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The Picket Line
By: Charles
S. Babcock
Oh! Dark memory of mine
Remembering still the picket line.
Planes approaching in endless swarms
Broken bodies...lifeless forms.
The impact of a man-made bird...
Heartsick...dazed by the sounds we heard.
A ship enveloped by flame and smoke
Incurred by a maniac's suicide stroke.
Skeletons of proud fighting ships,
Decks red hued from bloody drips...
Tangled steel with guns awry,
But with great hearts that would not die.
Angry flames like tongues of death
Snuffing lives with its vengeful breath...
Fearful 'gainst the blackened sky
Where dope-crazed Japs prepared to die.
Confusion...shrieks, and cries of pain...
Dazed and shaken...muddled brain.
Rushing toward the thing we fear,
Grabbing hose and rescue gear.
Blindly grouping...smoke-filled space...
Cheating death in a desperate race.
Stumbling...fighting...out of breath...
Matchless fear...sudden death.
Half submerged...debris and oil...
Oblivious to the slime and toil.
Cursing...fearing some hidden hole,
Striving on toward the awesome goal.
Men with no regard for life;
Sons of battle, war and strife.
Fighting for our lives...our ship;
For the chance to make the homeward trip.
Quietness...deep solitude...
A silent prayer...faith renewed.
For a time free from attacks...
Exhaustion...falling in our track.
Time to think of shipmates gone...
A crew depressed...enjoyment shorn,
And yet, with thanks...who can divine
Our relief to leave the Picket Line.
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