The following is submitted by Chris Bisaillion, VE3CBK.
Since it's Christmas, and since this site has such a connection to the military of yesterday,
the poem is offered to you here as a gift. It was first presented here for Christmas 2000. Since then, something more has been added. See the bottom of this page.
Chris writes:
I have something here that may or may not be of interest to the gang. I picked up a small hardbound book at a book store a few years ago called "Poems From the Desert" - "A Collection of poems written by members of the Eighth Army while serving in the Western Desert from December 1942 to February 1943".First published May 1944, Reprinted June 1944, Reprinted September 1944. Copyright. All rights reserved. Printed in Canada, Toronto: Oxford University Press, London: George G. Harrap and Company. Ltd.
The first flap describes it as a 'collection of twenty-seven poems (one anonymous) of battle, of love, of home, written during the fighting in Libya and submitted for competition to their own newspaper, Crusader, by the officers and men of the gallant Eighth Army during the great campaign that drove Rommel back across Africa. It is a moving collection, stamped as it is by the emotion of men engaged in battle.'
One of the poems was written by a Signalman H.G. Knight called 'Christmas in Tobruk'. I find that I can really visualize the 34-foot masts and the wind making an erie sound with the guy ropes.
I had sent a copy of this poem to the Military Wireless Amateur Radio Society (M.W.A.R.S.) in the UK and they published it in their newsletter last Christmas. Perhaps it would appropriate to have it on the web site?
I leave it up to you.
Christmas in Tobruk
There were six of us that Christmas
(And a war was on in the desert),
A wireless set, six Englishman the crew;
By the truck two aerial masts,
Gaunt fingers, pointing skywards,
Strained eager at the guy-ropes,
Quivering.
Outside an angry wind,
Sand-laden,
Slashed the sage-clumps
To whirling eddies swirling through the night.
Within
An atmosphere of home, warmth, and light;
The pipes glowing,
Cans of beer (good honest English brew),
Carefully hoarded, ready for the day,
Eked out with captured cognac.
There was food, too ---
No turkeys or plum-puddings,
But a biscuit potage
Bubbling on the Primus
Flavoured with apricot jam;
And the sandwiches --- sardines from sunny Portugal,
Inevitable bully, persistent, omnipresent,
With cheddar from Australian grasslands
Thick spread on wholemeal biscuits;
And the nuts, too ---
Valencian almonds,
Ripe, russet hazels insistently recalling
Rich autumn hedgerows at home.
And when we had feasted
And the mugs were drained,
Our voices lifted in song;
Time-honoured carols praising the wonder of Birth.
And soon we were deep in reminiscence.
Six schoolboys, muddy knees,
The smooth white snow,
Six piping voices shrilling through the crisping air
" While shepherds watched ";
The door flung wide,
The cheery glow
Warm-spilt across the threshold,
The pennies clutched by eager, grimy hands ---
" Merry Christmas, mum."
And still outside an angry wind,
Sand-laden,
Slashed the sage-clumps.
There were times we regretted ---
That innate yearning for home,
A loving mother, excited children, wondrous-eyed
At some new toy or bulging stocking,
The sweethearts, wives awaiting our return . . .
The little things we missed so much as well ---
A crackling log fire, and the roasted chestnuts,
Parties, and the expectant mistletoe,
Clinking glasses,
Cinderella at Drury Lane. . . .
Yes, there were moments we regretted!
But it was no time for repining.
So the cognac poured more freely,
As we toasted Benito the donor,
And just as heartily cursed him,
For he it was who made us spend
That Christmas in Tobruk.
H.G. Knight
Signalman
Click Here for Actual WWII Recording of 8th Army at Christmas
Canadian soldier in Afghanistan with special visitor.