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WE WERE WAITING THAT MORNING FOR COLORS
We were waiting that morning for colors,
And the bands were ready to play,
And a motor launch crossing the harbor
Was making its peaceful way,
But to war and the roar of its thunder
Old Glory went up that day.
The firmament split, and our gunners,
The bravest and handsomest crew,
Mid fiery bomb and shrapnel,
Oh, how to their stations they flew!
They fought like a legion of angels
Against the corruption of Hell,
In the blaze of a sacred vengeance
For shipmate lads who fell.
They fought off the vicious invader,
They cut him out of the air,
And he dropped through the smoke of the combat
To death and destruction there.
And our flag through the hours of battle
Flew on till the fighting was won.
Oh, beautiful, dedicate banner,
Our victory has only begun.
With such gunners as ours to defend you,
So bright and beloved in the sky,
While devotion and manhood attend you,
Brave standard, continue on high.
We were waiting that morning for colors.
Old Glory forever shall fly!
THE MOTOR LAUNCH CREW
Crossing the harbor, four lads in a motor launch
Saw the invader host drop from the sky,
Saw a torpedo’s white wake through the water
Make for the stern of a vessel nearby.
“Jump!” cried the coxswain, “Here is my duty,
Here is the logic for which I was born,
One life asunder to stop the torpedo
Ere from their bodies a hundred are torn!”
“Nay,” cried the bowman. “We’re in this together.
Glory to God and such men as ye are!”
Seizing a boat hook he jumped to the gunwhale,
As mad as old Ahab, as fixed as a star.
Oh, the wild race in the harbor that morning!
Prayed to his Diesel the kid engineer,
“Fail me not now, O my beautiful engine!”
Swiftly the launch and torpedo drew near.
Wake upon wake, the two masses converging,
Never a word by the sternman was said.
Oh, there was death in the harbor that morning!
Under the keel the torpedo shaft fled.
Then with the force of a mighty harpooner,
Melville’s dread hero, such bowman was he,
Then from his arm the long boat hook went plunging
Faster than death and destruction could flee.
Into the blades of the whirling propeller,
Following after, the iron hook sank,
Changing the mark where the war head exploded,
Tumbling the rocks and a tree from the bank.
Then all around them the harbor was seething,
Concussion and fire and shouting and fear,
And they, too, are dead. Dead that motor launch coxswain,
That bowman, and sternman and kid engineer!
TO THE GARRISON AT WAKE
A little while, O sacramental dead,
Unvisited a little while yet be.
You shall not lie forgotten nor alone
While ships there are, and planes, and guns, and men.
For now, more adamant, more fierce, more keen,
In permanence and purpose fixed as stars,
To finite manhood hereby we annex
The infinite almightiness of God,
And we shall be His judgment! Woe to that
Ambitious offal sprung from Hell’s abyss
Which catastrophically we shall destroy,
Annihilate, forever make extinct.
No evil feet, where from your chaliced hearts
The precious blood has spilled, shall tread that earth,
That holy, transubstantiated isle
Whose very soil is body, soul, and blood
Of restless lads who loved America!
On who so tread shall light and darkness pounce,
Vast winged horrors plummeting, destroy,
Consuming brilliance, glut-engulfing night,
Like twin devourers, feed there on them!
Ye ancient dead, who fell with Greece or Rome,
Or in the name of Allah and his prophet,
Who fell through all the cycled years of war,
Through plague, disaster, fell in civil strife,
Through revolution, famine, flood and fire,
Apocalyptic woe or freezing night,
Ye ancient dead, to whom heroic stance
And unsurrendered dignity still cling,
Receive who come among you now like gods,
Four hundred splendid, handsome, golden lads.
To them extend that comradship of men
Who live the rugged military life,
Who smile that full, good-natured kind of smile,
Most boyishly unstudied, most beloved,
Wh k h th ’ th ht d t dh
Who know each other’s thoughts and wants and hopes,
Who know what prayers are said and what forgot,
Who know that greatest, crucifying love
Where friends for friends on strange new crosses die!
And you, O Seraph Outpost Garrison,
Who side by side heroically made stand,
No quarter given, none received, none asked,
Who fought those vicious legions in the three
Old elemental spheres, and of the fourth,
Almost invincible to flame and death,
Stood firmly placed before, beneath the attack
Like Milton’s epic host against all Hell,
New rest, brave lads, in consecrated sleep,
While lonely trumpets sing through muffled drums
A requiem and threnody of grief.
Ah, great Cecilia, Bach, and Handel blind,
Those last full-throated notes to swell from earth,
That trumpet song of loneliness and night,
Give it a contrapuntal theme beneath,
Whose pedal harmonies orchestrally
Shall hint of resurrection, while the pipes
And organ-pillar’d flutes resound the mode
To which the ancient dead have matched and sung.
Then light the strings until they burn as bright
And numberless as candles round a shrine,
Then start the rolling drums, and set the brass
Cannonically recalling one another,
And let the reeds’ ancestral wisdom speak,
What though at first the grave bassoons must weep
Their melancholy, febrile lamentation.
Unsheathe the horns and cut the harmonic knot.
Let full grand orchestra astound the void
With soaring fugue and metric tympani.
And in this last, let herald trumpets sing
While bright kid-trumpeteers who fell at Pearl
g p
Resound a call to quarters there beyond!
CORREGIDOR AND CALVARY
Corregidor and Calvary,
And Christ again is crucified,
And all the lovely lads who died
Are His this day in Paradise.
They hung upon a wretched cross,
We watched them day by day,
And wondered how such men could live
Who hung in such a way,
Who hung in thorns of screeching steel
And had no time to pray.
We knew that soon the lads must die,
And yet they battled death
Unmindful of his awful wings
And black, consuming breath,
Unmindful when he roared at them
Or whispered what he saith.
For shattered men will die in pain,
And shaken men will weep,
And there are things which blast the blood
And through the body creep,
And men will not lie down at night
Afeared that they will sleep.
Afeared they would too deeply sleep,
That battered hearts would burst;
And though each knew that he must die,
The dawn must beckon first,
And each must feel again the grip
Of loneliness and thirst.
For none would die alone, apart,
By twos and twelves they fell,
And if a man could walk he worked,
He loaded shot and shell,
For none would die alone, apart,
o o e wou d d e a o e, apa t,
Within a narrow cell.
Within a narrow cell at last
All men someday must lie,
But while their blood was in the heart
And light within the eye,
They would not leave the stand they took
Beneath the open sky.
They would not leave us, watching them,
Examples of defeat,
That when we come to look on death,
And though our ranks deplete,
Somehow we must think back to them,
The way they met it, meet!
Alas, Love, I would thou couldst as well
defende thy selfe as thou canst offende others
—SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
When he and I had met I knew
The way he smiled at me
That we’d become the best of pals
Two guys could ever be.
For night and day he filled my thoughts,
I talked of only him,
But there were eyes which watched us both,
Suspicious, cold, and dim.
Suspicious eyes and little mouths
That each reporting made
Of all the times we went to swim
Or rested in the shade.
They told of how we’d taken horse
To ride about the lea,
And how two lonely mounts were seen
Beneath a rugged tree.
They gossiped how instead of church
We went to watch the sun
Come charging over purple hills
To see the day begun,
And how we came not home again
Until that day was done.
And he and I went off to war,
Yet still their evil fed.
He never knew, not ever will,
The wretched things they said,
For he was on Corregidor,
And now the lad is dead.
TO THE MARINES
There’s only one banner says “Semper Fidelis!”
There’s only one flag we defend,
There’s only one heart and one mind and one body
In all of our battles we send.
We fought and we bled on Bataan and Corregidor,
Oh, how we held them at Wake!
And waited in vain for more men and munitions
With all the Pacific at stake.
The sleepers were many, but we were the few
Who wakened the quickest and fought,
And while readjustment and training were planned,
We did what we could, what we ought.
Our dead are at Henderson. Think you they rest?
They fight even now at our side,
Refusing to enter the realms of the blest
Until we have beaten the tide!
THE LADS WHO GO BELOW
The enemy’s reported,
And he’d like to see the show,
But he handles ammunition
So he’s got to go below.
And he’s ready on his station,
Every nerve alert and keen,
With a group of grim-faced sailors
In a lower magazine.
They can feel the ship’s vibrations
When the broadside salvos go,
And the shatter of the turrets
When they batter at the foe.
“Send ’em up and keep ’em coming!
Man the phones and man the hoist!”
Sweat and curse and pass the powder
Till the very deck is moist.
But the enemy is daring,
And his planes get through the screen,
A torpedo rips the blister
Just above the magazine.
Water fills the whole compartment,
In another fires rage,
But the guns still get their powder
And the enemy engage.
Trapped below, the lads are living,
And the hungry hoist they feed,
Though the first concussion stunned them
And their deafened ears must bleed.
Other hits, the foeman scoring,
Thunderous roars of flaming sheen,
“Save the ship from an explosion,
Flood the lower magazine!”
Lads, farewell! The air was dirty
With a lot of fume and smoke,
It’s as bad, lads, when you smother
As on briny water choke.
But the enemy’s defeated,
Thanks to you who’ll never know,
You who handled ammunition
And who had to go below!
THE ROAD TO HIGH WOOD
It was on the road to High Wood
That we found him lying dead,
The soldier boy in khaki
With the broken, battered head.
No more at dawn or sunset
Will he hear the bugle note,
Nor thrill to taps ascending
From a trumpet’s silver throat.
It was on the road to High Wood
Where the maple leaves were burned
That the lad went out at morning
And nevermore returned.
There are many roads to High Wood,
There are many roads to Hell,
And the fields of wheat are rotten
Where a thousand heroes fell.
NIGHT WATCH
His ship is on the ocean
But the sailor lad’s ashore,
And deeply, deeply sleeping,
He’ll waken nevermore.
We buried him atop the hill
That overlooks the bay,
And one there was who walked from there
With slower steps away.
And one there is on watch at night
Who wears the strangest smile,
Because he sees a specter lad
And talks with him awhile.
Across the world he comes to me,
And far horizons dim,
And I await the day when I,
Instead, shall go to him.
Then we will sail on all the seas
That poets can recite,
And stand beside another lad,
And watch with him at night.
THE SOLDIER AND THE SAMOVAR
They shot him as he left the house
And stripped him in the snow
But still he held the samovar
And would not let it go.
Who knows from what fine home he came
With afternoons at tea?
If I had been that lonely lad,
They would have shot at me.
For I’d have run as desperately
Behind some log to settle,
And sit me down beside my theft,
The big, old Russian kettle.
But dead he lies; the snow piles high
And winter fills the land,
And only spring will move the thing
And take it from his hand.
NOCTURNE
Beside you while you slumbered, lad,
My restless heart had lain
Through all the hours of the night
Aware of love and pain.
Aware of love and morning’s light
And eyes that must betray
When someday you should look in mine
Then ever look away.
I’ll come to where you slumber, lad,
If death shall mark me not
And say the prayer that now I pray,
And thought I had forgot.
THE SWING
The crooked swing that hung beneath
The crooked willow tree
Brought all his laughter to my ears
When school was out at three.
When later years and afternoons
Their symphony had sung
Beneath the crooked willow tree
An idle swing had hung.
Then war came on. There’s always war
To readjust the past,
And he got leave and I got leave,
And home we came at last.
But I alone return tonight
And naught to battle bring,
For he is dead beneath the tree
And broken hangs the swing.
