Voices of Silence Read online

  Was dead through love of gold and gilded toys,

  Unfit to hold the realms our fathers won.

  The sailor child stands steadfast in his place,

  His life-blood ebbing – type of British boys;

  The Nelson breed is proud of such a son.

  Thomas Hannan

  Epigram, R.B.

  Earth held thee not, whom now the gray seas hold,

  By the blue Cyclades, and even the sea

  Palls but the mortal, for men’s hearts enfold,

  Inviolate, the untamed youth of thee.

  Frederic Manning

  ‘Si Monumentum Requiris’

  (Lord Kitchener)

  If death must claim him, let the North Sea wave

  Hold him; though tombless he shall sleep content;

  Proud, o’er the mists that cloak her Great Man’s grave

  England, transfigured, stands – his Monument.

  Charles T. Foxcroft

  Winston’s Last Phase

  (Mr WINSTON CHURCHILL, in the London Magazine, declares that there is no strategic cause impelling us to fight the German Fleet off the Danish coast, and implies that the action was audacious but unnecessary.)

  When Churchill ran the naval show

  He was extremely optimistic,

  And, in referring to the foe,

  Inclined at times to be hubristic.

  But when the limelight’s genial beams

  No more their influence exerted,

  The spirit of his naval dreams

  Incontinently was inverted.

  And critics did not fail to note

  That while he ruled the British Navy

  His motto was, ‘All’s well afloat’,

  And only when he left it, ‘Cave!’

  With a beau geste he left the House

  And flounced off to the Front in Flanders,

  But soon returned to carp and grouse

  Against our land and sea commanders.

  And now, resorting to the pen

  With pompous self-exalting prattle,

  He dares to criticize the men

  Who fought and won the Jutland battle.

  Prophet by turns of good and ill,

  Oh long may he remain a stranger

  To office, who by tongue and quill

  Has proved himself a public danger!

  C.L. Graves

  Stories for Our Sons

  Yes! Daddy knows right well, my lad,

  The story of the fleet

  That met the Huns off Coney Isle

  In Hipper’s great defeat.

  I served a twelve-inch gun, my lad,

  Upon the gallant ARK,

  And fought the fight without respite

  From early dawn till dark.

  We left our base the year before,

  And steamed at forty knots,

  Until we heard the cry of ‘smoke’

  And saw them there in spots.

  Aye, there they were at twenty yards,

  A thousand ships in line;

  We opened first when ‘mess-gear’ went

  And sank them all by nine.

  Yes! Daddy was right there, my lad,

  He served a five-inch gun,

  And all alone killed Kaiser Bill,

  Before the war was won.

  Eugene E. Wilson

  NINE

  The Royal Flying Corps

  Life, death and chivalry in the air

  The Royal Flying Corps had been formed in May 1912 as an army corps. This was the first war in which aeroplanes would play a significant part, although, unlike in later wars, their principal purpose was not to attack enemy troops but to record their movements and the layout of their guns and positions.

  From the time of the BEF landing in France, aircraft of the Royal Flying Corps had tracked the advance of German troops as they moved across Belgium and northern France. Once the line had been established along the Western Front, it was important to maintain supremacy of the air in order to prevent the Germans from carrying out similar sorties over the British lines. This was particularly important during the build-up to a major offensive, when the air was also dotted with observation balloons. During the early summer of 1916, as preparations were underway for the Battle of the Somme, the RFC was especially active, but the heaviest casualties came in April 1917, when 275 British aircraft were shot down in one month with 421 casualties, including 207 airmen killed. The short lifespan of pilots contributed to their particularly black form of humour. Many thought of them as modern chivalric knights, moving perilously but freely above the squalor of the trenches.

  In April 1918 the Royal Flying Corps became the Royal Air Force with its own establishment and uniform.

  A Recruiting Song of the Royal Flying Corps

  I was standing at the corner

  When I heard somebody say,

  ‘Come and join the Flying Corps –

  Come, step along this way’.

  I threw my thirty-chest out,

  And put my cap on straight,

  And walked into the office

  Along with Jack, my mate.

  They offered me two bob a day,

  I said, ‘I didn’t think’,

  But when they murmured ‘Four bob’,

  I said, ‘Come, have a drink.’

  And now I spend my Sundays

  With Lizzie in the Lane.

  I wonder when I’ll get my first

  Or see an aeroplane.

  I never was so well off

  In all my naturel:

  You should see me in St James’s,

  I am an awful swell.

  And now I’ve been to Larkhill

  My education is complete.

  ‘Form fours’, ‘’Bout turn’, ‘Two deep’,

  Oh! don’t I do it neat!

  You should see us hold our heads up

  When the others pass us by.

  The girls they all run after us

  And, breathless, say, ‘Oh, my!

  Dear Tommy brave, I’ll be your slave,

  If you will take me up.’

  But hastily I answer,

  ‘I’ve an invitation out to sup.’

  Jimmy

  Jimmy gets his ‘Wings’ to-night,

  Let the bumper flow!

  Jove! but he’s a living wonder!

  He will cleave the skies asunder!

  British to the core, by thunder,

  Fearless of the foe!

  Jimmy masters all machines

  With unerring skill.

  He’s the sturdiest of smiters,

  And, by all the Bristol Fighters,

  He will strafe the Hunnish blighters –

  Strafe them with a will!

  Jimmy’s booked for overseas,

  Eagerly he waits.

  Then he’ll give some demonstrations,

  And some staggering sensations,

  Followed up by decorations

  In the Palace gates!

  Jimmy’s just the jolliest sport

  One could wish to see!

  Golden conquests lie before him;

  Where’s the Hun that dare ignore him?

  Here’s his health! for we adore him,

  Jimmy – R.F.C.!

  A Song of the Air

  This is the song of the Plane –

  The creaking, shrieking plane,

  The throbbing, sobbing plane,

  And the moaning, groaning wires: –

  The engine – missing again!

  One cylinder never fires!

  Hey ho! for the Plane!

  This is the song of the Man –

  The driving, striving man,

  The chosen, frozen man: –

  The pilot, the man-at-the-wheel,

  Whose limit is all that he can,

  And beyond, if the need is real!

  Hey ho! for the Man!

  This is the song of the Gun –

  The muttering, stuttering gun,

  The m
addening, gladdening gun: –

  That chuckles with evil glee

  At the last, long dive of the Hun,

  With its end in eternity!

  Hey ho! for the Gun!

  This is the song of the Air –

  The lifting, drifting air,

  The eddying, steadying air,

  The wine of its limitless space: –

  May it nerve us at last to dare

  Even death with undaunted face!

  Hey ho! for the Air!

  Gordon Alchin

  R.A.F.

  With the first light, the morning flight

  Before the dawn-wind stirs,

  Comes out to pass across the grass

  Jewelled with gossamers;

  Then one by one at speed they run

  Until the lifting planes,

  Earth-bound no more, tilt up, and soar

  To the wide air’s domains.

  Now in the swerves of spiral curves

  As the swift kestrels tower,

  Each pilot swings blue-circled wings,

  And in the pride of power

  Laughs at the wind he leaves behind,

  And eastward at full speed

  Where the sun’s rose, cloud-veiled, just shows,

  Heads his unbridled steed.

  Now underneath, the white mist-wreath

  Clears off from field and lane;

  Below and far, one long raw scar,

  The battle-line shows plain,

  And there is need that he should read

  As in a book, by signs

  Of dust or smoke, what night may cloak

  Within the foeman’s lines.

  So, tho’ he hear the shells burst near,

  Or see the black-crossed foe

  And feel the breath of hissing death

  About his temples go,

  On his set ways he holds his gaze,

  Nor quits the airy field

  Till brain and eyes have gained the prize

  Of secrets all revealed.

  F.W.D. Bendall

  The Dawn Patrol

  Sometimes I fly at dawn above the sea,

  Where, underneath, the restless waters flow –

  Silver, and cold, and slow.

  Dim in the east there burns a new-born sun,

  Whose rosy gleams along the ripples run,

  Save where the mist droops low,

  Hiding the level loneliness from me.

  And now appears beneath the milk-white haze

  A little fleet of anchored ships, which lie

  In clustered company,

  And seem as they are yet fast bound by sleep,

  Although the day has long begun to peep,

  With red-inflamèd eye,

  Along the still, deserted ocean ways.

  The fresh, cold wind of dawn blows on my face

  As in the sun’s raw heart I swiftly fly,

  And watch the seas glide by.

  Scarce human seem I, moving through the skies,

  And far removed from warlike enterprise –

  Like some great gull on high

  Whose white and gleaming wings beat on through space.

  Then do I feel with God quite, quite alone,

  High in the virgin morn, so white and still,

  And free from human ill:

  My prayers transcend my feeble earth-bound plaints –

  As though I sang among the happy Saints

  With many a holy thrill –

  As though the glowing sun were God’s bright Throne.

  My flight is done. I cross the line of foam

  That breaks around a town of grey and red,

  Whose streets and squares lie dead

  Beneath the silent dawn – then am I proud

  That England’s peace to guard I am allowed;

  Then bow my humble head,

  In thanks to Him Who brings me safely home.

  Paul Brasher

  A Perfect Day

  By an Old Bird

  When you’re out on a long reconnaissance,

  And seated alone in the air,

  While the ‘Archies’ explode with a loud report,

  And bullets are singeing your hair,

  Then a couple of Halberstadts dive on your tail,

  And both Lewis guns jamb from the start,

  And you land with a crash in ‘No Man’s Land’,

  Then you and your ‘Bus’ have to part.

  Then you’ve got near the end of a Perfect Day;

  Near the end of your lifetime, too,

  For the bullets are hitting the ground all round,

  With an aim that is sure and true.

  You lie like a log in ‘No Man’s Land’,

  And you pray for the sun to set,

  When you’ll get to the end of this Perfect Day,

  And day you will ne’er forget.

  Now this is a pilot’s Perfect Day,

  To see a ‘dud’ morning break,

  When the rain pours down and the sky is grey,

  And you’ve photographs to take,

  And you think as you sip at your morning tea

  Of a town that all pilots know,

  And you hum as you sharpen your razor blade,

  And pray that the rain won’t go.

  Then you come to the end of this ‘Perfect Day’,

  And the end of a dinner, too;

  Your head feels light, and your knees feel weak,

  For you’ve painted Amiens blue.

  Heidsieck has christened that perfect day,

  And the Gobert has done its best.

  But the morning after that Perfect Day,

  You long for a perfect rest.

  Cadet Marchant

  Song of the Aeroplane

  Up in the zenith, the fleecy clouds chasing,

  Monarch of air in my power supreme,

  Looking with scornful eye on the Earth under,

  Swathed in the Sun’s golden garment I gleam.

  Follow who may thro’ my cloud-splashed dominion,

  Uncharted, eternal, unbounded and free,

  Cleaving my way across Heaven’s fair bosom,

  Brave of the bravest, who travels with me?

  Where I go gliding;

  Silver clouds sliding,

  Dipping and leaping,

  My joyous way keeping,

  Drooping and stooping,

  Twirling and looping,

  Brave of the bravest, who travels with me?

  Turning and sweeping,

  Warily creeping

  Into the gloaming,

  With night birds a-roaming,

  Through the cloud swaying,

  On the breeze laying,

  Over the moorland dim,

  Blithely I hum and skim

  Brave of the bravest, who revels with me?

  Into the battle’s gloom,

  Heedless the cannon’s boom,

  Scorning the shrapnel’s shriek,

  Cleaving the lyddite’s reek,

  Poised o’er the belching guns,

  Never a foe but runs,

  Straight drops my eager bomb,

  Hark to its deadly hum.

  Flames – and the crash of doom

  Breaks in the gath’ring gloom,

  Brave of the bravest, who battles with me?

  Back through the starry-pierced sky I am speeding,

  O’er the fields where Death’s harvest lies

  Still and ungarnered, nor heed they the morrow,

  (O, but the tears, the moans and the sighs!)

  Proudly to Earth once again I’m returning,

  Darkly to crouch till morning’s fair light

  Breaks, then again to the heavens go soaring,

  Brave of the bravest, to-morrow we’ll fight.

  Peace Song of the Aeroplanes

  Upward and upward with quiver and whirr,

  Onward and upward, our pulses astir,

  Higher and higher to heaven’s clear blue,

&nb
sp; Clearing the rain-cloud we swiftly skim through.

  Joyous and fleet as a bird on the wing,

  ‘Faster and faster’ we hear the wheels sing;

  Swift through the air as a swallow we swoop,

  Turn a clear somersault, looping the loop;

  Onwards and upwards through limitless space,

  Challenge the breezes to outstrip our pace;

  Flecked with the sunbeam’s bright ripple of mirth

  Up to the sphere where the snowflakes have birth.

  Bathing our planes in a shimmer of light,

  Gliding along in the silver of night.

  Earth far below us in mystery fades,

  Ghost of a dream-world enwrapped in the shades;

  Clear as a songbird’s most glorious note

  Peals of a church bell in harmony float,

  Rising like incense to regions above,

  Melting away in a vision of love.

  Onward and onward, a speck in the sky,

  Dimmer and dimmer to man’s watching eye,

  Moving through sunlight of brightness untold,

  Losing ourselves in a river of gold.

  [Here in the eye of the sun]

  Here in the eye of the sun

  I sit and wait for the Hun;

  Twenty thousand feet on high

  Out on the roof of the world am I,

  I and my ‘Pup’ and my ‘rattle gun’.

  There he comes below,

  The unsuspecting foe,

  A reckless shaft from the gleaming sun.

  I dive like death on the hated Hun;

  Too late he turns to go.

  Sideslip, spin or loop,

  He can’t evade my swoop;

  In vain he’s up to his knavish games . . .

  A burst! and he plunges down in flames;

  I give him the hunter’s ‘whoop’!

  Alone again in space

  I turn to the earth my face;

  The armies fight below

  As ants on the warpath go . . .

  . . . But if man’s works seem small to me and odd,

  How mighty small these things must look to God.

  Capt. ffrench

  Reconnaissance

  I journeyed to the east,

  Rolled on the surgent airs of autumn days: