9 July 2012
@crowncottage for Tom This was written for St nazaire 60th anniversary of the British commando raids which was probably one of the bravest actions of WWII. You need to know the military story of this perhaps to make full senseof it.
The rugged wind swept beauty of Inverlochy seemed an age away, Our hearts, no longer in our chest fought for sputum in an arid mouth. Months of training, of waiting, of wanting to bloody the nose of the aggressor. The fog of war was now lifted by our puppeteers, our boys to have their day.
We boarded our wooden packhorse and commenced a game of chance, Our Matelotes’ in waiting, told “Set a course to St Nazair – that’s France”! The sea, ushered us gently into a choreographed dance of warriors, For which we were glad, for the still and the quiet to settle and prepare.
The hammer to our anvil steamed graciously ahead, And despite the molestation and her ageing years, sat proud and sleek. Cutting through a gentle swell, her swan song for our hope and glory, She too, in her slender poise had purpose in her belly.
A brief spring sun, kissed us goodbye from the shores we so loved, Our dreams of returning left firmly stowed in Falmouth bay. We were ready, we were willing and this was our time! Fear and angst amidst bullshit and tall stories of women and of wine.
A motley crew, you would never see no more, Volunteers all, in a cursed and bloody war. Each closer than kin, each tougher than hide, We sailed on into the night to meet a spring tide.
Our heavenly guardian bowed then departed and darkness fell, Lady luck was now in play, our dance became a battle march to hell.
To ears that lay beneath the waves, We tip-toed through the subterfuge and to our final day.
We talked of our lives, of long ago and drank our brothers kye. Those who could, prayed to their God, Those who could not, did not ask why? Old sweats, young colts, a noble breed and tough old Sods!
Our last leg , guided by a knowing wink from a prone and shadowed figure, Like some lady of the night offering up her petticoat and favours. We sailed on toward the clutches of a cold and heartless mess The boys had long since lost their virtue, were now focused on success.
The drone of laden aircraft brought hope to those without, Their little gifts of misery, not much to shout about. Heaven sent, they confused, but too little and too late. Those Guns that bristled from the shore as sign posts to Hells gate.
The lights licked darkness into day, Their probing beams brought fury. The matelotes’ manned their stations And so began their story.
A breed of men that gave there all, their youth and any future. They lay in wait in awe of that leaden storm above. And hoped against all hope that they would live long enough. To deliver with vigour the compliments of a Charioteer.
Our grey Lady steamed ahead, her nose aloof and over-bearing, And in disbelief the frenzied forces watched the story there unfolding.
An adjustment to her carriage, she approached the caisson true, As a dour shout was given out “we’re late it just won’t do”!
While She lay lifeless, broken, her lifeblood drained ashore. Her noble escorts scattered to their stations bravely to support. But yet her death throws still to come at some time yet decreed, And the night of the commando raged with her secret still to keep.
The mole, The Pens, Bridge M and G, lifeless names that took so much, So many lost in sacrifice, lives of Lions and not of mice.
Of service they were true, each one lost a mothers son, a fathers boy, A sweetheart, husband, perhaps a lover but always, always a soldiers Brother.
The Chariots picked their way through to rescue where they could. Stunned rabbits in the glare of brief daylight they limped away. Out gunned and out numbered but not without hope, So many brave desperate acts offered up for the freedom of a few.
And when finally the brave had fallen, and the guns fell silent, We briefly succumbed to the arrogance of our captors, But as a last post for her boys The Old Graceful Lady, let go of her secret.
The day was done, The task complete, Our loved ones left to pray and weep.
Night Of The Commando • Opuss № I