THE LADS WHO GO BELOW

The enemy’s reported, And he’d like to see the show, But he handles ammunition So he’s got to go below. And he’s ready on his station, Every nerve alert and keen, With a group of grim-faced sailors In a lower magazine. They can feel the ship’s vibrations When the broadside salvos go, And the shatter of the turrets When they batter at the foe. “Send ’em up and keep ’em coming! Man the phones and man the hoist!” Sweat and curse and pass the powder Till the very deck is moist. But the enemy is daring, And his planes get through the screen, A torpedo rips the blister Just above the magazine. Water fills the whole compartment, In another fires rage, But the guns still get their powder And the enemy engage. Trapped below, the lads are living, And the hungry hoist they feed, Though the first concussion stunned them And their deafened ears must bleed. Other hits, the foeman scoring, Thunderous roars of flaming sheen, “Save the ship from an explosion, Flood the lower magazine!” Lads, farewell! The air was dirty With a lot of fume and smoke, It’s as bad, lads, when you smother As on briny water choke. But the enemy’s defeated, Thanks to you who’ll never know, You who handled ammunition And who had to go below!