Three o’clock. Moonset then darkness.
Three-thirty. Ships stand to on the Aegean.
Steamboats stir, tug rowboats due east.
.
Night smothers motion upon a black sea.
Forty a boat, all crammed in full kit,
hear throb of engine, hiss of steam, swish of bow.
.
Searchlights sweep weakly upon watery miles.
Thousands of hearts skip their strong beat.
Sharp-eyed seamen trace line of dim coast.
.
Four o’clock. First flare of dawn deepens to red.
“Smokes out! Cut the chat!” an officer murmurs.
“We’re going in soon.” Rifle butts shuffle.
.
To a man they wonder, “Will we surprise them?"
They glimpse lie of land, its headlands and hills.
Steamboats drop tow-lines; water ahead’s clear.
.
Soft dip of oars, alone, breaks through silence.
Boats move like matchsticks to a strange shore.
How peaceful the night, how beautiful is dawn!
.
Fifty yards … forty, to breakers and beachhead.
“Bugger!” an officer curses, “We’re too far north."
Four-thirty. One shot, then hail of bullets in foam.
.
“Johnny Turk’s onto us,” a private breathes, adding frankly,
“The bastards! But what a relief!”
“Shut yer mouth! Jump!” shouts his sergeant
.
who’s over the gunwale, shirt dark with blood.
Rifle held high, he struggles through surf to shore.
“You beaut!” he grunts, spray of bullets behind.
.
Guns bark. Shingles spark. He sprints twelve yards,
flings himself down at base of firm sandhill,
fixes bayonet, hears mates nearby scream.
.
“Strip packs. Ten rounds!” he roars, as ranks rally.
He tastes triumph, arm grazed, boot blasted off.
Bandaged, he’s chuffed they’ve won what he’s lost--
.
a toe in the bloodied sand.
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