大象传媒

SHELTER ROCK. (a war time experience.)

I stood in the Stygian blackness, and heard man-made thunder roar,
And man-made lightening flashing bright, where German bombs did score.
Heard the distant throbbing, of powered wings in flight,
Saw the fires dull red glow, lighting up the night.
Then came the guns in answer, with their flaming comet鈥檚 trail
Showered sparkling metal, with shrapnel鈥檚 whipping flail.
And death came stalking slowly, gathered with his hands,
The few who鈥檚 lives were fated, sad to leave these troubled lands.
Faster rolled the thunder, as heavy guns replied,
More furious the air-raid, no danger be denied.
So to my air-raid shelter, I dragged my tired feet,
And sad indeed at carnaged , mass, I flopped on wooden seat.
鈥�

Then through my mist of troubles, I heard the gentle tones,
A preacher earnest in his creed, above the sirens moans,
I listened to his teachings, His words so earnest set,
They stamped themselves upon my mind, nor will I e鈥檙e forget.
鈥淩emember there is a refuge, for us in times of woe,
Remember there is a heavenly friend, for all who care to go,
A rock in time of tempest, in him we find our rest.
So let us pray, my bretheren, let this be your test鈥�,
His tenor voice then softly sang: and we joined lustily,
That hymn so old, yet always new. Oh rock please cleft for me.
鈥淩ock of ages, cleft for me
Let me hide myself in thee鈥�.
John William Mowbray. Xmas 1940

FOR VICTORY .

I stood at the gates of an old grey house, and Christmas time was nigh,
The stars were bright, the silence torn by engine flying high
The guns boomed out, and flashing bright, lighted up my place,
I bethought me of the firelight鈥檚 glow, on old and wrinkled face.

As they sat and mused on Christmas eve, in twilight鈥檚 fitful glow,
Thinking them of yesteryears, and dreamed of long ago.
Fingers of the years gone past, reach out and touch a chord,
Ah! Memories of younger days, and dim remembered word.
鈥�

I stood on the hill of yesteryear, and watched the new year rise,
In a flaming ball through the morning mist, and early tinted skies.
I thought me of old customs, and grey stoned castle moat,
Of choirs and of lanterns, and carol鈥檚 throaty note.

Compare it with the present, the blackness of the night,
The battles we are fighting, to prove that 鈥淩ight is Might鈥�.
No bells to ring the old year out. No Yuletide welkins ring,
No surpliced choir their praise to god, in cloisters cool to sing.
鈥�

I stood at day by the cold grey sea, and watched the heaving swell,
List鈥� to the beat of the ceaseless waves, the sailor鈥檚 mournful knell.
No bells for them, no choirs to sing, no fresh dug rich brown earth,
But a cold grey tomb in the ocean鈥檚 womb, a sailor鈥檚 right by birth.
鈥�

I stood amidst the ruins, where a German land mine fell,
I stood and saw the burnt out homes, and Churches loved so well.
I saw the pointed steeples, like fingers to the sky,
A proud, unspoken sentence: 鈥淭he Nazi we defy.鈥�
No bomb can wreck our ways of life, nor blast can undermine,
The faith we have in leadership, and providence divine.
鈥�

I stand no more in gateways, or on the cold, grey shore,
Nor on the hill of Yesteryear, or where the bomb did score,
I rest me from my writing. I put me down my pen.
And take up a wartime job, like countless other men.
I mean to do my duty, that ever we be free,
From Nazi domination: I help for Victory
John William Mowbray 28.12.40

DUNKIRK

A weary horde of fighting men, their spirits strong and free,
Winding fast a course through France, to outlet by the sea,
A blasted, bombed and wounded bunch of sunburned British boys,
Retreating through the cobbled streets where grey clad hun deploys.
Dunkirk beach is reached at last, thousands of them dead,
The battle rages furious. The golden sands run red.

No time to bury comrades, leave them as they lie,
Escape is much, we cannot stop. Haste, Oh! haste the cry.
Boats pull in, are overflowed, push off through shot and shell.
Brave the bombs and cannon fire, tossed on the heaving swell
Behind them death and glory, where bloody runs the sands,
This mighty scene, where they have been snatched from death鈥檚 thin hands..0

Overhead go tearing, with ear-splitting roar,
One thousand black crossed aeroplanes to drop bombs by the score.
To kill and maim, and thin the ranks, lay waste and devastate,
English sons and fathers, and those who were too late.
And there beneath the golden sands, they lie and wait their call,
The day when Gabriel, shall play the very 鈥渓ast post鈥� of all.

One hundred thousand weary feet, dragging through the sand,
Death comes stalking; reaching out to touch with clammy hand,
They who march to keep secure- (these sons of home and toil.)
The green fields, towers and country lanes, England and her soil.
That no horde of barbarous, grey clad wolves, shall sully land so fair,
But rather would they die for us, than shame forever bear.

The seas are calmed. A miracle of heaven has been sent,
And as the ships bombarded, with poop and maindeck rent,
Limp their way across the brine to England鈥檚 Famous shore,
Men fill the decks and overflow, packed tight by the score,
And weary and cold and tired feet, forgotten when they see,
The heritage of every man, born a Briton free.

And so they came to Britain鈥檚 shores, a shattered remnant free,
To live and fight another war, and different lands to see.
Whilst on the bloody shores of France, remain beneath the sea,
The heroes who did not escape, left behind to stand,
And take the brunt of German steel, fight against the tanks,
To you the heroes of this day, England gives you thanks.

Remember then these heroes, think not of them as dead,
But think their names will live still on, ten thousand years ahead,
Honour them with verses, sound their names in prose,
Their fame shall go from land to land, wherever Briton goes,
Their memory an evergreen, their patriotism famed,
A scroll of honour hallowed them, by British tongues be framed,

No more shall bombers rain their steel, no more shall clustered spire,
Or homes of helpless people fall, beneath their withering fire,
No! rather shall your soul be glad, and every man be free,
Conquerors of land and air, and heritage of the sea,
So be glad you Englishmen, speak with conscious pride,
All wickedness and evil things, your strength will override.
Rest and peace are your reward. Green fields your prize be,
England! Oh, England, unconquered, ever free. John William Mowbray 28.12.40

NIGHT FLIGHT (inspired by the R.A.F. recruiting advertisements and the achievements of our heroic flying aces)

Winged shadows lumped together, engines throbbing low,
Dirty weather overhead, gone the sunset鈥檚 glow.
Final check on gauges, pressure, oil and gun,
Shaded light, a friendly path, start off on our run.
Ghostly shadows tearing, are gone into the night,
Climbing to the ceiling, coursed on Eastward flight.
Sirens in the Rhineland, 鈥淲e鈥檙e boxed in by flack,鈥�
Forward, ever forward: there is no turning back.
Climbing, turning, diving, spiralling and twist,
鈥淭hat one sounded pretty close. Luckily he missed.鈥�
Downward we go diving, breaking through the cloud,
Roaring, throbbing, all agog. Air duct piping loud.

Objective below us: marshalling yard and dock,
Level off. Take our aim. Working like a clock.
Reckon out our bearing, gauge and altitude,
Press the buttons, bombs released. A sudden interlude.
Seconds pass. A sudden flash. A hit on marshalling yard,
Turn again. Course new set. Precision like a guard.
Darkness is our ally. Yet fingers probe the sky.
Searchlights constant seeking, look with brilliant eye.
A sudden lurch and tearing. Tailplane almost gone,
Staggers like a drunkard. Think we 鈥榬e really done.
Limping ever onward. Hiding in the clouds.
Oh! the blackness friendly, yet the danger it enshrouds.

Petrol gauge is dropping, feedline must be burst.
Captain orders to prepare, in case it comes to worst.
Now we鈥檙e over the channel, gleaming white below.
Wondering if we鈥檒l make it. Danger not yet past.
Near the friendly coastline, but descending pretty fast.
Yes! We鈥檝e really made it. What a huge relief,
As we bump down on tarmac. Yet our flight was pretty brief.
But we left behind a shambles. Our job was really done:
The photos that can prove it, taken from the camera gun.
The plane will need repairing, the tail will be replaced,
Yet we got off very lightly, from the dangers which we faced.

Yes! This life is really worth it, for we get lots of fun,
And though there鈥檚 always danger, for us and everyone.
The planes that we are flying (the best the world can make),
Behave as if they understood, the issue that鈥檚 at stake.
And with the 鈥榝ellow- feeling鈥�, the friends who we have made,
We鈥檒l fly our way to victory. We cannot be afraid.
John William Mowbray 30.1.41

ROSTOCK

I wish to tell a story of a recent bomber flight,
With Rostock as our target, as we forged on through the night,
Pulled by powerful engines, course ahead full set,
Watching close our panel board: orders can鈥檛 forget.

Tearing through the night-time, thick black clouds below,
Engines pulsing audibly, red the exhausts glow,
Ice upon the windscreen: airduct piping loud;
Full formation in the sky, trailing vapour cloud.

Into shining moonlight, astral guide surround,
Shining, silver, spreaded wings, with pilot well renowned,
Blasting down on Rostock, bomb loads heavy pull,
Bright the tracer bullet, ack-ack bursting full.

Searchlights peeping constant, probing o鈥檈r the sky,
We drop down on our targets, whilst barrage we defy,
Shining down below us, target like a map,
Bomb release and up again: hear their dull death slap.

Red the flash and fiery, debris flying high,
Fiercer still defences, death bursts in the sky,
Scored our second hit on target: flush on Heinkel homes,
Pull the stick and slowly rise, o鈥檈r the city domes.

Commence to gain our altitude, homeward make our way,
Satisfaction in our work, but dangerous to stay,
Back again through shell fire, through the search light glow,
Evasive action now our plan, as out to sea we go.

This, our greatest moment: this our pride in flight,
With our load of death and steel, we shall show our might,
So we rest contented, our job was done full well,
That is why I take my pride, this glorious tale to tell
John William Mowbray 28.4.41

THE HURRICANES

See them distant, throbbing low,
Lined against the sunset鈥檚 glow.
Streamlined epitome of speed,
Weapons of our country鈥檚 need.

Nearer still the throbbings rise,
鈥榁鈥� formation in the skies.
Air ducts piping loud and strong,
In position twenty strong.

Outward to the coast they go,
Out to where the white cliffs show.
Out to sea o鈥檈r foaming wave,
Out to France the flack to brave.

Watch these heroes flying high,
See them as they thunder by.
These Hurricanes o鈥檈r the clouds that ride,
Super fast- the airman鈥檚 pride.

Made by British hands and brain,
Made to stand the stress and strain.
Armed full strong may power give,
To planes and men that England Live

This my prayer and this my pride,
The Luftwaffe power will over-ride.
Tear these Nazis from the sky,
For WE shall live. THEIR creed shall die.
John William Mowbray 17.7.41

SALUTE TO RECRUIT

Have you ever loved your England,
With it鈥檚 white cliffs so secure?
Have you ever felt the comfort,
Or the 鈥榮elf possession鈥� sure?
Have you ever sailed the coastline,
It鈥檚 varied, rugged, scene?
Have you seen the heather purple,
Or the downs of evergreen?

Have you ever seen the snowdrop,
In hidden woodland glen?
Have you ever roamed across the Savernacks,
Been guided through the fen?
Have you ever seen the castles,
Or Cathedral鈥檚 clustered spire?
Have you ever watched a sunset,
That has set your soul on fire?

Would you like to see this England,
Over-run by Nazi feet?
Would you like to see your children,
Lying dead in fields and street?
Would you dare to stand impassive,
With the 鈥榡ack boots鈥� treading by?
Would your thoughts be really neutral,
If the swastika you spy?

Oh! it is beautiful, this England
And there is nothing to compare,
With all it鈥檚 native beauty,
Or tradition that we share.
It鈥檚 people are the finest,
The grain among the straw,
A debt we owe to people dead,
Who set this land before.

I appeal to all good people,
Who really love their home,
Who appreciate the comforts,
And the pleasures they have known.
To take up arms for Britain,
King, and empire too,
And show these boasting Nazis,
What British might can do.

And when peace comes stealing slowly,
On soft wings from the sky,
There will be an honest memory,
For all those folk who die,
We will spell their name in glory,
Remember you for aye,
Your million praises written,
In Gabriel鈥檚 books on high.
John William Mowbray 18.7.41

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