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johnwilliammowbray

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SHELTER ROCK. (a war time experience.)

I stood in the Stygian blackness, and heard man-made thunder roar,
And man-made lightening flashing bright, where German bombs did score.
Heard the distant throbbing, of powered wings in flight,
Saw the fires dull red glow, lighting up the night.
Then came the guns in answer, with their flaming comet’s trail
Showered sparkling metal, with shrapnel’s whipping flail.
And death came stalking slowly, gathered with his hands,
The few who’s lives were fated, sad to leave these troubled lands.
Faster rolled the thunder, as heavy guns replied,
More furious the air-raid, no danger be denied.
So to my air-raid shelter, I dragged my tired feet,
And sad indeed at carnaged , mass, I flopped on wooden seat.
…

Then through my mist of troubles, I heard the gentle tones,
A preacher earnest in his creed, above the sirens moans,
I listened to his teachings, His words so earnest set,
They stamped themselves upon my mind, nor will I e’re forget.
“Remember there is a refuge, for us in times of woe,
Remember there is a heavenly friend, for all who care to go,
A rock in time of tempest, in him we find our rest.
So let us pray, my bretheren, let this be your test”,
His tenor voice then softly sang: and we joined lustily,
That hymn so old, yet always new. Oh rock please cleft for me.
“Rock of ages, cleft for me
Let me hide myself in thee”.
John William Mowbray. Xmas 1940

FOR VICTORY .

I stood at the gates of an old grey house, and Christmas time was nigh,
The stars were bright, the silence torn by engine flying high
The guns boomed out, and flashing bright, lighted up my place,
I bethought me of the firelight’s glow, on old and wrinkled face.

As they sat and mused on Christmas eve, in twilight’s fitful glow,
Thinking them of yesteryears, and dreamed of long ago.
Fingers of the years gone past, reach out and touch a chord,
Ah! Memories of younger days, and dim remembered word.
…

I stood on the hill of yesteryear, and watched the new year rise,
In a flaming ball through the morning mist, and early tinted skies.
I thought me of old customs, and grey stoned castle moat,
Of choirs and of lanterns, and carol’s throaty note.

Compare it with the present, the blackness of the night,
The battles we are fighting, to prove that “Right is Might”.
No bells to ring the old year out. No Yuletide welkins ring,
No surpliced choir their praise to god, in cloisters cool to sing.
…

I stood at day by the cold grey sea, and watched the heaving swell,
List’ to the beat of the ceaseless waves, the sailor’s mournful knell.
No bells for them, no choirs to sing, no fresh dug rich brown earth,
But a cold grey tomb in the ocean’s womb, a sailor’s right by birth.
…

I stood amidst the ruins, where a German land mine fell,
I stood and saw the burnt out homes, and Churches loved so well.
I saw the pointed steeples, like fingers to the sky,
A proud, unspoken sentence: “The Nazi we defy.”
No bomb can wreck our ways of life, nor blast can undermine,
The faith we have in leadership, and providence divine.
…

I stand no more in gateways, or on the cold, grey shore,
Nor on the hill of Yesteryear, or where the bomb did score,
I rest me from my writing. I put me down my pen.
And take up a wartime job, like countless other men.
I mean to do my duty, that ever we be free,
From Nazi domination: I help for Victory
John William Mowbray 28.12.40

DUNKIRK

A weary horde of fighting men, their spirits strong and free,
Winding fast a course through France, to outlet by the sea,
A blasted, bombed and wounded bunch of sunburned British boys,
Retreating through the cobbled streets where grey clad hun deploys.
Dunkirk beach is reached at last, thousands of them dead,
The battle rages furious. The golden sands run red.

No time to bury comrades, leave them as they lie,
Escape is much, we cannot stop. Haste, Oh! haste the cry.
Boats pull in, are overflowed, push off through shot and shell.
Brave the bombs and cannon fire, tossed on the heaving swell
Behind them death and glory, where bloody runs the sands,
This mighty scene, where they have been snatched from death’s thin hands..0

Overhead go tearing, with ear-splitting roar,
One thousand black crossed aeroplanes to drop bombs by the score.
To kill and maim, and thin the ranks, lay waste and devastate,
English sons and fathers, and those who were too late.
And there beneath the golden sands, they lie and wait their call,
The day when Gabriel, shall play the very “last post” of all.

One hundred thousand weary feet, dragging through the sand,
Death comes stalking; reaching out to touch with clammy hand,
They who march to keep secure- (these sons of home and toil.)
The green fields, towers and country lanes, England and her soil.
That no horde of barbarous, grey clad wolves, shall sully land so fair,
But rather would they die for us, than shame forever bear.

The seas are calmed. A miracle of heaven has been sent,
And as the ships bombarded, with poop and maindeck rent,
Limp their way across the brine to England’s Famous shore,
Men fill the decks and overflow, packed tight by the score,
And weary and cold and tired feet, forgotten when they see,
The heritage of every man, born a Briton free.

And so they came to Britain’s shores, a shattered remnant free,
To live and fight another war, and different lands to see.
Whilst on the bloody shores of France, remain beneath the sea,
The heroes who did not escape, left behind to stand,
And take the brunt of German steel, fight against the tanks,
To you the heroes of this day, England gives you thanks.

Remember then these heroes, think not of them as dead,
But think their names will live still on, ten thousand years ahead,
Honour them with verses, sound their names in prose,
Their fame shall go from land to land, wherever Briton goes,
Their memory an evergreen, their patriotism famed,
A scroll of honour hallowed them, by British tongues be framed,

No more shall bombers rain their steel, no more shall clustered spire,
Or homes of helpless people fall, beneath their withering fire,
No! rather shall your soul be glad, and every man be free,
Conquerors of land and air, and heritage of the sea,
So be glad you Englishmen, speak with conscious pride,
All wickedness and evil things, your strength will override.
Rest and peace are your reward. Green fields your prize be,
England! Oh, England, unconquered, ever free. John William Mowbray 28.12.40

NIGHT FLIGHT (inspired by the R.A.F. recruiting advertisements and the achievements of our heroic flying aces)

Winged shadows lumped together, engines throbbing low,
Dirty weather overhead, gone the sunset’s glow.
Final check on gauges, pressure, oil and gun,
Shaded light, a friendly path, start off on our run.
Ghostly shadows tearing, are gone into the night,
Climbing to the ceiling, coursed on Eastward flight.
Sirens in the Rhineland, “We’re boxed in by flack,”
Forward, ever forward: there is no turning back.
Climbing, turning, diving, spiralling and twist,
“That one sounded pretty close. Luckily he missed.”
Downward we go diving, breaking through the cloud,
Roaring, throbbing, all agog. Air duct piping loud.

Objective below us: marshalling yard and dock,
Level off. Take our aim. Working like a clock.
Reckon out our bearing, gauge and altitude,
Press the buttons, bombs released. A sudden interlude.
Seconds pass. A sudden flash. A hit on marshalling yard,
Turn again. Course new set. Precision like a guard.
Darkness is our ally. Yet fingers probe the sky.
Searchlights constant seeking, look with brilliant eye.
A sudden lurch and tearing. Tailplane almost gone,
Staggers like a drunkard. Think we ‘re really done.
Limping ever onward. Hiding in the clouds.
Oh! the blackness friendly, yet the danger it enshrouds.

Petrol gauge is dropping, feedline must be burst.
Captain orders to prepare, in case it comes to worst.
Now we’re over the channel, gleaming white below.
Wondering if we’ll make it. Danger not yet past.
Near the friendly coastline, but descending pretty fast.
Yes! We’ve really made it. What a huge relief,
As we bump down on tarmac. Yet our flight was pretty brief.
But we left behind a shambles. Our job was really done:
The photos that can prove it, taken from the camera gun.
The plane will need repairing, the tail will be replaced,
Yet we got off very lightly, from the dangers which we faced.

Yes! This life is really worth it, for we get lots of fun,
And though there’s always danger, for us and everyone.
The planes that we are flying (the best the world can make),
Behave as if they understood, the issue that’s at stake.
And with the ‘fellow- feeling’, the friends who we have made,
We’ll fly our way to victory. We cannot be afraid.
John William Mowbray 30.1.41

ROSTOCK

I wish to tell a story of a recent bomber flight,
With Rostock as our target, as we forged on through the night,
Pulled by powerful engines, course ahead full set,
Watching close our panel board: orders can’t forget.

Tearing through the night-time, thick black clouds below,
Engines pulsing audibly, red the exhausts glow,
Ice upon the windscreen: airduct piping loud;
Full formation in the sky, trailing vapour cloud.

Into shining moonlight, astral guide surround,
Shining, silver, spreaded wings, with pilot well renowned,
Blasting down on Rostock, bomb loads heavy pull,
Bright the tracer bullet, ack-ack bursting full.

Searchlights peeping constant, probing o’er the sky,
We drop down on our targets, whilst barrage we defy,
Shining down below us, target like a map,
Bomb release and up again: hear their dull death slap.

Red the flash and fiery, debris flying high,
Fiercer still defences, death bursts in the sky,
Scored our second hit on target: flush on Heinkel homes,
Pull the stick and slowly rise, o’er the city domes.

Commence to gain our altitude, homeward make our way,
Satisfaction in our work, but dangerous to stay,
Back again through shell fire, through the search light glow,
Evasive action now our plan, as out to sea we go.

This, our greatest moment: this our pride in flight,
With our load of death and steel, we shall show our might,
So we rest contented, our job was done full well,
That is why I take my pride, this glorious tale to tell
John William Mowbray 28.4.41

THE HURRICANES

See them distant, throbbing low,
Lined against the sunset’s glow.
Streamlined epitome of speed,
Weapons of our country’s need.

Nearer still the throbbings rise,
‘V’ formation in the skies.
Air ducts piping loud and strong,
In position twenty strong.

Outward to the coast they go,
Out to where the white cliffs show.
Out to sea o’er foaming wave,
Out to France the flack to brave.

Watch these heroes flying high,
See them as they thunder by.
These Hurricanes o’er the clouds that ride,
Super fast- the airman’s pride.

Made by British hands and brain,
Made to stand the stress and strain.
Armed full strong may power give,
To planes and men that England Live

This my prayer and this my pride,
The Luftwaffe power will over-ride.
Tear these Nazis from the sky,
For WE shall live. THEIR creed shall die.
John William Mowbray 17.7.41

SALUTE TO RECRUIT

Have you ever loved your England,
With it’s white cliffs so secure?
Have you ever felt the comfort,
Or the ‘self possession’ sure?
Have you ever sailed the coastline,
It’s varied, rugged, scene?
Have you seen the heather purple,
Or the downs of evergreen?

Have you ever seen the snowdrop,
In hidden woodland glen?
Have you ever roamed across the Savernacks,
Been guided through the fen?
Have you ever seen the castles,
Or Cathedral’s clustered spire?
Have you ever watched a sunset,
That has set your soul on fire?

Would you like to see this England,
Over-run by Nazi feet?
Would you like to see your children,
Lying dead in fields and street?
Would you dare to stand impassive,
With the ‘jack boots’ treading by?
Would your thoughts be really neutral,
If the swastika you spy?

Oh! it is beautiful, this England
And there is nothing to compare,
With all it’s native beauty,
Or tradition that we share.
It’s people are the finest,
The grain among the straw,
A debt we owe to people dead,
Who set this land before.

I appeal to all good people,
Who really love their home,
Who appreciate the comforts,
And the pleasures they have known.
To take up arms for Britain,
King, and empire too,
And show these boasting Nazis,
What British might can do.

And when peace comes stealing slowly,
On soft wings from the sky,
There will be an honest memory,
For all those folk who die,
We will spell their name in glory,
Remember you for aye,
Your million praises written,
In Gabriel’s books on high.
John William Mowbray 18.7.41

PRAYER BEFORE BATTLE

I; who am about to kill; I plead I do not hate
I; who in shedding blood- I plead
That mine not shed shall be.
But ever red and free, and flow with ecstasy; and joy of life.
I; who shall see in my near days, and diverse ways,
A hundred agonies; I plead, (oh Lord please heed),
That I shall not cause this ill, that my heart shall not fill,
With the clogging blood of death, but with my breath.
I pray for their release.
That souls in bondage shall break asunder, with the thunder,
And let the lightning spirit wander into heavens garden.

I; who unknowingly may kill some mother’s son,
I pray for rest and peace when day is done,
(Should battle cease), pray that I
Shall not kill in anger or in fear,
For death is always near, a constant shadow on the heart ,
And apart; from all this nearness, I
Who have sinned with laughter on my lips;
Should I be judge of who shall die?
Shall I be life’s hangman? And pronounce
With triumph’s tones an epitaph ? With heartless laugh
On one whose sins I do not know,
And condemn to burning pits below.

I; who mayhap die myself; I pray for other men,
I condemned by my own word, like a murderer stand;
(Yet in my land proclaimed a hero because I killed),
Shall I dare; to take the stand and pray against the world,
That’s only heard by me, the black cap worn;
Shall I be shorn of all my earthly flesh,
And naked; take my stand against the lord who gave the word,
For my demise? Nay ,; nay rather would I lay
Upon blood sodden clay; the only weapon god gave me,
My better self, my will, which I have still.
And to God; to Him alone I pray,
I do not die or kill. In this way.
John William Mowbray 11.11.41

LITTLE OLD VILLAGE

The little old village is silent still,
It’s echoing, mocking my thoughts.
The peace and the safety away from the blitz,
My solitude here I sought.

The low raftered ceiling is grey with the smoke,
An old, open fire with the cauldron and hook.
The housewife sits knitting and nods o’er her lines,
And I sit and watch from the deep inglenook.

They’re old fashioned people with old fashioned ways,
With old time traditions and wisdom always.
Closeness to nature, and life that is rough,
But to me it is home: and that is enough.

These kindly old people took me to their heart,
Gave sympathy, kindness, and help from the start.
They taught me news ways to live, here in peace,
To rest from my wound, ‘till hostilities cease.

I’m grateful to Hitler for sending me here,
Away from the wars with no blitz to fear.
I’m grateful to people whom kindness has shown,
Are the salt of the earth, the best ever known.
John William Mowbray 11.11.41

CHRISTMAS HOMAGE

From all the world the greetings send,
To all these people memory lend,
Sons and fathers far away
In distant lands this dreary day.

O’er the ceaseless ocean’s wave,
Greetings o’er the air we gave,
Voice from home the ether cast,
Through the winds and stormy blast.

To Iceland’s shores the message came,
To Egypt’s sands and Tobruk’s fame,
Beating out its word of love,
Inspired to man from God above.

Empire and dominions hear,
America, Russia, far and near,
Whoever fights for England’s fame,
Shall hear our word to them in name.

Stand fast. Fight on. The end is ours,
Bear up with us in weary hours,
Honour England and her fame,
Victory share and heroes name.

So we greet you, fighting man,
Strong be you in will and name,
So much we owe to very few,
Our homage here we pay to you.
John William Mowbray 24.12.41

DUTY CALL

My duty soon may call me, to lands far I may go.
I’ll get my pack and rifle, and off to war I’ll go.
I’ll lay me down my tool bag, my civvies put away.
Give up home and freedom for uniformed array.

So if my days are numbered, remember me some day.
When perchance some person, my name may cause to say.
They may speak my name in honour, or even speak in fame.
I hope the cause may never, have my name to speak in shame.

I’ll go where honour calls me, I’ll go where death shall ride.
Where murder, rape and pillage, wander side by side.
I’ll go where the sun makes madness, or where there’s ice and snow.
Wherever my country needs me, I’ll take up arms and go.
John William Mowbray 9.1.42
RETREAT FROM MOSCOW
Shadow o’er Russia, eagle in full wing.
Armed the masses marching, death with metals sting
Caterpillars gripping, o’er the stubbled plain,
Clad grey hordes, jackboots tread, rumbling guns again.
Conquered , scorched earth fruitless, harvested the corn,
Awaken, peasants, from your dreams, for soldiers are you born.
Hide away your sickle, ploughshares turn to sword,
Leader Stalin has your need, hark his spoken word.
Creeping over your homestead, cold, sadistic beast,
Maddened by the harvest lost, eager for the feast.
Creeping ever onward, pained and bloody the way,
Like a staggered drunkard, driven to the fray.
Slowly moving graveward, pulped and bloody mass,
Oozing o’er the rising plain, through the mountain pass.
Tanks a constant rumble, thunder on the plains,
Manned by marshalled masses, seeking further gains.

Retreat then Russia westward, leave but burning shell,
Destroy your crops and buildings, leave a burning hell.
Moscow be your greatest stand, garrison it well,
Prepare yourselves for further fray, your final citadel.
Heading for destruction, regardless of the count,
Beware their panzer tactics, their military might,
Death their only ally, constant day and night.
Bloody be the battles, heavy be the cost,
Ferocious and tenacious, this ragged Nazi host.
Do not pause to wonder, smite them hip and thigh,
Hold them to the freezing earth, in the snow filled sky.
Winter fast a’coming, your strategy full laid,
Plans for taking up the fight, no action be delayed.
So the snows fall heavily, frosts grip twelve feet deep,
General winter to your aid, awakened from your sleep.

Now retreat the Nazis, not to well laid plan,
But fast upon their heels you ride, and fight them man to man.
Pull them from their hideouts, blow to bits their guns,
Blast their tanks to atoms, keep them on the run.
Cold and starved and ragged, falling by the way,
Discarding tanks and lorries, (great quantities each day).
Their war machine is staggered, the cutting edge is dull,
The grips are split to ribbons, they have no rest or lull.
Junk them to old iron, tossed away as scrap,
Never since the new regime, have knuckles had such a rap.
Westward set their faces, flee on fear-lent wings,
Thrash them in the field and air, revenge for many things.
Show them little mercy, remember methods cruel,
Let their evil ‘gainst the foe, be your fighting fuel.
So keep on advancing, this your greatest day,
“Russian bear whose grip is death,” imagination sway.
John William Mowbray 27.1.42

SIMILE

What can compare with the wartime beast,
Or the hungry lion at his jungle feast,
The whip like strike of the serpent’s tongue,
The stealthy creep as these jackals come?

Can aught of the jungle lay claim to be,
As vicious, brutal, or as sly as he?
Can the humble bird on speeding wing,
Equal the flight of man o’er everything?

Can the fish of the sea flashing silvery white,
Outpace the throbbing boats at night?
Or grip of octopi more deadly be,
As bobbing mines in depth of sea?

Has the sky in rain with deluge free,
Been like the blood of man o’er land and sea?
Has the bomb scarred earth at early dawn,
E’er seemed so jagged, ravaged or torn?

Has the air and winds in shrieking gale,
Noised as the shrapnel’s whistling flail?
Or nature’s power erupt the earth,
Like the blast of bomb and it’s pregnant dearth?

There’s naught in the teachings of Christian sense,
To make excuse for such evil offence,
And of such crime in history’s page,
Naught to be said, this sin to assuage.

Only future years and the wisdom of peace,
Can bridge this gap when hostilities cease,
Just understanding and common trade,
Lave a free world, of war unafraid.
John William Mowbray 19.2.42

PHILOSOPHY

Oft-times life seems gloomy, and futile in it’s strife,
Oft the thoughts recurring, of what there is in life,
It does not offer future, the past looms dark with dread,
And the thought occurs again, be better were you dead.

There are always shadows to hide away the sun,
And as the shadows lengthen, tears may sometimes run,
But where the shadows deepest, a light will shine so bright,
To lighten up your face again, if what you do is right.

So let your face turn eastwards, towards the rising sun,
Then look at life renewed again, when’ere your day is done.
Look into the future, let the sun shine through your heart,
And with shadows swept away, review fife from the start.
John William Mowbray 29.4.42

TOMMY ATKINS

Let me hold you tightly, Tommy Atkins,
Let me plug that bleeding from your chest.
Let me show compassion for a comrade,
Let me dress your wounds that you may rest.

I see you hold a photo of your loved ones,
Longingly you look: I see you stare,
Your lips are forming words I cannot hear,
It looks like a goodbye you are saying there.

I wonder if you’ll last the night-time?
Or if the reaper grim will come your way.
Or if you’ll get your call-up, Tommy Atkins,
Ere the suns last rays have passed away.

When you reach the golden gates in Heaven,
And Peter stands awaiting patiently,
Tell him how you saved the situation,
And how you gave your life for men like me.

Tell him how we loved you, Tommy Atkins,
Tell him how the battle well you fought.
Tell him how you carry all our blessings,
And rest well in your sanctuary sought.

So! Good-bye to a pal and hero,
Good-bye to a man who died in fame.
In golden letters high in the heavens,
Gabriel shall write your name.

Whilst down below we mortals will remember,
Tommy Atkins shall be famous far and near.
An example of devotion and duty,
Your name thro’ years ahead we shall revere.
John William Mowbray 13.6.42

TOBRUK (To G.P.)

In memory of these friends of mine, whom records have not named,
I wish to bring attention, to the Tobruk battle famed.
Deep my grief on hearing, of my friends who passed away,
Weltered ‘neath the desert sun, a’midst the battle’s sway.

And the flashing blast as the battle raged, the fighting hand to hand,
The armoured force of death and might, has spread throughout this land.
And ‘midst this cauldron of sudden death, this carnaged, bloody mass,
They stood alone at machine gun post: “As we live, they shall not pass”

With the crashing thunder, of the guns amidst this desert hell,
The rumbling creak of the massive tanks, and shrieking tracer shell.
The shouts of men in pain and death, or the rousing battle cry,
The flower of England’s men at war, these German hordes defy.

Sudden death on speeding wings, with swastika adorn,
Dropping death with spiteful shriek, on retreating ranks a’torn.
And in this whirling pitted hell, these heroes stood their ground,
The pride of England’s towns and homes, whom sudden death has found.

So think of them in moments, when we are suffering defeat,
Think; these men are our sons, whom Jerry cannot beat.
We’ll honour them in verses, in death extol their name,
Inspiring in their duty’s end. Great! Great shall be their name
John William Mowbray 5.7.42

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)