*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 64594 ***
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{iii} 

THE DEATH OF
THE
SCHARNHORST
AND OTHER POEMS

by ARCH ALFRED McKILLEN





VANTAGE PRESS, Inc. NEW YORK

{iv} 

Copyright, 1952, by Arch Alfred McKillen
Manufactured in the United States of America

{v} 

To
L.R.D., EM 1/c, U. S. Navy
Killed in action, Pearl Harbor, T. H.
December 7, 1941

Smile a little, lad,
 For when you smile
 There is no sleep.
 How can there then be Death?
 {vi}

The Chicago Sun has kindly granted permission to
reprint the poem “The Litany of Pearl Harbor,”
which it published on December 7, 1942, in
June Provines’ column
{vii}

CONTENTS

 Page
The Bird, the Lad and Me1
The War in Spain1
It Rains Tonight2
While Drums Are Rolling2
Apollo3
Fountain of Loveliness4
Highway Number 665
Dirge for the Squalus6
Echo Canyon7
Fragment8
We Hang upon a Scaffold8
I Looked into Your Eyes9
Of This Great Voiceless Love9
I Would Have Brought You Fire10
Too Much of Life10
Lone Cello11{viii}
Apocalypse11
The Old Sea Wall12
The Midnight Horseman13
Lonely Heart14
Dreams15
The Bugles Called15
Morning Guard16
When Kilmer Wrote of Trees17
Wild Geese17
I Write to You in Red18
’Tis Winter Now18
Sonnet19
The Tropic Dawn20
Twilight21
Echo21
Star Course22
Memorandum23
The Litany of Pearl Harbor23
We Were Waiting That Morning for Colors26
The Motor Launch Crew27
To the Garrison at Wake28
Corregidor and Calvary31
When he and I had met33{ix}
To the Marines34
The Lads Who Go Below35
The Road to High Wood36
Night Watch37
The Soldier and the Samovar38
Nocturne38
The Swing39
Somewhere on Leave40
The Sentry41
I Watched Him in the Tournament41
South Pacific42
Deck-Ape43
Sailor Boy43
Avenge44
The Crossing of the Rhine45
The Ballad of the Dead Sailor45
The Death of the Scharnhorst47
Little Boys and Little Dogs53
U.S.S. Oklahoma Returns to Her Crew54
Night56
For All Heroes57
Foxhole58
Bury Him61

{1}{x}

THE BIRD, THE LAD AND ME

The sky was touched with tints of morn,
 A wind was in the trees,
 I lay in bed awakened
 By the murmur of the leaves.
I listened to the chirping
 Of the first-awakened bird,
 And, his leather heels a-clicking,
 Some lad off to work I heard.
Then my thoughts to sleep returning
 Wondered briefly, of us three,
 What brave paths the fates have destined
 For the bird, the lad and me.

THE WAR IN SPAIN

The war in Spain is over
 Yet victory does not smile
 For all the lads are murdered
 Who might have laughed awhile.
And those who march triumphant
 Are sadder than the dead
 Because their hearts are shadowed,
 Because their hands are red.{2}
The war in Spain is over,
 Yet other trumpets sound
 And call the world’s young manhood
 To another battleground.

IT RAINS TONIGHT

It rains tonight and wolf-winds howl.
 His grave is not so deep,
 But that the mournful Heavens
 Upon his body weep;
 They wet the mound of spaded earth
 And through his coffin seep.
It rains tonight and wolf-winds howl,
 And beaten hangs the tree,
 And comfortless in Death he lies
 Who comforted should be,
 The guy who lost
 And killed himself,
 And never spoke to me!

WHILE DRUMS ARE ROLLING

Then you’ll go while drums are rolling,
 And you’ll charge and make the bluff
 That your heart is full of courage,
 And you’ll curse the vilest stuff.{3}
And you’ll see a lot of fellows
 That you’ve never seen before,
 And they may all be twenty
 Or one or two years more.
And you’ll briefly talk together,
 But of what you will not know.
 There is so much that lads can say
 When off to war they go.
And you’ll see a lot of fellows
 When the battle roar is done,
 Though all are dead upon the field
 And will not know it’s won.
And the drums will roll on, rolling
 Till some bullet finds your heart,
 Then you’ll join the lads before you
 And you’ll never have to part.

APOLLO

Beautiful pagan, possess me!
 Over thy body my fingers I race.
 Hot on thy cheeks are my kisses,
 Naked with thee in a lovers’ embrace.
Passionate night,
 And the scents from the orchard
 Heavily here
 In thy temple retreat.{4}
Moonlight and marble,
 Where pillars and shadows
 Cast thee in twilight,
Beautiful statue,
 Warm with the warmth
 Of my body
 Against thee,
I quiver,
 I clasp thee
 And fall at thy feet!

FOUNTAIN OF LOVELINESS

Fountain of loveliness, flowing
 Deep in a wildwood of aspen and pine,
 Swanlike forever upon thy calm surface
 I drift in my nakedness, white in the sun.
O plunge me beneath,
 Where thy depths are the greenest,
 Cover my heart,
 And the secret it keeps!
 {5}

HIGHWAY NUMBER 66

We drove down the road
 Like two bats out of Hell,
 And before us the gates
 At the rail crossing fell.
But we crashed through the splinters
 And over the tracks,
 And the train whistled madly
 And screamed at our backs.
And we rode on in silence
 With never a word,
 And only the wind
 And the motor were heard.
For a lad lay a-dying
 That both of us knew,
 And over the hills
 To his bedside we flew.
He was dead when we got there,
 And somehow I know
 At that curve on the hill
 With the valley below,
Where the crossing is laid,
 And that monster of steel,
 Not my hand, but his
 Was guiding the wheel.
 {6}

DIRGE FOR THE SQUALUS

We did not raise a submarine
 From the ocean’s fathomed bed,
 But twenty-six brave sailor lads
 And all of them were dead.
 We left them not beneath the sea;
 We brought them sadly home,
 To dedicate anew to Death,
 Who nevermore shall roam.
Then, trumpeter, be firm your lip,
 What though the tears may fall,
 For muffled drums in velvet beat
 Beneath your trumpet’s call.
 And there are hearts in other lads
 That swell with sorrow, too.
 It need not matter that those hearts
 Are not in navy blue.
And they who have escaped that tomb
 Beneath the restless wave,
 How deeply reverent they hold
 The gift the dead men gave.
 For twenty-six on them bestowed
 The utmost they could give,
 When twenty-six accepted death
 That thirty-three might live.
The passage doorway dogged and tight,
 On either side two groups of men.
 In one compartment, mad with fright,
 The thirty-three who’ll live again.{7}
 And on the other, maddened, too,
 The water rising swiftly, high,
 The twenty-six who looked and knew
 They were the ones who had to die.
Then let some fitting tribute stand
 When we from here are fled,
 The living consecrated
 By the consecrated dead!

ECHO CANYON

We ride to Echo Canyon,
 He rides with me tonight,
 No moon above to guide us,
 The stars alone are bright.
The wind is in the sagebrush;
 Somewhere a coyote calls;
 The studded sky is briefly lit
 As a flaming starlet falls.
We draw the rein together,
 He trembles as I pass
 To turn the horses free to graze
 In the wild September grass.
And now I stretch beside him
 Where he lies upon the ground,
 And in all this lovely wilderness
 We two alone are found.
 {8}

FRAGMENT

He wandered through the darkened streets of night,
 His massive cape a-blown with every wind.
 He passed the strumpets flirting near the lamps,
 And bowed to one—the one most infamous.
 Then down familiar avenues he strolled,
 And met, as he was sure to meet them there,
 The lads who knew these lanes where men were bold.
How many a British soldier went to death
 Beneath an Afric sun with some small gift,
 A pocketknife inlaid with precious stones,
 A case for cigarettes, or watch and chain,
 Which had been given him by Oscar Wilde.

WE HANG UPON A SCAFFOLD

We hang upon a scaffold, lad,
 The skeleton within
 Is all the horror of the world,
 Of virtue and of sin.
For he who knows no word of love,
 Nor has his heart’s desire,
 Must hang the same and die the same
 As he who walks in fire.
Then hang upon your scaffold, lad
 The mob will pierce your side,
 Yet cry your triumph and your pain,
 For man is crucified.
 {9}

I LOOKED INTO YOUR EYES

I looked into your eyes and saw,
 Or thought I saw, your love.
 I tried to hide my own from you;
 Not ever spoken of.
Yet, there was something I could feel
 Electrify the air
 When both of us were quite alone
 And no one else was there.
And when at last I spoke my love,
 And wanting yours for me,
 I looked into your eyes and knew
 Such love was not to be.

OF THIS GREAT VOICELESS LOVE

Of this great voiceless love of mine for you
 There is no word to your heart out of mine
 That may go winging through the whispering night.
Look only then for laughter in my letters
 As I from day to day The Fool rehearse.
 And if one blushing phrase too boldly written
 Inscribes too fervently that I am yours,
 Believe it only penmanship and style,
 Or the careless informality of friends.
 {10}

I WOULD HAVE BROUGHT YOU FIRE

I would have brought you fire for those nights
 When you were cold and lonely and in doubt.
 I would have brought you laughter for your tears
 And given you new dreams to dream about.
But look away, your eyes are much too bright,
 And sorrow has lent beauty to your face,
 And should I cast aside this cloak of years
 And live forever after in disgrace—
 It is an old temptation sprung anew,
 Yet must not be.
 Ah, look at me and you shall see
 I am, my love, as miserable as you!

TOO MUCH OF LIFE

Too much of life we spend alone,
 Too many thoughts are ours to share,
 Too little love we call our own
 Though multitudes of men are there.
We’re strangers undetermined of
 Where madness rules the lives of men,
 Where he who dares design of love
 Lives not to dare the deed again.
Beware of love! Be lonely, lad.
 There is no death that can compare
 Where loving hearts are crucified,
 And multitudes of men are there.
 {11}

LONE CELLO

Too much is incomplete. Let’s make an end
 Of all the fond impossible dreams we’ve dreamed,
 And when we part,
 We were not meant to be
 Too closely here companioned where the thorn
 Of our red love transfixes joy’s brief crown.
 The roses wither, time itself decays,
 And log-lit embers fall to ashes when
 The memory of the flame no longer glows.
We rode to Echo Canyon and your smile
 Ran naked through the chambers of my heart.
 Now lonely cellos must out parting sing
 As when some cool green afternoon lets fall
 From one high branch a few wind-weary leaves.
 We grow too old too suddenly. Farewell!

APOCALYPSE

These are the seeds of the future,
 The weary, the wretched, the slain.
 These are the ghosts we shall harvest
 In wars that shall come again.
These are the fields we have furrowed,
 The dreams that have fallen apart,
 And this is the plow of our madness,
 The fear that has entered the heart.{12}
Oh, how shall we welcome the reaper
 When autumn shall fill the air,
 When all the hope of the springtime
 Is cut with the edge of despair?

THE OLD SEA WALL

Oh, you who go hurrying, worrying by
 With never a cry or a call,
 Saw you a lad who was standing here
 On the crest of the old sea wall?
I saw him last night in the twilight
 As the long low breakers rolled,
 And across the bay in the chapel
 An evening bell was tolled.
And we looked at each other a moment
 And then from each other we turned,
 But I read in his eyes of a longing
 That a merciless world had spurned.
Oh, have you no answer to make me,
 All you who go hastening past,
 And though I am late will none tell me
 Where he was standing last?
Like a whisper I hear from the sea wall,
 Where the waters are troubled below,
 A murmur of wavelets complaining,
 And the fate of the lad I know.{13}
Spin onward, old world, to your ending.
 The hearts that you break and condemn
 Will someday rise madly against you,
 Reversing your judgment of them.

THE MIDNIGHT HORSEMAN

Ten thousand trees in the forest stood
 And watched me as I passed,
 Ten thousand trees that did not breathe
 The wind that rode as fast,
 Ten thousand leaves on every tree
 Immovably aghast!
The road in the light of the moon was white,
 The sky overhead was gray,
 With a kind of a washed, half-tone effect
 That took the night away,
 Yet to right and left like the cloak of death
 The deepest darkness lay.
The steed’s quick breath his hooves beat out
 And silvered all the air,
 On, on we sped like a thing of dread;
 We were a ghostly pair.
 We passed the somber stricken wood;
 We found no shelter there.
I might have stayed and made pretense
 That I was like the rest,{14}
 And laughed and drunk and sung their songs
 As loudly as the best,
 And never have given an answer to,
 Not recognized my quest.
Farewell, and onward! Piteous flight
 That leaves all friends behind,
 That hastes from old familiar scenes
 Where love was young and kind.
 Oh, petrified Sylvania,
 Where shall I others find?

LONELY HEART

Where do you wander far and afield,
 Lonely heart? Lonely heart, where is your shield?
Where are your rings and where is your purse?
 Love is expensive. It’s cheaper to curse.
Where are your garments? Look at your shoes.
 Laughter or sorrow, which did you choose?
Walking the streets, nights that are cold,
 Men who are wretched, men who are bold.
Rooms in the shadows, Love me tonight,
 Love me and leave me before it grows bright.
Don’t heed the sob of a heartbreak within.
 Hold me, and kiss me and teach me to sin!{15}
Into the quicksand, hungry and dark,
 Into the grotto, into the park,
 Into the depths of the tomb, it is said,
 Lovers have cast themselves, living and dead.
Lonely heart, lonely heart, walking alone,
 Friendless and frantic, and turning to stone!

DREAMS

If you’ve a dream at heart, lad,
 Some wilfull, noble plan,
 Then cherish it within, lad,
 And tell it to no man.
To friend and foe alike be dumb
 On what you plan to do,
 And keep that secret chamber locked
 Until the work is through.
For I had dreams at heart, boy,
 But talked them all away,
 And now I needs must start, boy,
 To dream anew today.

THE BUGLES CALLED

We lay together, he and I,
 Upon a little hill,
 Beneath a tree that sheltered us,
 As trees so often will.{16}
I touched his hand and felt him stir,
 Expectancy of love!
 And then my lips poured out my heart,
 The things I told him of.
But when his heart began to speak
 The bugles called to war
 And he arose and left me there.
 I never saw him more.

MORNING GUARD

Where the old road meets the new road
 I stand the guard at morn,
 Where one comes winding down the hill,
 The other, through it torn.
October’s friendly fingers dipped
 In every mellow shade
 Have touched the leaves on all the trees
 That stand within the glade.
In distant treetops I behold,
 As I have seen in clouds,
 The faces of my heroes
 Or dead men in their shrouds.
The marching columns pass me by,
 All sailor lads in blue.
 And some will wink, and some will smile,
 The way young fellows do.{17}
And overhead the deepening sky
 More bright and bluer flows,
 While one lone fleecy, sheeplike cloud
 Before the dog-wind goes.
The restless leaves like pounding surf
 Sound breakers through the trees.
 I strip of all reality
 And drown myself in these.

WHEN KILMER WROTE OF TREES

When Kilmer wrote of trees he must have seen
 The flowering catalpas all a-bloom,
 And though about him guns spoke quick of death
 And distant cannon thundered oaths of doom
 He did not harken. What were all of these
 To where beyond the trenches stood the trees?

WILD GEESE

Geese in the night flying low,
 I hear the beat of their wings.
 I wish that I could know
 If they are calling to me.
Rain and a wintry wind
 And trees that have shed their leaf.
 If man at first had not sinned
 Then Christ had not been born.
 {18}

I WRITE TO YOU IN RED

I write to you in red, though not in blood,
 For scarlet all my memories are dyed
 With deep imaginings of what the past,
 The past, the past—the unforgotten gone.
 Ah, what it might have been designed upon!
I write to you in red because the flood
 Of scarlet passion prisoned, long denied
 Your love, yet in your bondage bonded fast,
 Is freed to flow again, to stream,
 And if it can, another love esteem.
But all too long your chains upon my heart
 Have left a scar which testifies me dead
 To all frivolity. I have no part
 With lightsome love.
 I write to you in red!

’TIS WINTER NOW

When spring again revisits earth,
 And in the dark there comes a stirreth
 Of seedlings bursting with the birth
 Of summer’s future flowers,
 Then will I sing you songs of love
 And apple blossoms branched above
 Shall know the dear devotion of
 My poor poetic powers.{19}
But wait till then—’tis winter now.
 My thoughts in solitude are claimed.
 Yet every wind shall hear my vow
 Repeated through the hours,
 It’s you alone I love,
 And unashamed.

SONNET

Like solitary mountain peaks that list
 And seem to sink in seas of restless grain
 My love for you goes drowning through a mist
 Of unrequited, unrecorded pain.
Oh, while there’s breath of life and passion still,
 While yet remains a warmth, a failing flame
 Within the fallen fortress of my will,
 Give me a moment of your love to claim.
Come let me hold you close in hushed embrace
 And crush you with the force of fierce desire,
 Yet by that love no future plan to trace,
 But just to love that moment to conspire.
I will not chain you, though enchained by thee;
 The memory of your love will prison me.
 {20}

THE TROPIC DAWN

The tropic dawn is beautiful at sea,
 The clouds respond so readily to light.
 Though overhead the stars continue bright
 And scattered like a broken string of beads,
 The eastward doors of night are opened wide
 And light floods all the ocean floor inside.
The sun gets up, a painter out of bed,
 To work again his canvas of the world,
 To change black water into blue instead,
 To tint what little frantic foam gets hurled
 From two waves’ temperaments with ruby fire,
 And make the sea a thing for man’s desire.
The day comes gently, working through the clouds,
 Which light and burn with brilliance many-hued.
 A sailor somewhere singing in the shrouds
 With naked chest and feet and arms tatooed,
 His sailor hat at angle on his head,
 Salutes the day with thoughts of home and bed.
Oh, take me back, away from dawn and sea,
 Oh, take me where the heart of me would be,
 And in some blessed meadow set me free!
 {21}

TWILIGHT

A little while ago that sky was gold,
 And green that hill,
 And blue the white-capped sea,
 And I stood watching through these vines a ship
 That moved, hull down, beyond,
 Beneath the point.
I wonder now, before the stars are out
 And long black clouds have filled the sunset sky,
 Will I remember this at midnight hour:
 How much I longed to be aboard that ship!

ECHO

Oh, weary heart, dependent for a song
 On whether someone smiles or not at thee.
 Oh, weary life, the loveless years are long
 Yet deathless are the thoughts of him to me.
Within an ancient castle on the coast,
 Where all the sea-dead sailor lads make moan,
 I hear a melancholy cello sing
 Its mad and mournful music to the moon,
 A dirge of febrile beauty and despair
 That fills the night with phantom, frantic song.
And phrase to phrase with sexual life responds
 While fierce satyriasis, orchestrally,
 Like nine symphonic horns unharmonized
 Calls wildly through the hollows of my heart.
 {22}

STAR COURSE

Into the darkening east we ride,
 Wave upon wave we thrust aside,
 White and defiant they seethe around.
 What do we care! We’re homeward bound!
The sea beneath and the sky above,
 These are the things a man can love,
 Not when he leaves his native shore,
 But when, far out of the sight of land,
 He takes the wheel with a steady hand
 To guide him home once more.
Then homeward, homeward be my course,
 And constant be my star,
 For I have wandered east and west
 And I have wandered far,
 Yet home and joy can only be
 Where love and friendship are.
I’ve searched among the isles of men
 The love I left behind,
 Explored for friendships in the waste
 Of broken, humankind,
 And sought for beauty, sought for wit,
 With naught of all to find.
In dens of laughter when I laughed
 There came a hollow sound,
 Yet every night I went again
 To join the merry round,
 And every night I knew that there
 My heart would not be found.{23}
Then homeward, homeward be my course,
 And constant be my star,
 And may I not have changed too much
 Because I’ve wandered far.
 Their love and laughter now I need
 Who home and friendship are.

MEMORANDUM

Quick are the sands that bury a man
 When he lays him down to die,
 And quick are the hands if there be no sands
 Of such fellows as you and I.

THE LITANY OF PEARL HARBOR

Harbor of morning,
 Day has begun.
 Hills of Oahu
 Are waiting the sun.
Harbor of reveille,
 Hammocks away.
 Sailors are stirring
 On ships in the bay.
Harbor of happiness,
 Green and complete.
 Day from the summit
 Has smiled on the fleet.{24}
Harbor deceived,
 Death in the sky
 Plummets to earth
 Before colors shall fly.
Harbor surprised,
 Torpedo and shell
 Tear through the living,
 Harbor of Hell!
Harbor of terror,
 Harbor of death,
 Harbor where fellows
 Are choking for breath.
Harbor of drownings,
 Thunderous sound.
 Flooded compartments
 Harbor the drowned.
Harbor of fire,
 Harbor of flame,
 Steel and humanity
 Crumble the same.
Harbor determined,
 Stations are manned.
 Against the aggresor
 The Harbor will stand.
Harbor of courage,
 Gunners and guns
 Speak of the worth
 Of America’s sons.{25}
Harbor of shipmates,
 Sanctified flood,
 Dying together,
 Harbor of blood!
Harbor of wounds,
 Beneath the attack,
 Fighting the enemy,
 Driving him back.
Harbor of smoke,
 Blinding the sun.
 Harbor contested,
 Yet to be won.
Harbor of roaring,
 Harbor ablaze,
 Harbor of horror,
 Harbor of praise.
Harbor resurgent,
 Out of the gloom,
 Self-resurrected
 Out of the tomb.
Glorious Harbor,
 Harbor of woe,
 Harbor of vengeance
 Blasting the foe.
Harbor of hours,
 Endless, intense,
 Harbor victorious,
 Epic defense.{26}
Dedicate Harbor,
 Shipmates are there
 Sleeping forever.
 Harbor of prayer.

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.{27}
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.{28}
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,{29}
 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,{30}
 Most boyishly unstudied, most beloved,
 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.{31}
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
 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.{32}
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,
 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.{33}
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.{34}
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.{35}
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.{36}
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.{37}
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.{38}
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.
 {39}

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,{40}
 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.

SOMEWHERE ON LEAVE

Unfurrowed field and lonely plow,
 The laughing lad has fled,
 Sweet-throated, unaccompanied lark,
 The laughing lad is dead.
I found him on a barren tract,
 Stretched out and lying still,
 And on his lips the blood had dried,
 And on the blasted hill.
Oh, that was far from hills like these,
 A hundred thousand guns
 Are booming, bursting in his ears
 And he does not hear a one.
A soldier’s thoughts and a soldier’s laugh
 And a soldier’s boyish grin
 Are dead on a lonely battlefield,
 And the war is yet to win.
 {41}

THE SENTRY

The night wind hums a lullaby,
 A watchful bivouac keep.
 The guns are silent now awhile,
 Yet, soldier, do not sleep.
 Though weary with the force of night,
 And weary with the war,
 Sleep not, be watchful, quick alert,
 Or sleep forever more.
But words are nought to tired eyes,
 And what are words of praise
 To minds that long to dream a bit
 Of other, saner days.
 He sleeps, unmindful of his oath,
 And then they find him dead,
 The other soldier stands his guard
 Who shot him through the head.
The night wind hums a lullaby,
 A watchful bivouac keep.
 The guns are silent now awhile,
 Yet, soldier, do not sleep!

I WATCHED HIM IN THE TOURNAMENT

I watched him in the tournament,
 And when he bowled a line
 I saw the way his eyes would smile
 When things were going fine.{42}
I saw the lonely little frown
 That made him look so grave
 And older than his twenty years
 When 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.

SOUTH PACIFIC

How often had the sun been red
 The sky as deep a blue
 Behind long, tired stretched-out clouds
 When I was then with you.
How often had the evening sea
 Which you so much admired
 With archipelagos of foam
 Been bright and ruby-fired.
Oh, all these things tonight are here
 Upon a distant sea,
 But I have found no other one
 To stand and watch with me.
 {43}

DECK-APE

He was just a little deck-ape
 With a happy kind of smile,
 And a line of boyish chatter
 That could make you laugh awhile.
He was just a little deck-ape
 Always ready with a hand
 When a shipmate needed someone
 Who would help or understand.
He was just a little deck-ape,
 And we buried him at sea
 When he stopped a strafer’s bullet
 That was meant, I think, for me.

SAILOR BOY

Upon a railway station bench he lies,
 Majestic image of a heathen god
 Cast 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 aglow
 With all the fire of his rhythmic heart
 Betraying there the secret of his dream.
And breath and life are one where fills his chest,{44}
 And where the texture of his thighs impress
 The pagan phallic frontlet in his loins
 He testifies unknowingly to youth.
Unstirring in the rapture of his thoughts
 He slumbers in the wakeful watch
 Of envy and desire!

AVENGE

Avenge! Avenge! Great sword of God,
 The massacre of these
 Ten 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 slain
 In one red week of murderous lust,
 New Christs, new cross, new pain!
Our patience and our mercy wait
 While they who slaughter don’t.
 Annihilate! Annihilate!
 We’ll do it if You won’t!
 {45}

THE CROSSING OF THE RHINE

And what is the talk we make tonight
 As we fill our glasses amber bright
 And drink to the guys who are in the fight,
 The crossing of the Rhine.
And the song we sing is a simple thing
 Of a tune that moves with a martial swing
 To 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 fell
 By 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 everywhere
 Through blood and guts and the power of prayer,
 The crossing of the Rhine!

THE BALLAD OF THE DEAD SAILOR

Oh, where are the rest of my shipmates,
 And why am I not at sea,
 And what is this lonely valley
 Where no one is but me?{46}
Have they sailed away without me?
 Will they ever again return?
 I never thought when he was dead
 A 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 duty
 Or someone who tried to care?
Whoever it was I thank him,
 But what have they done to my heart
 That it will not rest like a lonesome guest
 In this world where they’ve set me apart?
Must I still call out for companions
 And want them again at my side,
 Though breath is forbidden me ever
 As 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.
 {47}

THE DEATH OF THE SCHARNHORST

On Christmas Day in forty-three
 The Nazi Scharnhorst put to sea,
 For word somehow had reached Berlin
 An Allied convoy was within
 Two hundred miles of where she lay
 In 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 land
 Drop far astern on either hand.
She steamed through fog and arctic day,
 And then at night, when darkness lay
 Completely over all the waste,
 The Scharnhorst charged with fuller haste
 To intercept the Allied ships
 Which dared these bold Murmansk-bound trips.
Meanwhile the convoy, slow, serene,
 Behind an escort naval screen,
 Proceeded eastward off North Cape.
 The Scharnhorst sensed the coming rape,
 And manned her guns that early dawn,
 But this is what she came upon:
The cruisers Norfolk, and Belfast,
 And Sheffield, all the long night past
 Had known the wild sea horse was free
 To terrorize the Northern Sea,{48}
 And they had placed themselves between
 The charging Scharnhorst and the screen.
The winter’s dawn was blackboard gray.
 The Scharnhorst held her plotted way.
 The Norfolk, Sheffield, and Belfast
 Were tense with waiting. Hours passed
 As closer these two forces drew,
 Determined ships, determined crew.
The British sensed the approach of doom.
 The Scharnhorst paused within the gloom,
 But then a star shell, bursting high,
 Illumined her against the sky.
 The great seabeast began to snort
 From every nostril turret fort.
The Sheffield’s guns belched smoke and flame;
 Belfast’s quick turrets did the same,
 The Norfolk’s screaming shell bursts bit
 The monster’s triple hull, a hit!
 The Scharnhorst screamed, she turned and fled
 To mend her wound, to count her dead.
Belfast forbade his ships pursue.
 He judged what Scharnhorst meant to do,
 Pretend retreat and then renew
 Attack upon the convoy later.
 Scharnhorst’s speed he knew was greater,
 So he kept his course the straighter.
Scharnhorst circled east and nor’ward,
 Hoped to bring her power forward.{49}
 But the convoy changed its course
 To shun this grim, abhorrent horse.
 The cruisers cut the arc and then
 Awaited Scharnhorst’s charge again.
When, hours later, tense with rage,
 The Scharnhorst, plotted to engage
 Just merchant ships and escort craft,
 Had reappeared to run the raft,
 She met instead the concerted blast
 Of Norfolk, Sheffield and Belfast.
Once again the salvos thundered.
 Scharnhorst knew that she had blundered,
 While her gunners cursed and wondered
 Shells and fire as before
 Through the gloomy twilight tore,
 Swiftly, surely, more and more.
The Norfolk’s afterdeck was hit,
 A blaze of flame, the air was lit.
 The Scharnhorst did not wait to see
 What damage or what victory.
 She turned once more in fearful dread,
 Homeward set her course and fled.
For Scharnhorst was a worthy prize.
 Correctly had she made surmise
 That other ships, the British fleet,
 Would steam to intercept or meet,
 And so she fled, a wounded beast,
 To seek the dark, protective east.{50}
But all this while, to interplace
 Between the Scharnhorst and 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 mighty Duke of York.
Two hundred miles away or more
 The Duke and her destroyers bore
 When first the battle message came.
 Belfast continued to proclaim
 The Scharnhorst’s course, and from this plot
 The Duke, her speed, position got.
For brave Belfast, and Sheffield, too,
 And Norfolk this time did pursue.
 The Scharnhorst turned, she headed south,
 And flung herself into the mouth
 Of Duke, Jamaica, and the horde,
 Saumarez, Savage, Scorpion, Stord.
“Illuminate the enemy!”
 Belfast’s bright shell broke high and free.
 The heavy night with heavy haze
 Had been descending, but the blaze
 Of light and brilliance caught the steed,
 Betrayed her form, her frothing speed.
The Duke’s great turrets boldly spoke,
 Belched shell and fire, fume and smoke.
 Concussion tore the night around.
 The shells went screaming through the sound
 And landed close aboard the Hun,
 A “straddle” salvo number one.{51}
The Duke corrected plot and range
 And there began a fierce exchange
 Of shell and suffering. Scharnhorst blazed
 Where blasts and flame her structures razed.
 She turned to east in panicked fright
 And sought the dark, descending night.
The Duke sped after, sending shell,
 Fired havoc, roaring hell
 Raining down upon the fleeing
 Battered, bruised and barely seeing
 Nazi supership which sped
 Ever more and more ahead.
At last the Duke had lost the range.
 Her guns were silenced, but a strange
 New battle lit the horizon’s edge
 And smote the Scharnhorst like a sledge.
 She reared and tossed and bellowed toward
 Saumarez, Savage, Scorpion, Stord.
She did not flee as fast, for they,
 More swiftly speeding on their way,
 O’ertook her and on either bow
 Engaged the bleeding Scharnhorst now.
 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 change
 Of course or speed they closed the range.
 Two thousand yards, they launched their dread
 Torpedoes, and away they sped.{52}
The Scharnhorst snorted, scored a hit.
 Saumarez felt the blast of it.
 But then the launched torpedoes struck,
 And Scharnhorst’s inner heart was stuck.
 Her guns began a wild, red fire,
 She’d lost her speed, could not retire.
By now the Duke of York had closed,
 And with another force composed
 Of Sheffield, Norfolk, and Belfast,
 Jamaica, and come up at last,
 Four escorts from the convoy screen,
 Began a new approach routine.
The Scharnhorst shuddered, shell on shell
 From eight destroyers upon her fell.
 From four crack cruisers she sustained
 The heavy, horrid fire they trained.
 Each salvo from the Duke of York
 Left her unsteady as a cork.
Around and round the battle raged,
 On every side she was engaged
 By greater force and stronger will,
 A broken thing of beauty still;
 And then the ships received command
 To stand well clear on every hand.
The battle paused. The night returned,
 And in that dark the Scharnhorst burned.
 The swift and final act began.
 Jamaica left the cruiser van
 And headed toward the trembling pile
 Where life and metal burned the while.{53}
A neat destroyer trained her lights
 Upon the target and the sights
 Aboard Jamaica, set to kill,
 Could pledge the beast her final thrill.
 Jamaica swung. Torpedoes leapt,
 Their course and their appointment kept.
A last great roar the Scharnhorst gave,
 Then rolled her fires beneath the wave,
 A wretched, moving, dying thing
 Within the watchful naval ring.
 The black, salt sea her vitals drank,
 And, quenched her thirst, the Scharnhorst sank.

LITTLE BOYS AND LITTLE DOGS

Little boys and little dogs
 Are made for one another.
 For show me, sir, a little dog
 Just taken from its mother
 That will not find a tenderness
 And clumsy kind of joy
 In the care, and taking care, of
 A loving little boy.
 {54}

U.S.S. OKLAHOMA RETURNS TO HER CREW

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 junk
 When 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 all
 When 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 blood
 She swiftly filled and overturned her masthead in the mud.
How long we lived, how long lay dead within her flooded sides
 Till all awakened, spirit-drifted, ebbing with the tides!{55}
 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 well
 Had died with us that morning in the harbor’s flaming Hell,
 And our remembrance was not this, a scrapped and broken hull
 That 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 hand
 Began to signal frantically. We turned and somehow knew
 She was the Oklahoma and 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.{56}
 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 day
 We’ll come steaming through the Golden Gate for San Francisco Bay!

NIGHT

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 small
 Or 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.{57}
 Night is all the sewers of a frustrate mind
 Spewing up positioned nudes inseminating one another!

FOR ALL HEROES

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?{58}
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 shorts
 Take 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!

FOXHOLE

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 States
 And I had kept the bluff and we were friends.
Why, I remember how it was we met.
 We both were standing naked. You were soaped
 From head to foot and then the shower quit.
 I never heard a rhythmic stream of words
 So finely mouthed, and chewed and spitted out
But now we lie together in the sand
 Upon a tropic beach. The enemy,{59}
 For all our air and sea and boasted might,
 Had held his little island and opposed
 Our coming with such surety of aim
 That half our comrades dropped face down, face up,
 And did not feel the black and blooded wash
 That played between their sprawled and spreaded legs.
We two were forward on the farthest flank
 That hoped to outmaneuver and destroy
 The deep pillbox entrenchment where the Nip
 Had taken his position and command
 Of all the open, dead-man beach between.
 We’d found a little dune and dug us in,
 And all the long tormented afternoon
 We lobbed our ineffectual grenades
 Against the fort foreknowledge of the Jap.
When night came on we got the word to hold,
 But silence and the darkness held us close
 And I could hear your breathing, feel you near.
 And then there went through me an echoing roar
 As when a mountainside of snow and ice
 Lets 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.{60}
 “You’re lying, kid.” Your grip was strong and fierce.
 You held me there as if to make me shout
 With pain or ecstasy, and time rushed by
 Unclocked. 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 came
 Exploding close beside us threw the sand,
 And shell, and death and you and me apart.
 How long we lay half buried none will tell
 I know I wakened somewhere near the dawn
 And saw you stretched and saw your trousers torn.
 I crawled beside you, brushed away the sand
 That filled your eyes. I held you in my arms,
 And pressed my mouth to yours as if my breath
 Within 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 blouse
 To 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!
 {61}

BURY HIM

Bury him! Not where the rough, raw earth
 With his fathers’ bones is filled,
 Nor bury him there where the old chiefs’ blood
 On 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 plot
 In the midst of the fools who cried
 Of his race and his face, and forgot every trace
 Of the reason for which he died,
 While the heart of the nation’s demoralization
 Began to ascend as it sighed,
 “Bury him. Bury him.”
Bury him well. Let the bugler tell
 To the listening wind and the wood
 How an Indian boy, who was somebody’s joy
 And the pride of a small neighborhood,
 Met his death in the yell of a Korean hell,
 And, returned to his home, was accused
 Of his race and his place in a nation’s disgrace,
 And his burial there was refused.
Let the volley resound and the hollows be found
 To re-echo the bugle and gun,
 Till the echoes grow dim and we know that in him
 We bury all men in this one.
 For we bury the stain when we bury the slain
 In these wars that are yet to be won.{62}
Bury him, then, where such comrades shall lie
 Side by side in the long marbled sleep,
 As have longed long for sleeping, and there in their keeping
 Assign 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 scornfully
 Thought to be brought to disgrace among men.
 Bury heroically here all the stoically
 Suffered injustice and wrong that has been.
 Bury the dead and defeated, repeated
 Mistakes 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!

$2.50

THE DEATH
OF THE
SCHARNHORST
And Other Poems
by
Arch 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 battleship Scharnhorst, 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.

Reading The Death of the Scharnhorst and Other Poems will be a memorable experience for poetry lovers.

A
VANTAGE
BOOK

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 the U.S.S. Tennessee at 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.

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