by Cpl. Robert L. Cook
Jan. 42~Sept. 45
Slowly moving thru the night,
Sailing silent, with no lights.
Men and gear stowed far below,
Where they're shipped they do not know.
Below decks in crowded holds,
Muggy . . . hot . . . dimly lit.
Men are waiting out their time
Playing cards and cracking wit.
The days are slow and so routine,
They've not been told what the journey means.
Where will they be put ashore?
What snow-white beach?
Or what black sand?
Will they dig in and take a stand?
They go about the ship's routine:
Sweeping quarters, keeping clean,
Exercising on deck,
Loading ammo by the peck.
Mess call is one long line,
Not so bad if the weather's fine.
But when the sea is kind of rough
Hanging on is somewhat tough.
And of the men that I have seen,
Some turn pale and some turn green.
When the sea is at a gale,
You'll find them on the rail.
If you've been there,
You know the call:
"Sweepers! Man your brooms!"
They keep a mighty tidy ship,
From bridge to locker room.
I cannot say I enjoyed the trip
From Diego to 'Canal.
They took us in,
They brought us out,
That's what it was all about.
They said to us,
"Well done, Marines!"
And that, young man,
Is what it means.
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**About the author: Robert Cook served with Reg. Weapons Co.(2d-2d) from 1942~44, at Guadalcanal & Tarawa, during a 33-month overseas tour.
