the snipes lament
THE SNIPE'S LAMENT
Now each of us from time to time, has gazed upon the sea, And watched the warships pulling out, to keep this country free. And most of us have read a book, or heard a lusty tale, About the men who sail these ships, through lightning, wind and hail. But there's a place within each ship that legend fails to teach. It's down below the waterline, it takes a living toll, A hot metal living hell, that sailors call the Hole. It houses engines run by steam, which make the shafts go round, A place of fire and noise and heat, that bears you spirit down. Where boilers like a hellish heart, with blood of angry steam, Are as molded gods with out remorse, and nightmares in a dream. Whose threat that from the fires roar, is like a living doubt, That any minute would with scorn, escape and crush you out. Where turbines scream like tortured souls, alone and lost in hell. As ordered from above somewhere, they answer every bell. The men who keep the fires lit, and make the engines run, Are strangers to the world of night, and rarely see the sun. They have no time for man or God, no tolerance for fear, Their aspect pays no living thing, the tribute of a tear. For there's not much that men can do, that these men haven't done Beneath the decks, deep in the hole, to make the engines run. And every hour of every day, they keep watch in hell, For if the fires ever fail, their ship's a useless shell. When ships converge to have a war, upon the angry sea, The men below just grimly smile, at what their fate might be. Their locked in below, like men fore doomed, who hear no battle cry, It's well assumed that if their hit, the men below will die. For every day's a war down there, where the gages all read red, Twelve hundred pounds of heated steam, can kill you mighty dead. So if you write their song, or tell their tale, The very words would make you hear, a fired furnace's wail. And people as a general rule, don't hear of men of steel below, So little's heard about this place, that sailors call the Hole. But I can sing about this place, and try to make you see, The hardened life of men down there, cause one of them is me! I've seen these sweat soaked heroes fight, in superheated air, To keep their ship alive and right, through no one knows they're there. And thus they'll fight for ages on, till warships sail no more, Amid the boiler's mighty heat, and the turbine's hellish roar. So when you see a ship pull out, to meet a warlike foe, Remember faintly, if you can, "THE MEN WHO SAIL BELOW."
-CHIEF WARRANT OFFICER H.S. WALKER, Ship Repair Detachment, New Orlean
Now each of us from time to time, has gazed upon the sea, And watched the warships pulling out, to keep this country free. And most of us have read a book, or heard a lusty tale, About the men who sail these ships, through lightning, wind and hail. But there's a place within each ship that legend fails to teach. It's down below the waterline, it takes a living toll, A hot metal living hell, that sailors call the Hole. It houses engines run by steam, which make the shafts go round, A place of fire and noise and heat, that bears you spirit down. Where boilers like a hellish heart, with blood of angry steam, Are as molded gods with out remorse, and nightmares in a dream. Whose threat that from the fires roar, is like a living doubt, That any minute would with scorn, escape and crush you out. Where turbines scream like tortured souls, alone and lost in hell. As ordered from above somewhere, they answer every bell. The men who keep the fires lit, and make the engines run, Are strangers to the world of night, and rarely see the sun. They have no time for man or God, no tolerance for fear, Their aspect pays no living thing, the tribute of a tear. For there's not much that men can do, that these men haven't done Beneath the decks, deep in the hole, to make the engines run. And every hour of every day, they keep watch in hell, For if the fires ever fail, their ship's a useless shell. When ships converge to have a war, upon the angry sea, The men below just grimly smile, at what their fate might be. Their locked in below, like men fore doomed, who hear no battle cry, It's well assumed that if their hit, the men below will die. For every day's a war down there, where the gages all read red, Twelve hundred pounds of heated steam, can kill you mighty dead. So if you write their song, or tell their tale, The very words would make you hear, a fired furnace's wail. And people as a general rule, don't hear of men of steel below, So little's heard about this place, that sailors call the Hole. But I can sing about this place, and try to make you see, The hardened life of men down there, cause one of them is me! I've seen these sweat soaked heroes fight, in superheated air, To keep their ship alive and right, through no one knows they're there. And thus they'll fight for ages on, till warships sail no more, Amid the boiler's mighty heat, and the turbine's hellish roar. So when you see a ship pull out, to meet a warlike foe, Remember faintly, if you can, "THE MEN WHO SAIL BELOW."
-CHIEF WARRANT OFFICER H.S. WALKER, Ship Repair Detachment, New Orlean