I CHOOSE, IT ALL DEPENDS ON YOU, THE FEAST OF THE BEAST, THE SIGNAL, THE LETTERS, AH LIBERTY, STALINGRAD, DIRTY HANDS, A WORKERS THOUGHTS, CLARION CALL

I CHOOSE

I dreamt I saw old Adolf in his Bertchesgarden home,
I dreamt we talked about these things, just he and I alone.
He said, “You don’t tell me that you are proud to be,
An Englishman, who’s known defeat in air, on land and the sea?”
“Why; look at me, the Fuhrer who has conquered half the world,
The banners of all Europe’s homes, to me have been unfurled!
I came a conquering hero, these people to set free.
Why don’t you change your country friend; and come and fight with me?
Democracy has seen it’s day, and England’s glory dead,
The shame that your country has to bear, be better left unsaid!
So! Do you pause. Then change your mind; and I will offer you,
The freedom of my battle spoils, a life for you anew.”

Then he silenced at my smile, a black look upon his face,
I said ”It is now my turn to speak and state my country’s case,
Now! I was born a Briton, and for ever shall be so,
For British people cannot be slaves, and that you full well know.
Our pride is in our bones, our joy in life so free;
Our little homes and countryside, our traditions of the sea.
We’ve known the freedom of the soil, the golden fields of corn,
Watched the glowing sunrise, in the early misted dawn.
And of these things so justly proud, our many clustered spire.
In leadership where trust is set, who set your soul on fire.

You ask I should forgo these things? A fool that you should be!
Our heritage is in our life, we will live eternally!
Unconquered in the air as yet. We dominate the sea.
When Europe’s soil our armies greet, your slaves we will set free,
Then your German pride will fall, and you shall be sore set,
The conquered people to rise again, your sins they can’t forget.
From North and South, from East and West, these swarming hordes will come,
And your Nazi signs shall rust and fade, your gloried days be done.
It’s British might and British strength, and British men shall be,
The cause of your disaster friend. That’s what I choose to be!
John William Mowbray 24.11.42

IT ALL DEPENDS ON YOU

Amongst we working people, the opinion is ripe,
The propaganda issued by the government is tripe.
It doesn’t seem outstanding; it lacks that certain touch,
It doesn’t seem attractive or appeal to us as much.
So, in opposition; this idea I suggest,
To put it into rhythm, or verse, perhaps is best.
Here then is my effort, to brighten up the case,
On bills we see in windows or on hoardings around the place.
Bring to the public, an adage which is new,
And I’ll really try to prove, that ‘it does depend on you’.

Think then of these soldiers, who are fighting at the front,
Give a thought for heroes, who are taking up the brunt.
Into bloody battle; constantly each day,
I wonder what they’re thinking, or what they have to say?
They do not ask for mercy, nor will they sue for truce,
When faced up to a murderer, what would be the use?
They’ve only got one slogan, they’re repeating it anew,
“Old folks at home, we are depending on you.”

We’re depending on you for a constant flow of guns,
For the ships, the tanks and planes to ward off the Huns.
We’re needing these, our armour, for the defending of our shore,
So work in old England, as you’ve never worked before.
Build us mighty ships, to ward off the Huns,
Set our strongest men, for the casting of the guns.
Encourage all our women, to build us fleets of planes,
Help us on to victory, and share with us the gains.

Let us have no slacking, just carry on the toil,
Arming, building, planning, and the tilling of the soil.
Working as one unit, be constant, bold and true,
For; old folks at home; ‘It does depend on you’.
John William Mowbray 17.4.42

THE FEAST OF THE BEAST

Now the Germans are near Moscow,
Like wolves in their battle grey coats,
But the Russian bear is advancing,
And showing these wolves to be goats.

We’re putting a blitz on old fritz,
In his lifeline a knot we’ll tie,
We’ll give him the hammer and sickle
And like chaff from the corn he’ll fly.

Now we’re bombing from morning to evening,
We’re bombing from daylight to dark,
Our airforce has formed a bus service,
Which they call the Munich sky lark

Our food ships which crossed over the ocean,
Are bombed and torpedoed like hell,
But like pubs they’ve a regular service,
Open Sundays and weekends as well

Now when this world battle is over,
And Hitler in court has been tried,
Like a skunk we’ll hang out his carcase,
On scaffolding ‘till it’s been dried.

Then we’ll cut him into small pieces,
Ten shillings a portion we’ll buy
You’ll have to stuff it down rat holes
To make sure the other rats die.

Yearly we’ll have a days holiday,
On the date when hostilities have ceased,
Like pancakes we’ll have a burned offering,
And we’ll call it ‘The feast of the beast’.
John William Mowbray 24.5.42

THE SIGNAL

The oppressed people of this world shall rise in their full strength,
O’er the breadth of Europe and down it’s troubled length,
Armed and led by willing men this army of the damned,
With weight and strength of angry men a new life will demand.
From rocky fort and rugged coast, from forest and from sea,
They shall press forward in armoured might and fight for victory.

With their help and thro’ their strength and with arms which we supply,
The armies of the ‘V’ campaign the Nazis shall defy,
So wait your time; the signal; in accents clear and loud,
Shall bellow forth from Britain’s mouth and lay a bloody shroud,
About the German armies and on the Jap war lord.
For you campaign shall be a shield, you’ll fight with one accord,
Soon; how soon we cannot tell, but soon the news is told,
Our second front will be commenced, and Victory we’ll hold.

And then shall start a lease in life, with freedom as it’s mark
When men and wives shall know of peace, without the shadow dark,
Of death and war, and blood and tears, with oppression as your part,
So fight for freedom warrior, fight with solid heart,
For this, the end of all these things, a thousand years shall see,
A peace of understanding, where every man be free.
This reward, and this alone, our fighting word shall be,
Peace on earth; good will to men; a peace through victory.
John William Mowbray 29.5.42

THE LETTERS
(From a prison camp somewhere in England)

Dear Maria,

Thro’ the Tourists Association your country I have seen,
I’ve wandered o’er your moorlands and downs of evergreen,
Seen your lonely hamlets and your humble village pride,
Wandered by your lakes and fells, with you my dear by my side,
Then back to my own country, to my humble German home,
Back to work and loneliness amongst the folks I have known,
The story full you know dear, of the war and death and strife,
Breaking all my tenderest hopes that you should be my wife.
Now here I’ve landed back again, in a British prison camp,
Labelled as an enemy of the vicious German stamp,
Brought down over Scotland by the anti aircraft fire,
Injured, baled out, captured; to rest, my one desire.
And tho’ I should not do so, I’m writing now to you,
As a neutral in my loneliness, to say my love is true.
Perhaps your heart will hear me, perhaps your pen may find,
One little word of comfort I can treasure in my mind,
So until this war is over; and ‘til freely I may speak,
I remain yours sincerely. Fritz Von Theake R.S.V.P.

Fritz Von Theake.

Sir,

I think that it is only fair, that an answer I should give,
To you, the German prisoner, wherever you may live.
So, in place of my sister, to whom you kindly wrote,
My sad regrets I send to you, by this little note,
Maria died quite slowly, just eighteen months ago,
Midst the bombed out wreckage of our home, of which well you know.
The roof fell in and crushed her; and for twelve full hours she lay,
Thro’ the darkened hours, and into the dull grey day.
Then; injured, maimed but conscious, they brought her to the light,
That is how we found her, but she died late that night.
Sad the day she met you; sadder still her end,
That is why I wrote to you as Sir, for I cannot call you ‘Friend’.
John William Mowbray. November 1942

AH! LIBERTY

How long can this pain wracked body, live it’s prison life?
Whipped, torn and bleeding from the Nazi whip and knife,
In the horror of my days; and sleepless nights of woe,
Shadowed by the swastika, wherever I may go,
Bitter days of dread; hunger, cold and death,
I’ll curse this hated Nazidom , with my last dying breath.

Can our people long exist, in times as these which now we know,
And conquered pride succumb to this; the cruel kick and blow?
Or shall we rise in sudden strength, and overwhelm with might,
The shadow-boxing Hitler, who stumbles in his fight?
Or moulded in the grave, wherein our body lifeless place,
Our conquered scorched earth trodden, in our bloody, battered face?

No! soon the shadows thrown, by drooping swastika will light,
With the torch of lady liberty, reflecting armour bright.
This mighty allied army, shall crash endless as the sea,
Tearing down a corridor, that shines of Victory,
Whilst down the length of Europe, the grass will grow so green,
Hiding death and bloodshed, where this horrid scar has been.
John William Mowbray (undated)

STALINGRAD

The sickly sun’s dull yellow glow, changing now to red,
Showed but dim ‘midst the rising smoke, of the city’s fire, so fed,
With the bombed out wreck of the ancient homes, and the mighty city torn,
Whilst the red flag flapped at it’s splintered mast, in the early misted morn.

And there at this shrine of a country’s stand, of it’s stubborn will to resist,
Where the Cossack died at bayonet point; only life where the bombs have missed,
Dug in the rubble of a shattered town, it’s torn and empty street,
The focal point of an army’s last stand, where fire and steel shall meet.

There on the street of the Volga stream, with it’s many dotted isles,
There is this spot where thousands died, and man forgot to smile,
There shall rise in this mighty tomb, a city of beauty unsurpassed,
A holy shrine of years to come, where death stayed awhile, and passed.

White and proud against the setting sun, framed in the evening mist,
This city fair in history famed, shall live in days sunkissed,
Proud of it’s place on the Volga shore, it’s people strong and free,
Stalingrad shall rise again,; and live eternally.
John William Mowbray (undated)

DIRTY HANDS

Dirty hands are showing, torn nails, scarred from blows,
Calloused with gripping the hammer, pained with the wound as it shows.
Broad with the working of hacksaws, ripped with the catching on ‘rags’,
Veins standing out like roadways, strained with the lifting of bags.
Half washed with the hurry of ‘breaktime’, sore with the using of soaps,
Hard with the spirits and soda’s, and rough from the pulling of ropes.
Dry with the soil of the garden, cracked with rain and the weather,
Wrinkled with work; like a mesh of old leather.

But, these hands of which I am speaking,
Are hands which have wielded the pen
That wrote out the words of this poem,
And have written again and again.
They’re tender when used for caresses,
Or nursing a child of my own,
Take no notice of cutting and bruising,
I’m proud of them ‘cos they’re my own.

And on through the years that are to follow,
I’ll use them as oft as I can,
To write out the poems I love so,
And praise all the virtues of man.
So as I grow older and calloused,
I’ll look at my gnarled hands and say,
They got the best out of a lifetime,
These hands held heaven in their day.
John William Mowbray 15.1.44

A WORKERS THOUGHT

Is there one amongst us with the wisdom of a sage?
Is there one amongst us who’s a leader of this age?
Is there one amongst us who can lead us further on?
On to further victory, until this war is won?

No! We have no leading genius, we have no sage so wise,
We have no hidden diplomat to be famous in our eyes.
But we all have one ambition, that we rank among the best,
To do the utmost for our country, and be better than the rest.

Tho’ we have no Winston Churchill, or Edenwith his tact,
Or a Stalin in the making, we will make a solemn pact.
Tho’ we’re humble in our station, and poor in our days,
We will use whatever talent, that we have in different ways.
Each one at his station, a job for everyone,
We’ll achieve our own ambition,
And work until we’ve won.
John William Mowbray (undated)

CLARION CALL

Lift up a symbol to show us now new ways of life,
A sign that we can see right thro’ this whirl of strife,
A vision new of those our future days and homely ways,
A tomb for those who fell where we can pray in peaceful day.

So in this English soil our home, so rich it’s earthly brown,
Take the shell of earthly man and gently lay him down.
The symbol of our heroes dead, his soul let loose from hell,
The unknown soldier of this war, who for our freedom fell.

In this our Cenotaph, shall lie our future hopes for peace,
The sign shall spread throughout the world, nor ever shall it cease.
This the end of earthly strife, the word has gone before,
Our hopes, our homes, our ways of life, a sign we shall adore.

The flags of all free nations fly, and homage we’ll pay full well,
And fluttered as the life that passed, over this our citadel.
From all the corners of the world, on travelled weary feet,
We’ll march in state past this our Plynth, so proud in city street.

There; white ‘gainst macadamed street, bedecked with wreath and cross,
Built on hopes and blood and death, commemorating loss,
Will stand this sign for which our cry, our hopes be not in vain,
“Come home to us in joy my boys, for you will come home again.
John William Mowbray (undated)

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