORY

A tale is told of a captain boldOf E-boat Seventy-two;She steered to eastward – pitched and rolled, and Poulson swore at her, damp and cold,As E-boat captains do.And off the mouth of the German Bight,With Borkum on the bow,She saw the smoke of a German fleet – MIND YOUR FINGERS – SEVENTY FEET!We're in for business now…(For enemy ships are hard to find —You have to take them quick;So copy the Eastern vulture's rule, that waits for days for an Army mule —Always ready to click.)Out to the west from HelgolandThe big grey cruiser steered,And the glinting rays of a rising sun flashed on funnel and mast and gun,And – Admiral Schultz's beard.Down the wind the E-boat cameAnd passed the searching screen;Nobody guessed the boat was there, till they heard the wallop and saw the flare —Where the pride of the fleet had been.'Twixt white and green of dancing wavesThe racing tracks were seen,And Poulson watching them get there, cried — Hold the crockery – Starboard side!For the kick of a magazine!The escort ran and the cruisers ranAt the thought of an English snare;Scattered and spread to left and right, to the friendly arms of the German Bight,And left the ocean bare.Then the coffee was spilt, the E-boat rolledTo a deuce of a shaking bang;To the sound of the hammer of Aser-Thor, victory-song of Naval War,The hull of the E-boat rang.And Poulson swinging the eye-piece round,Lifted eyebrows high,For far aloft, when the smoke had cleared, he saw the flash of a golden beardAgainst the empty sky."Admiral over! Surface, lads!He's flying a belted sword;Pipe the side or stern or bow, stand to attention smartly now —Wherever he comes aboard."The Admiral landed Cabré-wiseAnd high the fountains burst —(What is the meaning of Cabré-wise? To men of the air it signifies —His after-end was first).They piped the side, and still they stoodTo watch him struggle and heave,As he fought the slope of the rounded deck (for none could pull at an Admiral's neckWithout the Admiral's leave).They took him below, and sat him downOn the edge of the Captain's bed, —Treatment vile for a foemen caught, they gave him a bottle of Navy Port —Fiery, dark, and red.They landed him at a Naval Base,With S. two-twenty D.Supplied – a large and bearded Hun: Grosse Admirals, angry, One —For draft to Admiraltee.And Grosse-Admiral Schultz von Schmidt,Graf von Hansa-Zoom,Faded away to Donnington Hall, to an English park with a guarded wall– To an elegant private room.And there he paced the carpet up,And paced the carpet down,"Alte Himmel!" – the prisoners cried – "Some one's trod on the German pride,And dared the Hansa frown!"The Admiral called for a fountain penAnd Reference Sheets1 galore,And silence fell on the smoking-room – for Grosse-Admiral Hansa-ZoomWas throwing a Gage of War."Can I believe your Lordships meanTo stand so idly by —When a young lieutenant of twenty-four, pleading the need of Naval War,Shall make an Admiral fly?Never shall I believe it trueThat I should have to fallOn an icy sea with an awful spank, by the act of one of a junior rank,I – Schultz, of Donnington Hall."Their Lordships read – and bells were heardThat woke the echoing past;And Scouts and messengers jumped and fled – till all was still as a world of deadBeneath the wireless mast.My Lords in solemn conclave drewBehind a bolted door,Threshing it out in full debate – "Is it a case for an Acting Rate?Or use of Martial Law?"At four o'clock in the afternoon,With tea-cups clattering past,Along the echoing Portland floor the whisper passed from door to door —"They've settled it all at last!"And I have the word of a lady fairIn Room Two Thousand B —(A perfect peach, I beg to state), who typed the letter in triplicateAnd passed it on to me."We find the Enemy Admiral's NoteIs based on Service Law —That disrespect to a Flag afloat has sullied the fame of Poulson's boatDespite the Needs of War.But he erred unknowing – so we shall maskHis breach of Service pomp, —We'll make him an Admiral, D.S.B. 2 – Acting – payless – biscuit free,In lieu of lodging and Comp.We'll rate him at once as an A.I.O. 3With a K.R.A. and an I., 4We'll make him a deputy C.P.O., 5 with Rank of Admiral, whether or no,And a beautiful Flag to fly."And now when Poulson sails to warIn E-boat Seventy-two,The boatswains pipe and the bugles blare, "Stand to attention – forward there!The Admiral's passing you!"That is the tale as told to meBy a friend from Beatty's Fleet,When over a glass (or even two), he swore to me that the tale was true,In a Tavern in Regent Street.

A NIGHTMARE

THE Council of Democracy around the table drew(The table was a beauty – it was polished – it was new,Twenty feet from side to side and half a mile in length,Built of rosewood and mahogany of double extra strength.The C in C had gone to jail to answer to the chargeOf saying what he thought about Democracy at large.So the Council of Democracy had taken on the job,After voting the removal of his Autocratic nob.And the table was erected in a calm secluded spot,Well away from any trenches, lest a voter should be shot).And the Chairman raised a hammer and he hit the board a whack,No one paid the least attention, so he put the hammer back.Then he read the lengthy minutes of the gathering before,To the ever-growing murmur of the Democratic snore.And he put before the meeting all the questions of the day,Such as "Shorter hours for Delegates, and seven times the pay."With a minor matter for the end – "What shall the Council doAbout this fellow Mackensen? they say he's coming throughWith a hundred thousand hirelings of the Hohenzollern Line,And breaking all the Union Rules by working after nine."At this a group of Delegates departed for the door,To consult with their constituents the conduct of the War.The remainder started voting on the Delegation Pay,And agreed with unanimity to seven quid a day.They decided that unless the Germans travelled very fast,There'd be time for all the speeches – so they took the matter last.But just as Mr Blithers to the Chairman had addressedHis opinion – he departed for the Country of the Blest,(Both in body and in spirit to the heavens he departed,And the Council looked dispirited, though hardly broken-hearted).All the delegates were wondering from whence the shell had come;One arose to ask a question – Bang!! – he went to Kingdom Come."Mr Chairman," cried a Delegate. "A point of order! IDon't believe the Huns are coming – it's an Autocratic lie.I shall move the Army question do be left upon the Table,And I'm going home to England just as fast as I am able."Then he gathered up his papers, and was pushing back his chair,When a heavy high explosive sent him sailing in the air.The Chairman beat his hammer on the table all the while,Yelling oaths and calling "Order" in a Democratic style.But the Delegates were started on the question of the War,(So as not to waste the speeches that they'd written out before).And the Council of Democracy – a thousand fluent tongues —Let the Germans have it hearty from its Democratic lungs.Through the bursting of the shrapnel they were constant to the end, —Kept referring to each other as "My honourable friend."And in groups of ten and twenty they were blasted into spaceBy the disrespectful cannon of an Autocratic race,Till the gathering had dwindled to an incoherent few,Who were still explaining volubly what England ought to do,When the cannon ceased abruptly and they heard the Germans cheer,And a sergeant entered roaring, "Himmel, Ach! was Schmutz ist hier!Mask your faces, pig-dogs, quickly – all the room is full of gas.Vorwärts, Carl der Kindermörder – use your bayonet, Saxon ass!"Faithful to the last, the Chairman, spying strangers all around,Told them they were out of order; hardly seemed to touch the ground.Told them of his best intentions, how with love of them he burned,Shouted as the bayonet caught him, "Ow! the Council is adjourned!"

RELEASED

WE are drifting back from the End of Hell to the home we long for so, —Back from the land of fear and hate that jeers at wounded men;Maimed and crippled are we to-day, but free from curse or blow —That we knew too well in the land of Cain, the guarded prisoners' den.We drift away to the homes we left a thousand years ago,And there we wait in the Truce of God for the hand of Death to fall,Waiting aside in hovel or hall – where only neighbours know —The broken men that the War has left to shun the gaze of all.Is it nothing to you that pass us by – hurrying on your way,Whispering low of peace and rest to the tune of a German song?Only but for the Grace of God you might be where we lay —With festering wounds in a truck for beasts, the butt of a laughing throng.Peace and Rest? The peace will come when God shall stay His hand,And change the heart of the German race that mocks at wounded men.The rest you seek? What need of that? you fight for a Christian land,And all Eternity waits for you – what need of rest till then?We are broken and down in the fight of the world for an end to heathen lust,But the sword we dropped when the darkness came is yours to handle yet.If you sheathe the sword for a greed of gold or suffer the steel to rust,The curse of the captive men be yours – the day when you forget – !

REGULUS

(Written after reading the story of that name in 'A Diversity of Creatures' by Kipling.)OUT to the wharf where the long ship lay with her beak to the open sea,He went by the way of the merchantmen that trade to the ports of Spain;Clamouring folk beside him ran with sorrowing voice or wailing plea:"Hero – Pride of the Roman State! Turn again at the Harbour-Gate,Back and away from Tyrian hate with us to Rome again."Out on the wharf he walked from those – that wailed and wept to see him go;And hand in his she walked with him – her royal head on high.And the crowd was still as she turned and spoke – her hand in his and her eyes aglow:"Here where the tide and Tiber foam, I turn from you to an empty home.But alone of women of wailing Rome I have no tears to dry;"Pass to the sea and the Death beyond to the home of the Gods you left for Earth;Of all the women of Rome to-night, no pride shall equal mine.A God, the man that leaves me now – but ah! a lover that thought me worth —The whispered word of a husband true – I thank the Gods that I hold from youThe right that fair Eurydice knew – the love of a man Divine."

A NORTH SEA NOTE

THE wind that whispered softly over Kiel across the Bay,Died away as the dark closed down,Till the Dockyard glare showed the ending of the dayIn the Fortress-Town.In the silence of the night as the big ships swungTo the buoys as the flood-tide made,Came a clamour from the wind like a shield that is rungBy a foemen's blade.Far above the masts where the wireless showed,Traced out against a star-lit sky,A voice called down from the Whist-hound's roadWhere the clouds went by —Listen down below – In the High Sea Fleet,For a signal that was shouted up to meBy the sailors that I left on the old, old beat,Far out in the cold North Sea.They shouted up to me as the glass went down,And they ducked to the North-West spray,"Will you take a message to the Fortress-Town,And the Fleet that is lying in the Bay?"Say that we are waiting in the waters of the North,And we'll wait till the seas run dry —Or the High Sea Fleet from the Bight comes forth,And the twelve-inch shells go by."We have waited very long, but we haven't any doubtThey are longing for the day we'll meet.But tell 'em as you pass that the sooner they are out,All the better for the English Fleet."For when we see 'em sinking – (they'll be fighting to the last,And for those that are lost we'll grieve,)We will cheer for a signal at the Flagship's mast —On arrival at the Base – Long Leave!"

SOMETHING WRONG

"THE German Fleet is coming,"The Sunday papers say,"And the shell will soon be hummingWhen they fix upon the Day."All the Sunday experts write,Working very late at night —"They are coming – they'll be on you any day."Though it's very cheery reading,And we hear it ev'ry week;Yet the Hun is still unheeding,And is just as far to seek.And it seems so unavailingThey should write and tell us so —If the Hun is shortly sailing,Couldn't some one let him know?We are ready, and we're waiting,And we know they're going to fight;And we're just as good at hatingAs the Brainy Ones that write.But they talk of InformationThey have gathered unbeknown —That "the mighty German NationIs a mass of skin and bone."And they take their affidavyThat a fight is due at sea:Dammit – tell the German Navy,What's the use of telling me?

WE

ALL our fighting brothers are away across the foam,Hats off to the Englishman!Here's a chance for Englishmen living safe at home,Make a lot of money while you can!We are fighting for the Right and the Honour of the RaceWith the Bulldog Grip they know;Who's the silly novice there putting on the pace?You'll be taken for a Yank – Go slow!All the Nations know us as the finest of the Earth;Three cheers for the lads in blue!An' we're drawing extra wages that are more than we are worth —But a half-day's work will do.The shades of England's fighting men are watching us with prideAs we live for England's fame;To save us for posterity was why they went and died —Oh! The War is a real fine game!Let the War go rolling on alone for awhile,Let the line stand fast in the West;Let 'em learn to use the bayonet in the grand old style,While the Bulldog Boys have a rest.What's the good of hurrying? British pluck'll win;We can stand to the strain all right.What about another rise? Send the notice in —Just to show how the Bulldogs fight.Chorus! all together – We're the finest race of all,So beware of the English Blade;Now the fighting men are gone – why, however many fall,All the more for the lads that stayed.

THE SAILOR'S VIEW

(1916)TOO proud to fight? I'm not so sure – our skipper now and thenHas lectured to us on patrol on foreign ships and men,And other nation's submarines, when cruising round the Bight;And 'seems to me – when they begin – the Yankee chaps can fight.Why, if I was in the army (which I ain't – and no regrets)And had my pick of Generals – from London's latest pets,To Hannibal and Wellington – to follow whom I chose,I wouldn't think about it long – I'd give the job to thoseWho fought across a continent for three long years and more(I bet the neutral papers didn't say in 'sixty-fourOf Jackson, Sherman, Lee and Grant – "The Yanks can only shout" —That lot was somewhere near the front when pluck was handed out);But what the Skipper said was this; "There's only been but oneSuccessful submarine attack before this war begun,And it wasn't on a liner on the easy German plan,But on a well-found man-of-war, and Dixon was the manWho showed us how to do the trick, a tip for me and you,And I'd like to keep the standard up of Dixon and his crew,For they hadn't got a submarine that cost a hundred thou',But a leaky little biscuit-box, and stuck upon her bowA spar torpedo like a mine, and they and Dixon knewThat if they sank the enemy they'd sink the David too.She'd drowned a crew or two before – they dredged her up again,And manned and pushed her off to sea. – My oath, it's pretty plainThey had some guts to give away, that tried another tripIn a craft they knew was rather more a coffin than a ship;And they carried out a good attack, and did it very well.As a model for the future, why, it beats the books to Hell,A tradition for the U.S.A., and, yes – for England too;For they were men with English names, and kin to me and you,And I'd like to claim an ancestor with Dixon when he diedAt the bottom of the river at the Housatonic's side."