Saline Drip

The intensity of the hangover was astounding. I crawled from my bunk knowing I was going to chuck. No time for niceties, I covered my mouth with a hand and headed for the ladder. The route to the nearest head took me through the junior rates dining area, but no-one batted an eyelid as my naked torso appeared above deck level. It was nothing unusual to see an almost naked sailor en-route to bathroom or head. I’d slept in my boxers as usual, so modesty was preserved.

Stepping over the combing, the smell of cooking breakfast had a disastrous effect and I broke into a shambling run. Flip-flops, the preferred messdeck footwear when not on duty, were never designed for running and I lost one of mine before I’d made 10 yards. The other was left somewhere near the bathroom flat as I’d loped my stumbling way as quickly as possible aft.

Flinging my body down the ladder to the head, I bowled Yosser Hughes over and was reminded that my parents must have had me out of wedlock: the insult didn’t matter because by now my cheeks were bulging, my throat was full and there were twin jets of vomit squirting from my nose. I dived into a vacant trap and just released.

Even my recent sea sickness didn’t compare to this. Like Magnus Magnusson, I’d started and I was damn well going to finish; I just didn’t know when that might be!

I’ve no idea how long I lay sprawled there, prostrate on the cold steel deck, face over the stainless steel crapper. Time passed and as it did I just kept on chucking. Eventually there was nothing left inside, but that didn’t stop the automatic reaction; the constant clenching of stomach muscles left me weak and I felt even more death-like as time passed.

I knew I needed to move my ass and get myself cleaned up so I crawled, literally on hands and knees, into an adjacent bathroom. Having brought nothing with me, I simply dropped my skivvies and hunched into a cubicle with the water jetting over me and after a while I began to revive.

Back in the mess I collected my things together and headed for the bathroom a second time to take care of my morning ablutions. Having only managed to locate one of the flip-flips on my journey back from the bathroom first time around, I kept as sharp an eye open as I could for the other. No luck, I’d have to get a new pair.

The simple act of cleaning my teeth made me sick again and I became aware that I was hurting considerably. My ribcage was sore, my stomach muscles were very sore and my throat felt as though someone had had poured broken glass down it.

The morning muster was just finishing when I arrived in the EMR and I got a bollocking for my tardiness. Chief Llewellyn didn’t report me though, so the damage wasn’t too bad and I stood as erect as I could manage to accept my reprimand.

“Look at the state of you, you’re a mess! Don’t you ever turn to in that condition again; now get out of my sight.”

In the two and a half hours since the QM had piped ‘Call the Hands’ all I’d managed was getting dressed and turning to. Dehydration had set in to add misery to my still churning gut and banging head. I sipped water from the cooler fountain before descending to my work place.

The HF room was empty when I got there and Bud Abbott found me slumped on the desk when he came in a short while later. Taking one look at me Bud smiled and disappeared. He returned a few minutes later with a mug of hot, sweet tea, which he thrust in my direction, “Get this inside you, you look as though you need it!”

Sipping gratefully at the tea, I remained silent. Then, when I’d drunk about half the contents of the mug I knew I was going to chuck again. The weather deck was nearer than a head, so I made for the open air and offered yet another technicoloured yawn to the world.

Retching for a few minutes I was surprised to see blood in my outpourings. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Back in the HF room, Bud asked me if I was okay. I told him what had just happened and he suggested a visit to the M.O. It made sense, so I went.

The orderly took my details and made notes of my visit, then took me in to see the Doc. “This man’s been sick sir, blood present.”

“Blood, eh? How much blood? What colour was it?”

“Red sir,” I answered wondering what colour he’d expected me to say. “Not much, just in with the vomit.”

“Better to be safe than sorry I suppose. Alright, drop your trousers and let’s have a look. Turn round and bend over here. Spread your buttocks for me.”

Now I might have been in a pretty bad state, but even as hung-over as I was I still knew that I’d vomited from my mouth: why did the Doc want me to spread my ass cheeks and bend over his table? Oh God!

For the first time in my life I was being anally examined and I really didn’t like it. I’d always said live and let live, but if this was an indication of how it felt to have homosexual sex, you could stick it! Doc did stick it, and he wriggled it about, then thankfully he removed it.

“Get up onto the bed, turn onto your right side and tuck your knees up under your chin.”

I felt particularly vulnerable when Doc approached me a second time. His digit violated my little puckered hole again and once more it felt as if he wriggled it about and revolved it before removing it: I was starting to feel like the woodpecker in the rugby song!

“Alright, you can get up now. Had you been sick before this morning? Yes? Well why the bloody hell didn’t you say so! Do you think I’ve nothing better to do with my time than stick my finger up your ass? Bloody Hell!”

The repeated sickness had torn my throat-lining and the blood came from that it seemed, nothing else. The rectal exam had been to see if there were traces of blood internally, which could have pointed towards a possible ulcer.

I left Sick Bay with the cheeks of my bum firmly clenched together and a new wiggle in my walk. I couldn’t help but wonder whether Doc had enjoyed his morning foray, the SBA certainly seemed to have enjoyed observing judging by the smile on his face and lump in his pants as I left...

The morning was grey with a distinct chill in the air as Bulwark made her way into the harbour at Piraeus. Being a comparatively large vessel the usual morning traffic gave way briefly as we worked our way sedately down the roads, breaking from the main channel eventually and heading for our berth among a couple of other military types.

I was getting used to the traditions of being afloat on one of Her Majesty’s grey funnel steamers and Bulwark accepting salutes from all and sundry as she passed; in the military, lesser ships always salute their more senior sisters and Bulwark being carrier class was about as senior as you get. Approaching our berth I was somewhat surprised to note a sailor ditching a bucket of swill over the side as Bulwark slipped by. The scruffy bugger looked up and waved as we were all standing to attention and just turned and sauntered off: he would have been caned for that in our lot.

We were alongside, the hawsers secure, a gangway rigged and the communications links brought inboard. It may seem slightly odd given the number of radio aerials aboard, but telephone links were used to communicate with the local authorities and for making long distance calls home, so were an essential as far as the ship was concerned. Very different to today of course when you’d simply dial direct from your mobile.

Being part of the duty watch I wasn’t going to get ashore on the day of our arrival, but we were going to be here a week so I wasn’t exactly bothered. I spent my free time looking up some Athenian history in the ship’s library and had a fair idea of those things I wanted to see when my turn came for shore leave. I’d heard of the Acropolis of course, but in my naivety I wasn’t aware the building at the top of the hill was actually called the Parthenon. Nor was I sure what the building had been or the significance of the hill to the city sprawling below it. I obviously had a lot to learn.

During the following morning’s working hours I heard tales of the delights awaiting me ashore. One of the old hands was telling us we could even make a few quid by selling our blood if we were short of funds; I wasn’t, so didn’t take much notice.

Once ashore a couple of us jumped into a fast black (taxi) and headed for the city. There are perfectly adequate bus and rail links, but for some reason matelots always seem to take the most expensive option when it comes to transport. The drive into Athens was fast and furious and possibly even more frightening than the drive into Istanbul. The only real difference being this driver didn’t stop to pray en-route.

We disembarked at the Acropolis and started looking around. To say I was amazed would put no too finer point on it. Back then the remains were completely open and anyone could just walk among the columns, feel the marble, look out over the city and wonder how a civilisation so advanced when this wonder was constructed could be so backward now. We clambered on walls, explored the theatres and temples around the foot of the hill. Climbed back to the top of the hill and stared out over the sprawl below us, making mental notes of other locations before heading down again.

Various taverns fell into our path as he walked down into the city and toward the old Olympic stadium. The odd libation helped us recover from the rigours of sight-seeing and of course we needed to stop more and more frequently as the beer took effect and bladders filled.

Shooting into a public convenience on one occasion I was slightly taken aback to see an elderly lady dressed head to toe in black and with a face like a wizened monkey, sitting at a table inside toilet block. My need was great so I just rushed past and stood with my back to her as I used the urinal. On completion I looked for a sink and finding none made my way back to the door. The old lady scowled at me and taking a walking stick barred my passage from her chair. The leathery old crow said something, but it was all Greek to me and I tried to leave. The voice raised a few decibels and her spare hand shot out: ah, light dawned. I was supposed to pay for the privilege of peeing in her presence! Taking some change from a pocket I asked in my best English, “How much?”

The crone simply looked at me.

I pointed to the coins in my hand and said “Drachma. How many?”

The crone continued to stare.

Noticing a few coins of little value on her table I assumed she would give change if I offered too much. I took a few drachma and offered it to her. Nothing, not even a flicker of recognition. I tried a few more coins and said again, “Drachma. How much? What do I owe you?”

We were obviously at am impasse and I was starting to worry a little since I didn’t want to lose my pals. I took more coins and just dumped them on the table. The stick came down and I was released; my pee had just cost me considerably more than the last round of beers!

It soon became apparent that the little group I was in had some very different ideas about what to look at and where to go. Antiquities were fast becoming a thing of the past with the others and it seemed I alone was the only one who wanted to explore farther a-field. Deciding it would be better if we stayed together I eventually conceded and allowed myself to be dragged kicking and screaming into another of Athens’ many bars.

I suspect the reality is that most of the city’s hostelries were family businesses and the one we found ourselves in next certainly was. Compared to some of the bars I’d been seen in recently this one was palatial and had vines growing above a courtyard area in the Greek fashion. We ordered Alpha beer from the waiter and sat at one of the tables.

The beer arrived along with the owner, who also brought ouzo. As this was obviously a free welcome it seemed churlish to refuse and we drank his health. He asked in stuttering English if we were from the “Beeg sheep” that had arrived and we said yes with much nodding. The owner welcomed us to his establishment and went away.

A few minutes later the owner reappeared, carrying a tray of glasses and an old photo album. Like the Brits, the Greeks are a sea faring nation and this gentleman had served in the Greek Navy. His album contained many photographs of British warships and we wondered if he’d also served aboard these? He pointed out specific ships and said “Thees” several times. How could he have served with us when his English was so bad? The language barrier was certainly a difficulty. He passed the glasses round and toasted us; Metaxa, Greek brandy. Hmm I liked this.

The conversation continued in staccato form and more Metaxa arrived, brought this time by Dimitris, the owner’s youngest son who spoke better English. The family name was Metaxas, like the brandy but different and our new best friends told us the Metaxas family history; I became horribly confused with the explanation. We ordered more beers and more Metaxa arrived with them. By the time we’d been there an hour, we were quite plastered and had become the centre of attention for Iannis, Dimitris, Costas and the few locals who had stopped in for an afternoon coffee.

They fed us moussaka to soak up the booze and retsina to clear the head; it didn’t work and we simply got more and more pissed. When the meal was over along came Greek coffee, which I loved (and still do). More Metaxa followed and we spent the entire evening with these lovely people, eventually wending our way back to the ship in the midnight hour. The bill? Negligible to say the least. How they stayed in business I’ve no idea since to a man we’d eaten and drunk at least six times the value of the ticket.

Not all my shipmates had the good fortune to fall in with such generous people though and one guy finding he was short of funds decided to find one of the city’s blood banks to raise a little drinking money. Whether he simply didn’t realise as much cash as he needed on a single armful or whether it was greed I have no idea, but when the police scrapped him up from the gutter he was suffering from a case of pernicious anaemia and not a single vampire in sight. It transpired the silly sod had visited two independent blood banks and had somehow managed to make three donations before collapsing. The authorities rushed him to hospital for a transfusion, which he had to pay for: on board ship we ran a book on whether he’d procured his own donation!

Making my way back to the harbour side and Bulwark on our last night in Istanbul, I came across a street vendor selling Afgan coats from a handcart. I stopped to look and found myself swept up by the stitching, the fur, the possibility of an original Christmas present and the smell: the skin these coats were made from did niff a bit to say the least.

After a suitable amount of haggling and a search for the right size and colour, I made a purchase feeling sure that Lesley would enjoy wearing a real Afgan as opposed to the imitations available in Newport’s high street shops. The trader folded the coat and wrapped it in brown paper, then tied up my bundle and I carried it away feeling very pleased with myself.

Back in the mess I started to wonder what I was going to do with my new purchase: it was far too big for my personal locker. The other guys and I had already managed to use up the various odd bits of storage available in the radio offices and I was stumped. In the end I decided there was no alternative, unpacked the coat and hung it in mess’s communal coat locker.

The next morning Bulwark slipped her moorings and with the ship’s company dressing ship, turned her bulk in the midst of the stream and headed back down the Bosphorus towards the Mediterranean once more.

As we made our way through the Dardanelles Straits I reflected on the fact that my first cruise had turned its mid-point and that we were in fact on our way home; of course that didn’t mean we were going home in any great hurry.

Exiting into the Aegean, we ran into some quite violent weather. So far Bulwark had been a completely stable platform and I’d grown used to the fact that our ‘flat-top’ was indeed always flat. Time for another new experience then as the old lady began corkscrewing her way through the waves.

The Mediterranean is an odd place. The sea is almost landlocked and not particularly deep, so when a storm does blow up, there’s nowhere for the water to go. We’re not talking little choppy waves here, but swells that don’t seem to know which way they want to go. Large vessels, like aircraft carriers and tankers, find their structures having to absorb great strains.

I’d never been seasick before in my life, but like many others I found Bulwark’s straining, creaking motion hard to cope with. If you stood toward the rear of the flightdeck and looked forrard, you could watch the ship’s bow lift and twist. In the bowels of the boat the twisting motion was far worse and the temptation to walk on the bulkheads as well as the deck was high. Whether it was the visuals that upset me most or the churning of my gut as it tried to make sense of the motion I know not, only that my overpowering need was to puke.

I ran as best I could to make a weather deck, leaned out over the rail and made the most basic of mistakes: never throw anything into the wind. I spewed and quickly found myself covered in my own slime. Charming!

Never let anyone tell you Mal d’Mer is a figment of the imagination, it’s not. Seasickness is one of the worst experiences there is; all the more credit then to Admiral Lord Nelson, who was sick every time he put to sea.

My solution was to find a place out of the way in a corner of one of the HF mast bays. I curled into a ball and just lay on the grilled deck. As I chucked up, so my vomit simply dripped away into the sea below me. I lay there for hours…

The storm blew itself out in the night and the morning dawned bright and clear. I’d survived my sickness and was tucking into bacon and eggs when Wiggy arrived beside me at the table. “Hello Taff. Feeling better then? Best cure for seasickness there is, a good breakfast.” He quipped. “Plenty of greasy bacon, eggs and beans; when you spew it’ll just slide back on its own grease!” For some reason I didn’t feel very hungry anymore.

We met up RFA Grey Rover and replenished our fuel-oil stocks, the two ships sailing side-by-side and connected by the umbilical pumping its life blood into Bulwark’s thirsty heart.

And so to our next destination and the first on our homeward bound leg; Athens, city both ancient and modern, or to be more precise Piraeus, the port on which Athens relies.

The variety of life to be seen on the streets, squares, cafes and in the markets of Istanbul was quite astonishing. I hadn’t at that early stage in my life taken to people watching, but am inclined to the belief that my experiences in foreign lands during the early 1970s encouraged me to study others.

As life passed us by while sitting in the café in Grand Bazaar, I noticed an unfortunate who at some stage in his life must have suffered some terrible trauma. This chap appeared to be in perfect condition from what would normally be the waist up, but there was nothing below. The man’s body seemed to simply end just below the ribcage.

He was mobile, thanks to being placed on a square of wood fitted with a castor at each corner and two wooden blocks that he used like miniature ski poles. Whether he was in pain or not I’ve no idea, but he didn’t seem to be complaining at all. Hung around his neck was an old can that people dropped coins in. The guy wasn’t begging as such, just making his way through the bazaar and people were going up to him and just giving him the odd coin.

I was stunned. This was another new experience for me, having never seen anything like it before. Crippled people in the UK are taken care of and in my naivety I’d assumed this to be the case in other countries too. How stupid a young person I was.

Questions rose in my mind. How did this man manage? How did he exist? He obviously couldn’t fend for himself as able bodied men would. So many questions flooded into my head; questions I didn’t have the answers to and couldn’t even pretend to guess at in some cases. Seeing this chap was a life changing experience for me.

Leaving Alan in the café I made my way over. Not knowing quite what to do or say, I put the handful of change I had in my pocket into his collection tin. He looked up at me and smiled a toothless smile, his leathery features scrunching into a wrinkled mass. The smell, now I was up close, was intolerable and I felt the bile rise in my throat. To my utter disgrace, I turned quickly away and headed back to the safety of the café.

Fate I suppose, but every time I got ashore in Istanbul I saw this chap and every time I added coins to his tin. I promised myself that from now on I’d make a point of donating to charity on a regular basis.

However this poor soul managed in his life I have no idea, but when I next visited Istanbul some eighteen months later he was still polling his way along the streets so he obviously did manage. He looked completely unchanged; why shouldn’t he? I went over to give him change and to my utter surprise his face broke into a grin and he nodded animatedly at me. Not speaking any Turkish I’ve no idea what he said, but I like to think the recognition was mutual.

Sadly, I never saw him again and have often wondered how he was.

Istanbul may be Turkey’s most populous city and the cultural and economic centre of the country, but to a young man like me it was a city of wonders. We’d dressed ship as Bulwark had approached her anchorage and I’d had the most wonderful view of the shoreline. The tightly packed buildings. The minaret towers, which stood high above the cityscape indicating a very different culture. The spectacular Blue Mosque. I could hardly wait to get ashore and explore!

We came to a stop and were nudged by two tugs into the berth prepared in advance to receive Bulwark’s bulk. Filing off the flight deck and returning to normal duties, the talk was all about the anticipated run ashore. What could we expect? What’s the city like? Have you been here before? Yes. Don’t drink the water, watch out for the raki and make sure you visit the Grand Bazaar.

The day dragged on until eventually all off-watch lower deck ratings were mustered in the main hanger. We received strict instructions about going ashore and advice about what we should, or shouldn’t do with the natives: fraternisation of the horizontal kind, we were told, was not recommended under any circumstances. Bartering was expected and an essential part of the culture. Religious observances were strict and we should make allowances.

They set us free and off we went. Eager to get off the ship and ashore, the dash for the messdecks and showers was akin to a stampede. Amazingly it is possible to fit 40 men into a bathroom designed for 20 without any problem, when a run ashore is in the offing!

From the harbour side the choice was either to walk or take one of the many Mercedes taxis waiting in line; no contest, half a dozen of us piled into a cab and told the driver to take us to the city centre. He didn’t understand and looked blankly at our eager faces. “Take us into town. To the city.” Still nothing. “Hilton Hotel” someone suggested and light dawned, but I didn’t want to spend my day boozing and Allan, a particular friend of mine, said “Grand Bazaar. Take us to the Grand Bazaar.”

The taxi shot off at a hundred miles an hour, the driver keeping one hand on the horn and the other out the window, waving at all and sundry. He also kept up a constant stream of high volume verbal outpouring, which was completely unintelligible.

We screeched past an armed policeman directing traffic from a small podium in the centre of a junction. I remember feeling slightly shocked; I’d never experienced armed police before and hadn’t expected to see them here.

There was a screech of brakes and a waft of burning rubber as the taxi suddenly stopped mid-journey. It wasn’t just our driver who’d pulled up however as the road was littered with stopped vehicles. The driver reached under his seat, pulled out a prayer mat and got out of the car; I became aware for the first time that a wailing sound was assailing my ears and that an Imam was calling the faithful to prayer.

“What the fuck’s happening?” Wiggy wanted to know, but it was no use protesting, our driver was deep in his devotions. “He’d better not have left the meter running that’s all.”

Prayer-break over we go underway once more and a few minutes later were deposited in the heart of the city. Obviously it wouldn’t be too far to walk, but the taxi fare was so cheap I couldn’t see any of us walking far.

Our intrepid band parted company; I headed into the Grand Bazaar with Allan, while the others stopped into a café for a beer before doing whatever. My first impression of Grand Bazaar was what’s all the fuss about? The frontage, though quite impressive and interesting wasn’t exactly what I’d imagined. Once inside though I was simply blown away by the number and variety of shops and stalls. I’d heard it said you could get anything your heart desired in this wonderful market and am inclined to the belief that may well be true.

There were glass boutiques, brass stalls, wood, onyx and marble vendors. You could buy clothing, perfumes and jewellery. Cottons, silks, furs and skins. Tobacconists and cafes were dotted here and there and I was tempted by the aromatic scent of the thick sweet coffee preferred by the locals. The bazaar is deceptively huge and even after a couple of hours, we still hadn’t seen all of it. We had made purchases though and being in need of sustenance, stopped into one of the cafes for food and drink.

As we ate we watched. The whole world seemed to strolling past, judging by the faces we observed, so many different nationalities being present. What an amazing place and what fantastic things to see, touch and buy.

I repaired back onboard mid-evening with a deerskin jacket for myself, some onyx for both Lesley and Mother, a hookah for my Dad, and an intricate gold necklace for Lesley. All of these items would be stored away until we reached home waters. I’d also purchased a large box of Turkish Delight, which I was going to ship home since the delicacy was one of my mother’s favourites and I knew she’d appreciate it. All in all, I’d had an excellent day and had returned aboard sober for a change!

Our next port of call was to be Istanbul and I looked forward to new experiences and sampling the mysteries of the middle-east as we sailed away from Cyprus. Our route would take us north and we would pass between the islands of Crete to port and Rhodes to starboard as we sailed up into the Aegean Sea. I had no idea at the time that I was sailing among islands I have since come to love as holiday destinations; back in 1971 I had travelled very little and was not worldly wise. Sailing the deep blue waters between the idyllic Greek islands of Kos, Naxos, Lesvos, et al, and watching dolphins swim and jump around our bows, it was hard to imagine how deadly the area we were approaching had once been.

To make our destination, Bulwark would have to negotiate the Dardanelles Narrows before reaching the Bosphorus, the Sea of Marmara and eventually Istanbul. Today the disaster that had been the Gallipoli campaign is all but forgotten to anyone without an interest in history. There are a lot of misconceptions and many half-truths that have passed into common knowledge and certain figures have taken on the trappings of folk-lore heroes. The truth behind the campaign was very different.

Being a bit of a naval history buff, Jimmy the One had written a screed for the less educated among us, which he posted on the ship’s notice board and I’m not ashamed to admit that I was one of those who digested it thoroughly. My schoolboy history had barely touched on events in and around the Dardanelles and as far as I was concerned the whole mess had been Winston’s worst nightmare: 1915 was of course a very long time ago even then and as history goes, Gallipoli had been pretty much written off.

Looking outboard as we entered the narrow channel it was easy to see why an assault from the sea had been such a disaster: most of the shoreline had very little, if any, beach and rocky, steep to the point of being almost vertical cliff faces plunged down into the sea. The ship took on a respectful silence as sailors and marines alike stood gazing at the shore.

Between the first landings on the Gallipoli Peninsula on 25 April 1915 and the evacuation which began eight months later in December, some 43,750 allied soldiers lost their lives. At least 86,500 Turkish soldiers also died. These casualty figures may have been small compared to the later catastrophic losses in France and Belgium, but were nonetheless devastating for the families at home.

Fighting men have an affinity with death and although our cruise had so far been one of unadulterated pleasure, I doubt there was a man aboard left unmoved when at sunset as Bulwark made her way into more open water a marine bugler sounded the Last Post.

The combined Australian and New Zealand forces, the Anzacs, regard Gallipoli as their war and commemorate it every year with Anzac Day. The truth is though, that while some 10,500 Anzacs died on the Gallipoli Peninsular, so did over 10,000 French, 21,000 British and close on 87,000 Turks.

In addition to those killed were something in the region of 400,000 casualties wounded, many of whom later died from dysentery or enteric fever thanks to the unsanitary conditions of the peninsular. Among those who died was Rupert Brooke, from a septic mosquito bite, that stunning British poet known for his idealistic War Sonnets (reproduced below in tribute to “the most handsome man in England") written during the early months of the First World War.

The War Sonnets

I. Peace
Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour,
And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,
Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,
And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
And all the little emptiness of love!
Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,
Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.

II. Safety
Dear! of all happy in the hour, most blest
He who has found our hid security,
Assured in the dark tides of the world at rest,
And heard our word, "Who is so safe as we?"
We have found safety with all things undying,
The winds, and morning, tears of men and mirth,
The deep night, and birds singing, and clouds flying,
And sleep, and freedom, and the autumnal earth.
We have built a house that is not for Time's throwing.
We have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever.
War knows no power. Safe shall be my going,
Secretly armed against all death's endeavour;
Safe though all safety's lost; safe where men fall;
And if these poor limbs die, safest of all.

III. The Dead
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!
There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,
But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.
These laid the world away; poured out the red
Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be
Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene,
That men call age; and those who would have been,
Their sons, they gave, their immortality.
Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,
Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.
Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,
And paid his subjects with a royal wage;
And nobleness walks in our ways again;
And we have come into our heritage.

IV. The Dead
These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
And sunset, and the colours of the earth.
These had seen movement, and heard music; known
Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.
There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
A width, a shining peace, under the night.

V. The Soldier
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.