Quiet Heroes
To those boys who became men under fire,
many who did not return.
Looking death in the face,
yet continuing.
Survivors of Kula Gulf, Guadacanal,
Iron Bottom Strait, innumerable others.
Quiet unsung heroes,
trying desperately to forget the
horrors witnessed.
The stench of diesel fuel,
the rancid taste of oil,
seeping, saturating,
a veneer of rankness never escaped.
Deafening, thundering guns sending
white trails across the night.
Urgent, pleading cries for help,
And unable to help.
Going below, back into danger,
To help a buddy.
Rushing water swirling, sucking
In the bowels of the ship.
Ammo drifting loose.
The reek of burning oil,
Thus two survived, not one
Hitting the black water
Submerging, surfacing
Suffocating fumes,
overwhelming
Desperately swimming
To get away before the ship
sinks into the inky depths
to her final resting place
sucking them with her.
Carrying fellow shipmates
Over razor sharp coral,
because you have shoes
and they, have none.
Hidden by natives
Praying for rescue
While the Japanese searched
They did their job without fanfare.
And when the war was over,
returned home, forever changed.
Resuming the life they had left behind.
Finally telling their story now,
tears sparkling on wrinkled cheeks.
Eyes dimmed with age, listening to the ships' bell
toll off their shipmates who have gone
to sail the calm waters of heaven.
When they are all gone who will remember?
My thanks to Leroy Kahn and Don Hensler
for their reminisces of World War II.
Pam Smith 1998
