THE DEATH OF
                                  THE
                              SCHARNHORST
                            AND OTHER POEMS

                                  by
                         ARCH ALFRED McKILLEN

                            [Illustration]

                     VANTAGE PRESS, Inc. NEW YORK


               Copyright, 1952, by Arch Alfred McKillen


            _Manufactured in the United States of America_


                                 _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?_

          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




CONTENTS


                                                                   _Page_

The Bird, the Lad and Me                                               1

The War in Spain                                                       1

It Rains Tonight                                                       2

While Drums Are Rolling                                                2

Apollo                                                                 3

Fountain of Loveliness                                                 4

Highway Number 66                                                      5

Dirge for the _Squalus_                                                6

Echo Canyon                                                            7

Fragment                                                               8

We Hang upon a Scaffold                                                8

I Looked into Your Eyes                                                9

Of This Great Voiceless Love                                           9

I Would Have Brought You Fire                                         10

Too Much of Life                                                      10

Lone Cello                                                            11

Apocalypse                                                            11

The Old Sea Wall                                                      12

The Midnight Horseman                                                 13

Lonely Heart                                                          14

Dreams                                                                15

The Bugles Called                                                     15

Morning Guard                                                         16

When Kilmer Wrote of Trees                                            17

Wild Geese                                                            17

I Write to You in Red                                                 18

’Tis Winter Now                                                       18

Sonnet                                                                19

The Tropic Dawn                                                       20

Twilight                                                              21

Echo                                                                  21

Star Course                                                           22

Memorandum                                                            23

The Litany of Pearl Harbor                                            23

We Were Waiting That Morning for Colors                               26

The Motor Launch Crew                                                 27

To the Garrison at Wake                                               28

Corregidor and Calvary                                                31

_When he and I had met_                                               33

To the Marines                                                        34

The Lads Who Go Below                                                 35

The Road to High Wood                                                 36

Night Watch                                                           37

The Soldier and the Samovar                                           38

Nocturne                                                              38

The Swing                                                             39

Somewhere on Leave                                                    40

The Sentry                                                            41

I Watched Him in the Tournament                                       41

South Pacific                                                         42

Deck-Ape                                                              43

Sailor Boy                                                            43

Avenge                                                                44

The Crossing of the Rhine                                             45

The Ballad of the Dead Sailor                                         45

The Death of the _Scharnhorst_                                        47

Little Boys and Little Dogs                                           53

_U.S.S. Oklahoma_ Returns to Her Crew                                 54

Night                                                                 56

For All Heroes                                                        57

Foxhole                                                               58

Bury Him                                                              61




        _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.

    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.

    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.

    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!




        _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.




        _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.
    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.




        _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.




        _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.




        _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.




        _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.

    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.

    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,
    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!

    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.

    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.

    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.




        _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.

    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.




        _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!




        _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.




        _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.

    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.

    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.

    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.

    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.

    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,
    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
    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,
    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.




        _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.




        _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.

    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.




        _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,
    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!




        _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?

    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.




        _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,
    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.
    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.

    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.

    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.

    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.

    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.




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!
    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.
    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.
    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?

    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,
    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.
    “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!




        _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.

    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 ..._

                            [Illustration]


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.

                            [Illustration]


          VANTAGE PRESS, INC., 230 W. 41 Street, New York 36.