The Story of DOUGLAS HEWITT (my husband) — Part 2

This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Julie Turner of the ‘Action Desk — Sheffield’ Team on behalf of Hilda Hewitt, and has been added to the site with the author’s permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.
The Story of DOUGLAS HEWITT (my husband) — Part 2

THE TIME OF TRIAL.

It’s easy enough to be pleasant,
When life flows along like a song.
But the man worthwhile
Is the man who can smile
When everything goes dead wrong.
For the test of the heart is trouble,
And it always comes with the years.
But the man who is worth
The praises of earth.
Is the man who can smile through the tears.

It is easy enough to be virtuous
When nothing tempts you to stray.
When without or within
No voice of sin.
Is luring your soul away.
But tis only a negative virtue
Until it is tried by the fire
And the man who is worth
The honour of earth
Is the man who resists desire. F. R. Havergail - P.O.W.
WAIKIKI.

Rich perfumes of tropic flowers
Star pierced velvet skies above
Careless moments — happy hours
Nights of magic — made for loe.

Dusky maids in Lulas swaying
Paddles stir a still lagoon,
Sweet guitars are softly playing,
Neath the yellow southern moon.

Natures gem in Verdant setting
Golden sands — a turquoise sea
Gentle breezes — palm trees fretting
Island heaven — Waikiki. Webster — P.O.W.

Punctuality - The art of arriving for an appointment first, in time to be indignant at the tardiness of the other party.

The P.O.W. who thought : That back pay was the extra pay W.O.’s got for lying down all day.
That minesweepers were the sanitary squad in a colliery.

I THINK OF YOU.

I think of you, I know not where you are
But you are in mind, the whole long day.
I know you wish, that I should carry on
And do my best, whilst you are far away.

And Oh! I send you special love each night
Wherever in the darkness you may be.
And somehow when I whisper my goodnight
I feel your loving thoughts come back to me. Nostaw - P.O.W.

R.A.F.

Never was so much owed by so may to so few.
If men speak ill of you, live so that no man believe them.
Envy has no holiday.
The man who says I go not, and after words repents, and goes, generally travels the devil of a long way.

MARTUBA PATROL.

I’ll tell you a tale of a Martuba
Off gunners from old Blighty shores.
Of Stuka’s and bombs and machine guns
Of M.E’s and Macchis and more.
On through the night with ne’er a light
We crept till the break of day
With sand in our eyes, we searching the skies
For the birds, that in Martuba lay.
A roar in the air, means an M.E. is there
And he’s out to settle a score.
As the rounds of our guns, slow the start of the fun
And the Stukas come out and lots more.
And then comes the crack of Bafor Ack-Ack.
And the Bren Guns also let drive.
One Stuka his tricks end, with just two kicks
He comes down in a desert bound dive
We load up our rounds, for the Martuba we’re bound
And so on for more weary hours
Till at night we are quite on our marks.
With the dead on the deck, theirs and ours.
Aye we’re the boys, Old Englands sons.
Just some of the lads in the racket,
With our quads and our guns and our downed
You betcha we gave em a packet.

WHAT A DAY.

Remember, remember the 20th of December
The day that the louts were all flat.
All sweating on Monday
Then flash on the Sunday.
They lobbed out five fags
And Italian at that.
Though it wasn’t prolific
The shock was terrific
They say S.M. Lloyd had to take to his bed.
But of course there were snags
We all didn’t get fags.
For some Joe’s like me
Got tobacco instead.
TOBACCO.

A hungry man's food
A sad man's cordial
A chilly man's fire.

P.O.W. LAMENT.

Oh! For the touch of a womans hand.
And the sound of a voice that’s tender.
For the loving care of a maiden fair.
A bloomin good darner and mender.

HOLLYWOOD NIGHTMARE.

'Twas after Christmas Red Cross Scoff
Of nineteen fourty two
I felt fatigued and full right up
So slept with dreams askew.

To Hollywpood by express train
My dreams had been fixed up
Changed it was, from usual style.
The stars were all mixed up.

I saw “Grace Moore” with accent told.
With leopold Stokowski
Putting over “Tiger Rag”,
Whilst “Ellington” played “Tchowski”.

“Stan Laurel” was rehearsing part
Part for “Scarletts” famous story.
Olly Hardy “acting stooge
For Gable and his glory”.

“Mae West” expressed a great desire
In accent slightly foreign,
“To be alone” whilst Garbo said,
“Come up and see me sometime".

Crosby with a deep Bass voice,
Singing from Opera Grand.
While Joe, E. Brown, with canny skill,
Conducted “Whiteman’s” Band.

Spencer Tracy tired is best
To tap dance with “Anne Harding”,
“Basil Rathbone” chased around
The “Three Smart Girls”, a pounding.

Something pierced my eardrums sharp
“Twas Revielli “ being sounded,
“Coffee Up” the cry was heard,
I found this dream unfounded. - Sgm. Sangar.

LOFTY’S PARCEL.

Lofty stood and Lofty stared
What was this thing, that he had heard.
That for his parcel it was his turn
They decided, the issue to adjourn.

He cursed, he rowed, he swore, he fumed,
As up and down his bunk he roamed.
Swearing revenge with never a truce
That next time he would not cut a duce.

The parcel arrived, Lofty looked for his klim,
Bully and Salmon, Oh where is that tin.
A look on his face, showed that alls not well.
For all Lofty found was a tin of “Cow
The Bully was bad, the cheese did smell
The chocolate was broken, Oh go to hell,
Was Lofty’s reply at half past seven,
When he counted his biscuits and found only eleven. Sgt. Bowen.

WOMAN.

She’s an angel truth, a demon in fiction
A womans the greatest of all contradiction.
She’s afraid of a cockroach, she’ll scream at a mouse
But she’ll tackle a husband as big as a house.
She’ll take him for better, she’ll take him for worse
She’ll split his head open, then be his nurse.
And when he is well and gets out of bed
She’ll pick up a teapot and throw it at his head.
She’s faithful, deceitful keen sighted and blind
She’s crafty, she’s simple, she’s cruel, she’s kind
She’ll lift a man up and she’ll cast a man down
She’ll make him her ruler, she’ll make him her clown,
You fancy she’s this, you’ll find that she’s that
For she’ll play like a kitten and fight like a cat.

Gimme a vast celestial bed
With fevvers ten miles deep
And gimme a couple of centuries
To get me a bit of sleep.

And buddy if you’re a pal of mine
Bid all the joy bells cease
An gimme wot I bin fighting for
I needs a bit of peace.

REWARD.

They came and they said to Private Jones
As he stepped on Englands shore.
Come in and tell us what yer wants
And you shall have it and more.

Feating and feasting day after day,
Or medals row upon row
Triumphal music wot do yer say
And the private answered “No”.

Gimme a pint of English Beer,
An a couple of cheap cheroots,
An two of the stoutest lads yer got
To help me out of me boots.

Fill me a forty gallon barf,
Wiv ater ‘ot as ell’
An stop all the folks from asking me
Wot stories I’ve to tell.

DREAMING.

As I laze away the hours
And dream first when I can
I think of you my darling
And the happy hours I plan

I sit and plan I think
About the glorious days to come
I think of you my darling
Of the pleasant things we’ve done

Then again I see the heather
The mountain and the stream
I pray to God to hasten
The object of my dreams.

So chin up now my sweetheart,
Please don’t worry never boy,
Remember I’m yours always
Yes, even to the sky. P.O.W.

EMPTY.

Moving oer an empty desert
Looking at an empty sky
No “this not entirely empty,
Moving objects catch the sky,
Empty tins in countless numbers
Scattered oer the desert sands,
Filling up the empty places,
Of a very empty land.
Empty drums and empty barrels
Million empty white snail shells,
An empty dried up bushes
Some very dirty empty wells.
Empty trucks all rumbling backward
Going to the army base
Raising heavy dust clouds, skywards
Filling up more empty spaces,
Now we’ve erached the empty Waddi;
And a greater paradox,
For this barren empty hollow,
Is filled up with empty rocks,
All the empty freaks of nature,
Blasted by the desert storms,
Grinding but in stony places,
Leaving empty grotesque forms.
Holes filled up with empty boxes,
Cigarettes of many brands,
The place is full of paradox’s
Empty things of empty land.
Empty dugouts, empty benches,
Littered up with disused shells,
Dented shells, filled up with papers
Many vivid story tells.
Empty bottles, “very empty”,
Empty cases of Aussie beer.
Littering the empty shelters,
Obviously all emptied here.
Looking at these empty bottles
As given me a dried up throat,
And I have an empty feeling
And no handy antidote.
Never mind, lifes not empty
I can have a soothing smoke,
But oh! Hell, my packets empty
Curse that cadging M.T. bloke,
Now I have an empty stomach
Ah! There goes the cookhouse hell.
The cook is pounding on the casing
Ofan empty Ack-Ack shell.
With empty mug and dixie
I must now fall into line
When I’ve filled up empty places,
I’ll again be feeling fine.
I could empty many pots
That’s not an empty boast,
So fill up my empty dixie
With that very tasty roast.
Armies march upon their stomachs,
A paradox and very true
Now the blue sky is not so empty
The future as a rosy hue. T. Vanstead - U.D.F.

COMPETITION.

We have a lovely pub down here,
It’s called the “Old King Cole”
Where we repair for quarto of beer
When we have drawn the dole.

We never tire of drinking, mind,
It makes a fit man fitter,
But for a change we thought we’d find
Who was the champion spitter.

Well Alf stepped up with shouts galore
Let both legs take his weight
Then swaying from the floor,
He made the clock strike eight.

Next contestant, young Stan, looked bored,
No beating round the bush,
He on the billiard table scored,
A cannon off the cush.

Then Bill stepped up to prove himself
And without hesitation,
Loaded and aimed whereon the shelf
Stood the cash registration.
Ting went the bell, the drawer flew out
And on the counter lay,
A bill in print for three and nought
With many thanks and paid.

Next on the list was Jim and he
With scarcely any sound
So neatly hit the barmaids arm,
She served up drinks all round.

Came crafty Jack, the last at that
A cunning man and rapid,
Before we’d guessed what he was at
He’d let go ten round rapid.

Each man was caught there, by surprise,
And in a couple of winks,
While we were cleaning up our eyes,
He’d mopped up all our drinks.

Well that’s the list of all that tried
And that is the position.
The beers on us if you decide
Which one won the Competition. - R. C. Collins.

WHAT ARE WORDS.

This is the end for us — the Libyan shore
Recedes from view and we the remnant left.
Of a once proud array, are done with war.
To foes abandoned and of hopes bereft
A multitude of starving, broken men,
Bewildered, haggard, dulled in mind and sense.
Like cattle, driven to an alien pen.
And left, to live behind a barbed wire fence.
With shaking limbs and eyes bloodshot and red,
We beg the scowling guard for cigarettes
Like maniacs we scream and fight for bread.
Like wolves we snarl at what the others get.
For once again we live by jungle law.
To brutish beast, transformed by war.

We are the men who marched away to war.
Deceived by words in mouths of those who reach
Strong hearts, by clever cant and studied roar
Of countries praise in hot exhultant speech.
We offered life itself, for we deemed life
Most nobly lost, if only freedom rules.
But his we learned in agony and strife.
High sounding words are simply bait for fools
How stupid is the prate of orators
Who endless, talk of glory of flag.
Who fill the other with the chant of war
And summon men for death from dale and crag!
For what are words, as long as guns are fed?
When those who use them never see the dead. P.O.W.

PRISONER OF WAR LIFE/WINSTON CHURCHILL 1899.

It is a melancholy state, you are in the power of your enemies, you owe your life to his humanity, your daily bread to his compassion, you must obey his orders, await his pleasures, possess your soul in patience. The days are very long, hours crawl by like paralytic centipedes, moreover the whole atmospheres of prison, the most easy and regulated prison is odious.

Companions quarrel over nothing and get the least possible pleasure from each others company, you feel a constant humiliation being fenced in by railings and wire, watch by armed men and web bed by a triangle of regulations and restrictions.

--------- O --------

Women have their own braveries, their own mighty courageousness that is of women and not to be compared with the courage shown by man.

--------- O ---------

MEMORIES.

We wont forget those blasted lice,
The macoroni and the rice,
That football too — at least the price,
The issue cheese.

The midstay “chou” or is it water,
Those blokes at night when out the clatter,
The raffle run by Pte Platter
And things like these.

Those roll calls on the brewery ground
The wood we stole — Les Pariton “found”.
Those tiny loaves when they come round
And bread “Buckshees”.

Canteen staff ordered — waited long
The day my Yorkshire Duff went wrong,
The Gruff of Wilson, Bloomfield, Strong,
And things like these.
The homemade stoves and fildy brews.
The “piece per man” meat day stews,
The fags rolled with P.O.W. news,
But here’s my vote -

For a memory that will not fail
Yes more than parcels — more than mail
The day when homeward bound we sail
Roll on the Boat.

In years to come when I am done,
This roaming life of mine
A home I’ll take that’s got its stake
Beside the ocean brine,
And in the evening there I’ll play
Wet sand to make and mould and sway
With bucket and spade — my hate my aid
So mortifying sand. — Sam Lotorm in Libya.

Pr-BR

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