On Patrol

IN THE MORNING

BACK from battle, torn and rent,Listing bridge and stanchions bentBy the angry sea.By Thy guiding mercy sent,Fruitful was the road we went —Back from battle we.If Thou hadst not been, O Lord, behind our feeble arm,If Thy hand had not been there to slam the lyddite home,When against us men arose and sought to work us harm,We had gone to death, O Lord, in spouting rings of foam.Heaving sea and cloudy skySaw the battle flashing byAs Thy foemen ran.By Thy grace, that made them fly,We have seen two hundred dieSince the fight began.If our cause had not been Thine, for Thy eternal Right,If the foe in place of us had fought for Thee, O Lord!If Thou hadst not guided us and drawn us there to fight,We never should have closed with them – Thy seas are dark and broad.Through the iron rain they fled,Bearing home the tale of dead,Flying from Thy sword.After-hatch to fo'c'sle head,We have turned their decks to red,By Thy help, O Lord!It was not by our feeble sword that they were overthrown,But Thy right hand that dashed them down, the servants of the proud;It was not arm of ours that saved, but Thine, O Lord, alone,When down the line the guns began, and sang Thy praise aloud.Sixty miles of running fight,Finished at the dawning light,Off the Zuider Zee.Thou that helped throughout the nightWeary hand and aching sight,Praise, O Lord, to Thee.

IN FORTY WEST

WE are coming from the ranch, from the city and the mine,And the word has gone before us to the towns upon the Rhine;As the rising of the tideOn the Old-World side,We are coming to the battle, to the Line.From the valleys of Virginia, from the Rockies in the North,We are coming by battalions, for the word was carried forth:"We have put the pen away,And the sword is out to-day,For the Lord has loosed the Vintages of Wrath."We are singing in the ships as they carry us to fight,As our fathers sang before us by the camp-fires' light;In the wharf-light glareThey can hear us Over There,When the ships come steaming through the night.Right across the deep Atlantic where the Lusitania passed,With the battle-flag of Yankeeland a-floating at the mast,We are coming all the while,Over twenty hundred mile,And were staying to the finish, to the last.We are many – we are one – and we're in it overhead,We are coming as an Army that has seen its women dead,And the old Rebel YellWill be loud above the shellWhen we cross the top together, seeing red.

A RING AXIOM

WHEN the pitiless gong rings out again, and they whip your chair away,When you feel you'd like to take the floor, whatever the crowd should say,When the hammering gloves come back again, and the world goes round your head,When you know your arms are only wax, your hands of useless lead,When you feel you'd give your heart and soul for a chance to clinch and rest,And through your brain the whisper comes,"Give in, you've done your best," —Why, stiffen your knees and brace your back, and take my word as true —If the man in front has got you weak, he's just as tired as you.He can't attack through a gruelling fight and finish as he began;He's done more work than you to-day – you're just as fine a man.So call your last reserve of pluck – he's careless with his chin —You'll put it across him every time – Go in – Go in —Go in!

THE QUARTERMASTER

I mustn't look up from the compass-card, nor look at the seas at all,I must watch the helm and compass-card, – If I heard the trumpet-callOf Gabriel sounding Judgment Day to dry the Seas again,I must hold her bow to windward now till I'm relieved again —To the pipe and wail of a tearing gale,Carrying Starboard Ten.I must stare and frown at the compass-card, that chases round the bowl,North and South and back again with every lurching roll.By the feel of the ship beneath I know the way she's going to swing,But I mustn't look up to the booming wind however the halliards sing —In a breaking sea with the land a-lee,Carrying Starboard Ten.And I stoop to look at the compass-card as closes in the night,For it's hard to see by the shaded glow of half a candle-light;But the spokes are bright, and I note beside in the corner of my eyeA shimmer of light on oilskin wet that shows the Owner nigh —Foggy and thick and a windy trick,Carrying Starboard Ten.Heave and sway or dive and roll can never disturb me now;Though seas may sweep in rivers of foam across the straining bow,I've got my eyes on the compass-card, and though she broke her keelAnd hit the bottom beneath us now, you'd find me at the wheel —In Davy's realm, still at the helm,Carrying Starboard Ten.

IN THE BARRED ZONE

THEY called us up from England at the breaking of the day,And the wireless whisper caught us from a hundred leagues away —"Sentries at the Outer Line,All that hold the countersign,Listen in the North Sea – news for you to-day."All across the waters, at the paling of the morn,The wireless whispered softly ere the summer day was born —"Be you near or ranging far,By the Varne or Weser bar,The Fleet is out and steaming to the Eastward and the dawn."Far and away to the North and West, in the dancing glare of the sunlit ocean,Just a haze, a shimmer of smoke-cloud, grew and broadened many a mile;Low and long and faint and spreading, banner and van of a world in motion,Creeping out to the North and West, it hung in the skies alone awhile.Then from over the brooding haze the roar of murmuring engines swelled,And the men of the air looked down to us, a mile below their feet;Down the wind they passed above, their course to the silver sun-track held,And we looked back to the West again, and saw the English Fleet.Over the curve of the rounded sea, in ordered lines as the ranks of Rome,Over the far horizon steamed a power that held us dumb, —Miles of racing lines of steel that flattened the sea to a field of foam,Rolling deep to the wash they made,We saw, to the threat of a German blade,The Shield of England come.

WHO CARES?

THE sentries at the Castle Gate,We hold the outer wall,That echoes to the roar of hateAnd savage bugle-call —Of those that seek to enter in with steel and eager flame,To leave you with but eyes to weep the day the Germans came.Though we may catch from out the KeepA whining voice of fear,Of one who whispers "Rest and sleep,And lay aside the spear,"We pay no heed to such as he, as soft as we are hard;We take our word from men alone – the men that rule the guard.We hear behind us now and thenThe voices of the grooms,And bickerings of serving-menCome faintly from the rooms;But let them squabble as they please, we will not turn aside,But – curse to think it was for them that fighting men have died.Whatever they may say or try,We shall not pay them heed;And though they wail and talk and lie,We hold our simple Creed —No matter what the cravens say, however loud the din,Our Watch is on the Castle Gate, and none shall enter in.

THE UNCHANGING SEX

WHEN the battle-worn Horatius, 'midst the cheering Roman throng —All flushed with pride and triumph as they carried him along —Reached the polished porch of marble at the doorway of his home,He felt himself an Emperor – the bravest man of Rome.The people slapped him on the back and knocked his helm askew,Then drifted back along the road to look for something new.Then Horatius sobered down a bit – as you would do to-day —And straightened down his tunic in a calm, collected way.He hung his battered helmet up and wiped his sandals dry,And set a parting in his hair – the same as you and I.His lady kissed him carefully and looked him up and down,And gently disengaged his arm to spare her snowy gown.You are a real disgrace, you know, the worst I've ever seen;Now go and put your sword away, I know it isn't clean.And you must change your clothes at once, you're simply wringing wet;You've been doing something mischievous, I hope you lost your bet…Why! you're bleeding on the carpet. Who's the brute that hurt you so?Did you kill him? There's a darling! Serve him right for hitting low."Then she hustled lots of water, turning back her pretty sleeves,And she set him on the sofa (having taken off his greaves).And bold Horatius purred aloud, the stern Horatius smiled,And didn't seem to mind that he was treated like a child.Though she didn't call him Emperor, or cling to him and cry,Yet I rather think he liked it – just the same as you and I.

LOOKING AFT

I'M the donkey-man of a dingy trampThey launched in 'Eighty-one,Rickety, old, and leaky too – but some o' the rivets are shining newBeneath our after-gun.An' she an' meself are off to seaFrom out o' the breaker's hands,An' we laugh to find such an altered game, for devil a thing we found the sameWhen we came off the land.We used to carry a freight of trashThat younger ships would scorn,But now we're running a decent trade – howitzer-shell and hand-grenade,Or best Alberta corn.We used to sneak an' smouch alongWi' rusty side an' rails,Hoot an' bellow of liners proud – "Give us the room that we're allowed;Get out o' the track – the Mails!"We sometimes met – an' took their wash —The 'aughty ships o' war,An' we dips to them – an' they to us – an' on they went in a tearin' fuss,But now they count us more.For now we're "England's Hope and Pride" —The Mercantile Marine, —"Bring us the goods and food we lack, because we're hungry, Merchant Jack"(As often I have been)."You're the man to save us now,We look to you to win;Wot'd yer like? A rise o' pay? We'll give whatever you like to say,But bring the cargoes in."An' here we are in the danger zone,Wi' escorts all around,Destroyers a-racing to and fro – "We will show you the way to go,An' guide you safe an' sound.""An' did you cross in a comfy way,Or did you have to run?An' is the patch on your hull we see the mark of a bump in 'Ninety-three,Or the work of a German gun?""We'll lead you now, and keep beside,An' call to all the Fleet,Clear the road and sweep us in – he carries a freight we need to win,A golden load of wheat."Yes, we're the hope of England now,And rank wi' the Navy too;An' all the papers speak us fair – "Nothing he will not lightly dare,Nothing he fears to do.""Be polite to Merchant Jack,Who brings you in the meat,For if he went on a striking lay, you'd have to go on your knees and pray,With never a bone to eat."But you can lay your papers downAn' set your fears aside,For we will keep the ocean free – we o' the clean an' open sea —To break the German pride.We won't go canny or strike for pay,Or say we need a rest;But you get on wi' the blinkin' War – an' not so much o' your strikes ashore,Or givin' the German best.

A MAXIM

WHEN the foe is pressing and the shells come downIn a stream like maxim fire,When the long grey ranks seem to thicken all the while,And they stamp on the last of the wire,When all along the line comes a whisper on the windThat you hear through the drumming of the guns:"They are through over there and the right is in the air,And there isn't any end to the Huns," —Then keep along a-shooting till you can't shoot more,And hit 'em with a shovel on the head.Don't forget a lot of folk have beaten them before,And a Hun'll never hurt you if he's dead.If you're in a hole and your hopes begin to fail,If you're in a losing fight,Think a bit of Jonah in the belly of the whale,'Cause-he-got-out-all-right.

THE CRISIS

WHEN the Spartan heroes triedTo hold the broken gate,When – roaring like the rising tide —The Persian horsemen charged and diedIn foaming waves of hate.When with armour hacked and tornThey gripped their shields of brass,And hailed the gods that light the mornWith battle-cry of hope forlorn,"We shall not let them pass."While they combed their hair for deathBefore the Persian line,They spoke awhile with easy breath,"What think ye the Athenian saithIn Athens as they dine?""Doth he repent that we aloneAre here to hold the way,That he must reap what he hath sown —That only valour may atoneThe fault of yesterday?"Is he content that thou and I —Three hundred men in line —Should show him thus how man may tryTo stay the foemen passing byTo Athens, where they dine?"Ah! now the clashing cymbal rings,The mighty host is nigh;Let Athens talk of passing things —But here, three hundred Spartan kingsShall greet the fame the Persian bringsTo men about to die."

A SEA CHANTY

THERE'S a whistle of the wind in the rigging overhead,And the tune is as plain as can be."Hey! down below there – d'you know it's going to blow there,All across the cold North Sea?"And along comes the gale from the locker in the NorthBy the Storm-King's hand set free,And the wind and the snow and the sleet come forth,Let loose to the cold North Sea.Tumble out the oilskins, the seas are running white,There's a wet watch due for me,For we're heading to the east, and a long wet nightAs we drive at the cold North Sea.See the water foaming as the waves go byLike the tide on the sands of Dee;Hear the gale a-piping in the halliards highTo the tune of the cold North Sea.See how she's meeting them, plunging all the while,Till I'm wet to the sea-boot knee;See how she's beating them – twenty to the mile —The waves of the cold North Sea.Right across from Helgoland to meet the English coast,Lie better than the likes of we, —Men that lived in many ways, but went to join the hostThat are buried by the cold North Sea.Rig along the life-lines, double-stay the rails,Lest the Storm-King call for a fee;For if any man should slip, through the rolling of the ship,He'd be lost in the cold North Sea.We are heading to the gale, and the driving of the sleet,And we're far to the east of Three.Hey! you German sailormen, here's the British FleetWaiting in the cold North Sea.

A.D. 400

A long low ship from the Orkneys' sailed,With a full gale driving her along,Three score sailormen singing as they baledTo the tune of a Viking song —We have a luck-charmCarved on the tiller,Cut in the fore-roomSee we Thor's Hammer;Gods will protect usUnder a shield-burgh,Carved in the mast we —The Runes of Yggdrasil!But the Earl called down from the kicking tiller-head,"Six hands lay along to me!Tumble out the hawsers there, Skallagrim the Red!For a battle with a Berserk sea;Sing a song of work, of a well-stayed mast,Of clinch and rivet and pine,Of a bull's-hide sail we can carry to the lastOf a well-built ship like mine.Never mind the Runes on the bending treeOr the charms on the tiller that I hold,Trust to your hands and the Makers of the Sea,To the gods of the Viking bold!Thor of the Hammer —King of the Warriors,We are not thralls here– Men of the sea;We are not idle,Fight we as seamen,Worthy your aid then– Men of the Sea!"

OVERDUE

IN the evening – in the sunset – when the long day dies,Out across the broad Atlantic, where the great seas go,When the Golden Gates are open and the sunlight flies,The fairy Islands drift and fade against the crimson glow.In the evening, when the fiery sun was sinking in the West,St Brandan and the chosen few went sailing out to sea, —To the Westward – to the sunset – to the Golden Isle of rest,The haven of the weary men, the land of Fairie.Is it only in the sunset we may find the Golden Fleece?Is it only to the Westward that the Fairyland is found?And those who went away from us and passed from war to peace —Are they looking still for Fairyland the wide world round?Then as I gazed across the dark the morning answer came —To Eastward stretched the golden sea for many a golden mile;The far horizon joined the sky in dancing lines of flame —And drifting on the seas of dawn, I saw St Brandan's Isle.

1

A letter-form which enables the sender to address his Seniors more abruptly than he would dare to do without its assistance.

2

D.S.B. = Duty Steam Boat.

3

A.I.O. = Admiralty Interim Order.

4

K.R.A.I. = King's Regulations and Admiralty Instructions.

5

C.P.O. = Chief Petty Officer.

6

O.O.D. – Officer of the day.