THE WORLD WAR TWO GROUP discussion

Members can post or discuss any selection of WW2 poetry in this area.

The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

By Randall Jarrell (1945)

"A ball turret was a Plexiglas sphere set into the belly of a B-17 or B-24, and inhabited by two .50 caliber machine-guns and one man, a short small man. When this gunner tracked with his machine guns a fighter attacking his bomber from below, he revolved with the turret; hunched upside-down in his little sphere, he looked like the foetus in the womb. The fighters which attacked him were armed with cannon firing explosive shells. The hose was a steam hose." - Jarrell's note.

Taken from my copy of The Oxford Book of War Poetry by Jon Stallworthy. Does anyone else have a favourite piece of poetry from the Second World War?

by Jon Stallworthy

Ernest Hemingway's Second Poem To Mary Welch
Wilfred Owen's Dulce Et Decorum Est (not WWII but WWI)

always loved that poem. for me, it's in:



always wanted to get his 'little friend'
but haven't yet.

the description seems a bit off, the
gunner isn't upside-down, though i can
see where one might get that impression.

Mine is not a poem exactly but the Kohima Epitaph is said at remembrance services across Britain.

It has particular relevance to the now sadly few remaining Burma Star Veterans (those British and Commonwealth service personnel awarded the Burma Star Campaign medal in WWII), as it appears on the Kohima Memorial:

"When You Go Home, Tell Them Of Us And Say,
For Their Tomorrow, We Gave Our Today"

The background to the memorial and epitaph can be seen here: http://www.burmastar.org.uk/epitaph.htm

Thanks for the link Geevee, very interesting.

Hi Dr. Michael, I also love Wilfred Owen's Dulce Et Decorum Est.

To A Conscript Of 1940


A soldier passed me in the freshly fallen snow,
His footsteps muffled, his face unearthly grey:
And my heart gave a sudden leap
As I gazed on a ghost of five-and-twenty years ago.

I shouted Halt! and my voice had the old accustom'd ring
And he obeyed it as it was obeyed
In the shrouded days when I too was one

Into the unknown. He turned towards me and I said:
`I am one of those who went before you
Five-and-twenty years ago: one of the many who never returned,
Of the many who returned and yet were dead.

We went where you are going, into the rain and the mud:
We fought as you will fight
With death and darkness and despair;
We gave what you will give-our brains and our blood.

We think we gave in vain. The world was not renewed.
There was hope in the homestead and anger in the streets,
But the old world was restored and we returned
To the dreary field and workshop, and the immemorial feud

Of rich and poor. Our victory was our defeat.
Power was retained where power had been misused
And youth was left to sweep away
The ashes that the fires had strewn beneath our feet.

But one thing we learned: there is no glory in the dead
Until the soldier wears a badge of tarnish'd braid;
There are heroes who have heard the rally and have seen
The glitter of garland round their head.

Theirs is the hollow victory. They are deceived.
But you my brother and my ghost, if you can go
Knowing that there is no reward, no certain use
In all your sacrifice, then honour is reprieved.

To fight without hope is to fight with grace,
The self reconstructed, the false heart repaired.'
Then I turned with a smile, and he answered my salute
As he stood against the fretted hedge, which was like white lace.

By Sir Herbert Read

Carentan O Carentan


Trees in the old days used to stand
And shape a shady lane
Where lovers wandered hand in hand
Who came from Carentan.

This was the shining green canal
Where we came two by two
Walking at combat-interval.
Such trees we never knew.

The day was early June, the ground
Was soft and bright with dew.
Far away the guns did sound,
But here the sky was blue.

The sky was blue, but there a smoke
Hung still above the sea
Where the ships together spoke
To towns we could not see.

Could you have seen us through a glass
You would have said a walk
Of farmers out to turn the grass,
Each with his own hay-fork.

The watchers in their leopard suits
Waited till it was time,
And aimed between the belt and boot
And let the barrel climb.

I must lie down at once, there is
A hammer at my knee.
And call it death or cowardice,
Don't count again on me.

Everything's all right, Mother,
Everyone gets the same
At one time or another.
It's all in the game.

I never strolled, nor ever shall,
Down such a leafy lane.
I never drank in a canal,
Nor ever shall again.

There is a whistling in the leaves
And it is not the wind,
The twigs are falling from the knives
That cut men to the ground.

Tell me, Master-Sergeant,
The way to turn and shoot.
But the Sergeant's silent
That taught me how to do it.

O Captain, show us quickly
Our place upon the map.
But the Captain's sickly
And taking a long nap.

Lieutenant, what's my duty,
My place in the platoon?
He too's a sleeping beauty,
Charmed by that strange tune.

Carentan O Carentan
Before we met with you
We never yet had lost a man
Or known what death could do.

By Louis Simpson

A Beach In France



Last night I sat and watched a man die
He wasn't afraid he seemed in good cheer.
Last night I sat and asked myself why
A dying man should feel no fear.

One minute he breathed, a faint smile on his face
He wasn't afraid he seemed so at peace
One minute he was here and then he was gone
An empty shell in a lonely space

He said "At last I'm old" and then he died
Too many go young when a thief steals their time
At least he was warm, with a friend by his side
No one should die alone

Last night I sat and watched a man die
He was'nt afraid, he'd faced death before
Last night he told me how he'd stolen his time
On a beach in France in '44'.

From youth he jumped chest high in pink water
Wading ashore in another worlds war
Random selection in a senseless slaughte
Praying to his Jesus for a few minutes more

He killed his first man near that beach in France
Fifty years later he still prayed for his soul
He found his God on that beach in France
Crying in terror in a too shallow hole.


By Frank Gibbons
(Dedicated to the memory of ex Sergeant Arthur Walton,
Kings Shropshire Light Infantry, British Army 1939 - 1947)

Wow. I have no words. Beautiful.

They are great pieces of work aren’t they Helen! They have a meaning when written by those who experienced the war.

'Aussie Rick' wrote: "Carentan O Carentan


Trees in the old days used to stand
And shape a shady lane
Where lovers wandered hand in hand
Who came from Carentan.

This was the shining green canal
Where we came two by ..."

I watched Normandy: the Great Crusade on the Military Channel a few weeks ago where the actor Charles Durning recited this poem - according to Wikipeda, he landed on Omaha Beach with the 1st ID. Very moving

Thanks for that bit of information Happy, much appreciated.

The Crosses Grow On Anzio



Oh, gather 'round me, comrades
And listen while I weep;
Of a war, a war, a war...
where hell is six feet deep.

Along the shore, the cannons roar.
Oh how can a soldier sleep?
The going's slow on Anzio
And hell is six feet deep.

Praise be to God for this captured sod
That’s rich where blood does seep;
With yours and mine, like butchered swine;
And hell is six feet deep.

That death does wait
There's no debate;
No triumph will we reap
The crosses grow on Anzio,
Where hell is six feet deep.


By Audie Murphy, (1948)

Again, beautiful.

'Aussie Rick' wrote: "The Crosses Grow On Anzio...

That brought back a memory. When stationed in Naples, my sons used to go up yearly to Nettuno with their fellow Boy Scouts to clean the crosses and grounds at the cemetery. I remember that poem from those days.

Mike what a fine thing for the lads to do too.

That is a great thing for your kids to have done Mike!

Title Unknown


In Germany they first came for the Communists,
and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Communist.
Then they came for the Jews,
and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Jew.
Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Catholics,
and I didn’t speak up because I was a Protestant.
Then they came for me -
and by that time no one was left to speak up.


This is a famous poem from World War II by Martin Niemoller, Protestant Pastor (1892 - 1984). It survives today in a number of renditions and modifications.

I think about this poem all the time. Thanks for posting it here. I never knew who wrote it.

My pleasure Helen.

The Ensign and the Plank



You've pulled a man from the freezing sea all black with ship's oil fuel
You've cleaned him off, and see his wounds and wondered what to do,
You see the whiteness of his ribs where steam has skinned him too.
The guilt you feel when you look at him feeling glad it isn't you
And all you have to ease his pain is aspirin and 'goo.'

You fear to look him in the eye for the question you know will be there
The answer you know is certain death, and there's nothing more you can do.
You light him a fag, and give him your tot as he looks for the rest of his crew.
Then you lay him out on the iron deck knowing that's his lot
Briefly wondering if you did aright by giving him your tot.

For the rest of the watch, with a sail maker's palm with needle and with thread
You sew him up in canvas with the rest of that night's dead.
With a dummy shell between their feet, making certain that they will sink
You sit and sew till the morning's glow, amid the mess and stink.
By dawn's grey light you carry them aft, to the ensign and the plank.
And the hands off watch gather round all bleary eyed and dank.

Then the skipper with his bible says a sailor's prayer
Our father which art in heaven (we hope you're really there).
One by one the dead are gone slid from the greasy plank
A second's pause and then a splash, they sink beneath the main.

The hands go forward, feeling chill, thinking of those that were slain
with a certain knowledge in a while we'll do it all again.
Each one being still alive, breathes a silent prayer of thanks
Wondering, with a cold dark fear, will I be next on the plank?

By Petty Officer Stanley Kirby

The Last Farewell



Our fair young son his part to play,
Left home and friends without delay.
‘Twas on a chill November day
We said good cheer, he marched away –
For well we knew and so did he,
The future veiled uncertainty.
The need was great, the planes were few,
He volunteered his work to do.

But every one must do his part
E’en though it breaks the mother heart,
This is not for a few …..for all –
It is our country’s urgent call,
We dare not leave this job half done
For if we do, we’re slaves of Hun.
I like to think he’s just away
And has not gone for long to stay.

But we must know joy and defeat
And take the bitter with the sweet.
Somewhere on foreign land he fell;
His final fate we cannot tell.
But man that is of woman born,
A thousand years are as a day
And earthly things soon pass away.

He notes the tiny sparrow’s fall
We know His love is over all.
He lost his life? This is not true.
He gave his life for me and you
That generations yet to be
May freedom have and liberty.
My son! He must have sensed my tears
Amid the singing of the spheres.



By Olive Wray Heywood
Mother of Sgt William Wray Heywood 150 squadron
KIA 7/8 May 1941 in Wellington bomber R1374

For those who want to check out some more deeply moving poetry like the one above try this site:


http://www.aircrewremembrancesociety....

Another beautiful poem, Rick. Thanks for the link!

That one hit me in the gut. Amazing how poetry can convey such emotion.

Very true Mike, very true.

Death In Oosterbeek


At the dawning he came to me again,
That gentle smile, and blood upon his cheek
Reminding me, for his end had come
In the dappled woods of Oosterbeek.
A passing shower of German mortar bombs
Had driven me beneath a fallen tree,
And when, at last I rose, prepared to go,
I saw him turn his head and look at me.
The wonder and compassion in his eyes,
The friendship of the smile upon his face,
Mocked the blood that trickled from his lips,
And made me curse aloud the human race.
He knew they could not hurt him any more,
No longer would he feel the pains and fears,
Forgiveness shone from that young soldier's face,
The mem’ry brings a flood of angry tears.

I wish these tears would wash away the thought
That e’en in death we humiliate them so;
I saw him later at the First Aid Post,
A label tied to his bare and lifeless toe.
I often wonder who that young lad was,
Who gave his life to cross the bloody Rhine;
And if no loved ones have him in their thoughts,
Come haunt me lad, and live again in mine.

By Bob Scrivener

My father, Edmund F. Scrivener (1916—2003) served with 1st Battalion, The Border Regiment, Air Landing Brigade, at Arnhem. He wouldn’t talk much about his nine days in hell, but he did once say to me, 'Why is it a man’s scream sounds so much more blood-curdling than a woman’s?'

He wrote this poem about an incident near the end of the battle

My God, how incredibly moving. While I type this, I have chills.

What a tremendous and emotive last line.

That last line is just beautiful!

Go tell the Spartans, thou who passest by, That here, obedient to their laws, we lie




‘Inscription For A War’

Linger not, stranger; shed no tear;
Go back to those who sent us here.

We are the young they drafted out
To wars their folly brought about.

Go tell those old men, safe in bed,
We took their orders and are dead.


By A.D.Hope (Australian)

Marauders of the Sky



See them come home, sliding and roaring by
The bright, beloved, marauders of the sky
Stern and serene young profiles and strong hands
That have dealt death and sorrow over lands
Once fair with peace and wine, young love and song.
They flew impersonal elated and strong
See them come in to land, their smiles, their eyes,
The triumph in their step. But strangely lies
Pain in this mouth, pale horror on that brow
That went unruffled, candid, gay, just now.
They have returned, fierce kinsmen of the wind
Brought back their lives but left their youth behind.

By Roy Yallop

Rear Gunner, Sgt. Roy Arthur Yallop, 35 Squadron, Lancaster III PB366 TL-S.
Crashed, with the loss of all the crew 24/25th December 1944.

Piper Bill

(The legend of Bill Millin, the D-Day Piper)


The sighing surf on sand abounds, and seabirds call, the only sounds
At break of summers day, and yet, within the hour men will have met
Their destiny as war’s shrill chatter ends this tranquil scene. The clatter
Of machine guns spit their hate, as landing craft nose in to grate
Against the shingle to disgorge their human load who wait to charge
Into oncoming deathly hail, but never faltering, nerves taut, pale
Faced, leaping down into the cold wet breakers, seeking firm foothold.

Struggling forward, arms raised clear to gain refuge ahead, so near
And yet seeming so far away as spiteful guns traverse and spray
The killing ground that lies ahead, already littered with the dead
And dying who would never see this bitter, bloody victory.
Then faintly, through the deafening din, an alien sound is heard, the thin
Melodious wailing cry of highland pipes, though bullets fly
Around him, he is unscathed still. Thus starts the tale of Piper Bill.

Bill, who piped for Brigadier Lord Lovat, raised a special cheer
When, leaving on the previous day, took up his pipes, began to play
“Road to the Isles”, as, leaving Hamble river for this costly gamble,
Lifting spirits of the men, calling, cheered and cheered again,
Who as the Solent slipped away, all knew that on the following day
They’d face their own worst fears and doubts, prayed that when it came about
They would stand firm and conquer fear to face the perils that appeared.

And now, amid the smoke and roar of high explosives, Bill endures
The hail of death, which all around leaves him untouched, while yet the sound
Of “Highland Laddie” fills the air as fingers on the chanter dare
To still defy the lethal storm, this awesome hell in all its forms.
Yet death and wholesale demolition, backdrop to this exhibition
Of the art of Scottish piping, even with the bullets sniping,
Will not quiet this hardy Scot, surviving mortar shell and shot.

He marches at the waters edge, still playing, able still to dredge
From deep within his mortal soul the courage to maintain and hold
Himself upright despite the urge to run for safety, then emerge
When all is still and quiet again, escape the trauma and the pain.
But Bill is made of sterner stuff, clutching his pipes he starts to puff
And fill the bag, then with a squeeze, his hands again with practiced ease
Launch into yet another air, lifting spirits everywhere.

And so the legend now is born, as Bill continues to perform
Beyond this strip of golden sand known as Sword Beach, where many men
Have fallen, sacrificed their all in answering their country’s call,
But in this page of history this part of France will always be
Where Highland Bagpipes did their part with inspiration, and gave heart
To all who witnessed Bill that day, who, when he crossed that beach to play,
With all his great panache and poise, gave the Highland Pipes their voice.


By Tony Church

Eighth Air Force

If, in an odd angle of the hutment,
A puppy laps the water from a can
Of flowers, and the drunk sergeant shaving
Whistles O Paradiso!--shall I say that man
Is not as men have said: a wolf to man?

The other murderers troop in yawning;
Three of them play Pitch, one sleeps, and one
Lies counting missions, lies there sweating
Till even his heart beats: One; One; One.
O murderers! . . . Still, this is how it's done:

This is a war . . . But since these play, before they die,
Like puppies with their puppy; since, a man,
I did as these have done, but did not die--
I will content the people as I can
And give up these to them: Behold the man!

I have suffered, in a dream, because of him,
Many things; for this last saviour, man,
I have lied as I lie now. But what is lying?
Men wash their hands, in blood, as best they can:
I find no fault in this just man.


Randall Jarrell

Very nice poem Carl, thanks for the post, I'm sure others will also appreciate it.

Beautiful, Carl. Something about war seems to turn ordinary men into poets.

Poem for Black Saturday



The seventh of September
Was a warm and humid day,
The air so still and peaceful,
The war seemed far away.
But this was an illusion
For on that fateful afternoon
As the East End basked in sunshine
The peace would be ending soon

The wailing of the siren
Heralding the coming raid,
Distant gunfire coming nearer
It was time to be afraid.
'Come on get down the shelter!'
I heard my father cry,
As a droning air armada
Approached across the sky.

Huddled in the Anderson shelter
We shielded our heads in fear,
As bombs rained down around us
It seemed our end was near.
Shrapnel from the bursting shells
Fell crashing on the tiles.
The ground shook with explosions
That could be felt for miles.

After three long hours of terror,
We heard the all-clear sound.
And shakily we climbed out
From our dug-out in the ground.
All around the sky glowed red,
Dense smoke lay in the air,
Acrid fumes from nearby fires,
Smashed windows everywhere.

We prepared sandwiches and flasks of tea,
Blankets and pillows as well,
For we knew the bombers would come back
As soon as darkness fell.
And sure enough by 8pm
We heard the siren sound
And quickly we retreated to our dug-out in the ground.

All night long the raid went on;
It lasted till the dawn.
So many died that day and night,
So many deaths to mourn.
But this was only just the start,
The real war had begin,
And raids like this would carry on
Through nineteen forty-one.

Bombs hit the docks and factories
Along the Thameside shore,
Churches, schools and hospitals,
And the dwellings of the poor.
From Silvertown to Stratford
And from Mile End to Millwall
The destruction was extensive
And the East End bore it all.

Few of the heroes who served us well
Are still around today,
The wardens, rescue teams and firemen
Who kept the flames at bay.
Many died in action,
As official lists relate,
Their names enshrined forever
On a Canning Town estate.

Mass graves and crumbling tombstones
Tell their story of the war,
When the mighty air armadas
Smashed the dwellings of the poor.
Though more than sixty years have passed
I always will remember
That dreadful day it all began
The seventh of September.


Contributed by Billericay Library

Wow! Eerie.

Bloody War - The Cause


When greed sups with the devil
And principles are shed
When power is corrupted
And truth stands on its head
When fear pervades the confused mind
And fools are easy led
When reason is a prisoner
The bell tolls for the dead.

By Tom Walker - served in the Royal Navy in World War Two. He wrote many poems and is particularly proud of this one since few war poems address the causes of war.

Polliciti Meliora



As one who, gazing at a vista
Of beauty, sees the clouds close in,
And turns his back in sorrow, hearing
The thunderclouds begin.
So we, whose life was all before us,
Our hearts with sunlight filled,
Left in the hills our books and flowers,
Descended, and were killed.
Write on the stones no words of sadness -
Only the gladness due,
That we, who asked the most of living,
Knew how to give it too.

By Frank Thompson
Thompson volunteered although under age and was commissioned in the Royal Artillery in 1940, subsequently serving in the GHQ Liaison Regiment in Libya, Persia, Iran and Sicily. Parachuted into Yugoslavia, he was ambushed in May 1944 with a group of Bulgarian partisans near Sofia. Although he was wearing uniform when captured, he was treated as a spy. 'Tried' at Litakovo, he defended himself in fluent Bulgarian condemning Fascism. He was shot on 10 June 1944. Thompson had a working knowledge of nine European languages.


The title of this poem is Latin, and means 'having promised better things'.

If anyone is interested in reading further about this warrior-poet this book has just been released in the UK:

by Peter J. Conradi

Extraordinary. What a loss.

So true Helen!

Rocca San Giovanni



It is quiet here now, the valley is silent.
Only the birds and the stream have their noise,
The twittering, bubbling sweet sounds of nature.
Apart from this – silence which nothing destroys.

The smell is a faint one of morning and pine trees,
Of bracken and water, of woodland and stream,
The sight is of rushes, of mill house and lime trees.
The feel is of peacefulness sweet as a dream.

But at one time this valley, this valley of heaven,
Became a most torturous valley of hell.
For the fighting was bitter, the Hun held on grimly,
Regardless of losses, and many men fell.

For the British came north and the silence was shattered,
By rifle – machine gun – trench mortar – grenade.
The Messerschmitt diving bought sickening terror,
The valley vibrated with Death’s serenade.

But the British advanced and the valley was taken,
The fighting moved northward as Gerry moved back,
And the only remains to give proof of the fighting,
Are freshly dug graves at the side of the track.

Again it is peaceful, the valley is silent,
Only the birds and the stream have their noise,
The twittering, bubbling sounds of nature.
Apart from this – silence which nothing destroys.


By George Fraser Gallie, (November, 1943).

"Wish me luck...”


She waits
In the late twilight,
Shivering in the wind
That scoops up
Over the lip
Of the chalk cliff.

She waits,
Listening to the
Throb of the
Wimpy’s engines
As the squadron nears
Her look-out post.

She waits
For a glimpse of a
Gauntleted hand
Waving at her eye level,
The hand that caressed
Now ready to trigger the tail guns.

She waits,
Keeping watch
Ears straining to catch
The returning flight,
Waiting to count the returned
And the missing.

She waits
Past the dawn...
Waits for the missing...
Waits...
And waits...
And waits.


By Clare Stewart

Ooh. I have chills.

Some poems can do that can't they Helen!

Good stuff AR.