The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Death of the Scharnhorst and other Poems, by Arch Alfred McKillen This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: The Death of the Scharnhorst and other Poems Author: Arch Alfred McKillen Release Date: February 19, 2021 [eBook #64594] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 Produced by: Curt Troutwine, Mary Glenn Krause, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEATH OF THE SCHARNHORST AND OTHER POEMS *** THE DEATH OF THE SCHARNHORST AND OTHER POEMS by ARCH ALFRED McKILLEN [Illustration] VANTAGE PRESS, Inc. NEW YORK Copyright, 1952, by Arch Alfred McKillen _Manufactured in the United States of America_ _To_ L.R.D., EM 1/c, U. S. Navy Killed in action, Pearl Harbor, T. H. December 7, 1941 _Smile a little, lad,_ _For when you smile_ _There is no sleep._ _How can there then be Death?_ The Chicago _Sun_ has kindly granted permission to reprint the poem “The Litany of Pearl Harbor,” which it published on December 7, 1942, in June Provines’ column CONTENTS _Page_ The Bird, the Lad and Me 1 The War in Spain 1 It Rains Tonight 2 While Drums Are Rolling 2 Apollo 3 Fountain of Loveliness 4 Highway Number 66 5 Dirge for the _Squalus_ 6 Echo Canyon 7 Fragment 8 We Hang upon a Scaffold 8 I Looked into Your Eyes 9 Of This Great Voiceless Love 9 I Would Have Brought You Fire 10 Too Much of Life 10 Lone Cello 11 Apocalypse 11 The Old Sea Wall 12 The Midnight Horseman 13 Lonely Heart 14 Dreams 15 The Bugles Called 15 Morning Guard 16 When Kilmer Wrote of Trees 17 Wild Geese 17 I Write to You in Red 18 ’Tis Winter Now 18 Sonnet 19 The Tropic Dawn 20 Twilight 21 Echo 21 Star Course 22 Memorandum 23 The Litany of Pearl Harbor 23 We Were Waiting That Morning for Colors 26 The Motor Launch Crew 27 To the Garrison at Wake 28 Corregidor and Calvary 31 _When he and I had met_ 33 To the Marines 34 The Lads Who Go Below 35 The Road to High Wood 36 Night Watch 37 The Soldier and the Samovar 38 Nocturne 38 The Swing 39 Somewhere on Leave 40 The Sentry 41 I Watched Him in the Tournament 41 South Pacific 42 Deck-Ape 43 Sailor Boy 43 Avenge 44 The Crossing of the Rhine 45 The Ballad of the Dead Sailor 45 The Death of the _Scharnhorst_ 47 Little Boys and Little Dogs 53 _U.S.S. Oklahoma_ Returns to Her Crew 54 Night 56 For All Heroes 57 Foxhole 58 Bury Him 61 _THE BIRD, THE LAD AND ME_ The sky was touched with tints of morn, A wind was in the trees, I lay in bed awakened By the murmur of the leaves. I listened to the chirping Of the first-awakened bird, And, his leather heels a-clicking, Some lad off to work I heard. Then my thoughts to sleep returning Wondered briefly, of us three, What brave paths the fates have destined For the bird, the lad and me. _THE WAR IN SPAIN_ The war in Spain is over Yet victory does not smile For all the lads are murdered Who might have laughed awhile. And those who march triumphant Are sadder than the dead Because their hearts are shadowed, Because their hands are red. The war in Spain is over, Yet other trumpets sound And call the world’s young manhood To another battleground. _IT RAINS TONIGHT_ It rains tonight and wolf-winds howl. His grave is not so deep, But that the mournful Heavens Upon his body weep; They wet the mound of spaded earth And through his coffin seep. It rains tonight and wolf-winds howl, And beaten hangs the tree, And comfortless in Death he lies Who comforted should be, The guy who lost And killed himself, And never spoke to me! _WHILE DRUMS ARE ROLLING_ Then you’ll go while drums are rolling, And you’ll charge and make the bluff That your heart is full of courage, And you’ll curse the vilest stuff. And you’ll see a lot of fellows That you’ve never seen before, And they may all be twenty Or one or two years more. And you’ll briefly talk together, But of what you will not know. There is so much that lads can say When off to war they go. And you’ll see a lot of fellows When the battle roar is done, Though all are dead upon the field And will not know it’s won. And the drums will roll on, rolling Till some bullet finds your heart, Then you’ll join the lads before you And you’ll never have to part. _APOLLO_ Beautiful pagan, possess me! Over thy body my fingers I race. Hot on thy cheeks are my kisses, Naked with thee in a lovers’ embrace. Passionate night, And the scents from the orchard Heavily here In thy temple retreat. Moonlight and marble, Where pillars and shadows Cast thee in twilight, Beautiful statue, Warm with the warmth Of my body Against thee, I quiver, I clasp thee And fall at thy feet! _FOUNTAIN OF LOVELINESS_ Fountain of loveliness, flowing Deep in a wildwood of aspen and pine, Swanlike forever upon thy calm surface I drift in my nakedness, white in the sun. O plunge me beneath, Where thy depths are the greenest, Cover my heart, And the secret it keeps! _HIGHWAY NUMBER 66_ We drove down the road Like two bats out of Hell, And before us the gates At the rail crossing fell. But we crashed through the splinters And over the tracks, And the train whistled madly And screamed at our backs. And we rode on in silence With never a word, And only the wind And the motor were heard. For a lad lay a-dying That both of us knew, And over the hills To his bedside we flew. He was dead when we got there, And somehow I know At that curve on the hill With the valley below, Where the crossing is laid, And that monster of steel, Not my hand, but his Was guiding the wheel. _DIRGE FOR THE SQUALUS_ We did not raise a submarine From the ocean’s fathomed bed, But twenty-six brave sailor lads And all of them were dead. We left them not beneath the sea; We brought them sadly home, To dedicate anew to Death, Who nevermore shall roam. Then, trumpeter, be firm your lip, What though the tears may fall, For muffled drums in velvet beat Beneath your trumpet’s call. And there are hearts in other lads That swell with sorrow, too. It need not matter that those hearts Are not in navy blue. And they who have escaped that tomb Beneath the restless wave, How deeply reverent they hold The gift the dead men gave. For twenty-six on them bestowed The utmost they could give, When twenty-six accepted death That thirty-three might live. The passage doorway dogged and tight, On either side two groups of men. In one compartment, mad with fright, The thirty-three who’ll live again. And on the other, maddened, too, The water rising swiftly, high, The twenty-six who looked and knew They were the ones who had to die. Then let some fitting tribute stand When we from here are fled, The living consecrated By the consecrated dead! _ECHO CANYON_ We ride to Echo Canyon, He rides with me tonight, No moon above to guide us, The stars alone are bright. The wind is in the sagebrush; Somewhere a coyote calls; The studded sky is briefly lit As a flaming starlet falls. We draw the rein together, He trembles as I pass To turn the horses free to graze In the wild September grass. And now I stretch beside him Where he lies upon the ground, And in all this lovely wilderness We two alone are found. _FRAGMENT_ He wandered through the darkened streets of night, His massive cape a-blown with every wind. He passed the strumpets flirting near the lamps, And bowed to one--the one most infamous. Then down familiar avenues he strolled, And met, as he was sure to meet them there, The lads who knew these lanes where men were bold. How many a British soldier went to death Beneath an Afric sun with some small gift, A pocketknife inlaid with precious stones, A case for cigarettes, or watch and chain, Which had been given him by Oscar Wilde. _WE HANG UPON A SCAFFOLD_ We hang upon a scaffold, lad, The skeleton within Is all the horror of the world, Of virtue and of sin. For he who knows no word of love, Nor has his heart’s desire, Must hang the same and die the same As he who walks in fire. Then hang upon your scaffold, lad The mob will pierce your side, Yet cry your triumph and your pain, For man is crucified. _I LOOKED INTO YOUR EYES_ I looked into your eyes and saw, Or thought I saw, your love. I tried to hide my own from you; Not ever spoken of. Yet, there was something I could feel Electrify the air When both of us were quite alone And no one else was there. And when at last I spoke my love, And wanting yours for me, I looked into your eyes and knew Such love was not to be. _OF THIS GREAT VOICELESS LOVE_ Of this great voiceless love of mine for you There is no word to your heart out of mine That may go winging through the whispering night. Look only then for laughter in my letters As I from day to day _The Fool_ rehearse. And if one blushing phrase too boldly written Inscribes too fervently that I am yours, Believe it only penmanship and style, Or the careless informality of friends. _I WOULD HAVE BROUGHT YOU FIRE_ I would have brought you fire for those nights When you were cold and lonely and in doubt. I would have brought you laughter for your tears And given you new dreams to dream about. But look away, your eyes are much too bright, And sorrow has lent beauty to your face, And should I cast aside this cloak of years And live forever after in disgrace-- It is an old temptation sprung anew, Yet must not be. Ah, look at me and you shall see I am, my love, as miserable as you! _TOO MUCH OF LIFE_ Too much of life we spend alone, Too many thoughts are ours to share, Too little love we call our own Though multitudes of men are there. We’re strangers undetermined of Where madness rules the lives of men, Where he who dares design of love Lives not to dare the deed again. Beware of love! Be lonely, lad. There is no death that can compare Where loving hearts are crucified, And multitudes of men are there. _LONE CELLO_ Too much is incomplete. Let’s make an end Of all the fond impossible dreams we’ve dreamed, And when we part, We were not meant to be Too closely here companioned where the thorn Of our red love transfixes joy’s brief crown. The roses wither, time itself decays, And log-lit embers fall to ashes when The memory of the flame no longer glows. We rode to Echo Canyon and your smile Ran naked through the chambers of my heart. Now lonely cellos must out parting sing As when some cool green afternoon lets fall From one high branch a few wind-weary leaves. We grow too old too suddenly. Farewell! _APOCALYPSE_ These are the seeds of the future, The weary, the wretched, the slain. These are the ghosts we shall harvest In wars that shall come again. These are the fields we have furrowed, The dreams that have fallen apart, And this is the plow of our madness, The fear that has entered the heart. Oh, how shall we welcome the reaper When autumn shall fill the air, When all the hope of the springtime Is cut with the edge of despair? _THE OLD SEA WALL_ Oh, you who go hurrying, worrying by With never a cry or a call, Saw you a lad who was standing here On the crest of the old sea wall? I saw him last night in the twilight As the long low breakers rolled, And across the bay in the chapel An evening bell was tolled. And we looked at each other a moment And then from each other we turned, But I read in his eyes of a longing That a merciless world had spurned. Oh, have you no answer to make me, All you who go hastening past, And though I am late will none tell me Where he was standing last? Like a whisper I hear from the sea wall, Where the waters are troubled below, A murmur of wavelets complaining, And the fate of the lad I know. Spin onward, old world, to your ending. The hearts that you break and condemn Will someday rise madly against you, Reversing your judgment of them. _THE MIDNIGHT HORSEMAN_ Ten thousand trees in the forest stood And watched me as I passed, Ten thousand trees that did not breathe The wind that rode as fast, Ten thousand leaves on every tree Immovably aghast! The road in the light of the moon was white, The sky overhead was gray, With a kind of a washed, half-tone effect That took the night away, Yet to right and left like the cloak of death The deepest darkness lay. The steed’s quick breath his hooves beat out And silvered all the air, On, on we sped like a thing of dread; We were a ghostly pair. We passed the somber stricken wood; We found no shelter there. I might have stayed and made pretense That I was like the rest, And laughed and drunk and sung their songs As loudly as the best, And never have given an answer to, Not recognized my quest. Farewell, and onward! Piteous flight That leaves all friends behind, That hastes from old familiar scenes Where love was young and kind. Oh, petrified Sylvania, Where shall I others find? _LONELY HEART_ Where do you wander far and afield, Lonely heart? Lonely heart, where is your shield? Where are your rings and where is your purse? Love is expensive. It’s cheaper to curse. Where are your garments? Look at your shoes. Laughter or sorrow, which did you choose? Walking the streets, nights that are cold, Men who are wretched, men who are bold. Rooms in the shadows, Love me tonight, Love me and leave me before it grows bright. Don’t heed the sob of a heartbreak within. Hold me, and kiss me and teach me to sin! Into the quicksand, hungry and dark, Into the grotto, into the park, Into the depths of the tomb, it is said, Lovers have cast themselves, living and dead. Lonely heart, lonely heart, walking alone, Friendless and frantic, and turning to stone! _DREAMS_ If you’ve a dream at heart, lad, Some wilfull, noble plan, Then cherish it within, lad, And tell it to no man. To friend and foe alike be dumb On what you plan to do, And keep that secret chamber locked Until the work is through. For I had dreams at heart, boy, But talked them all away, And now I needs must start, boy, To dream anew today. _THE BUGLES CALLED_ We lay together, he and I, Upon a little hill, Beneath a tree that sheltered us, As trees so often will. I touched his hand and felt him stir, Expectancy of love! And then my lips poured out my heart, The things I told him of. But when his heart began to speak The bugles called to war And he arose and left me there. I never saw him more. _MORNING GUARD_ Where the old road meets the new road I stand the guard at morn, Where one comes winding down the hill, The other, through it torn. October’s friendly fingers dipped In every mellow shade Have touched the leaves on all the trees That stand within the glade. In distant treetops I behold, As I have seen in clouds, The faces of my heroes Or dead men in their shrouds. The marching columns pass me by, All sailor lads in blue. And some will wink, and some will smile, The way young fellows do. And overhead the deepening sky More bright and bluer flows, While one lone fleecy, sheeplike cloud Before the dog-wind goes. The restless leaves like pounding surf Sound breakers through the trees. I strip of all reality And drown myself in these. _WHEN KILMER WROTE OF TREES_ When Kilmer wrote of trees he must have seen The flowering catalpas all a-bloom, And though about him guns spoke quick of death And distant cannon thundered oaths of doom He did not harken. What were all of these To where beyond the trenches stood the trees? _WILD GEESE_ Geese in the night flying low, I hear the beat of their wings. I wish that I could know If they are calling to me. Rain and a wintry wind And trees that have shed their leaf. If man at first had not sinned Then Christ had not been born. _I WRITE TO YOU IN RED_ I write to you in red, though not in blood, For scarlet all my memories are dyed With deep imaginings of what the past, The past, the past--the unforgotten gone. Ah, what it might have been designed upon! I write to you in red because the flood Of scarlet passion prisoned, long denied Your love, yet in your bondage bonded fast, Is freed to flow again, to stream, And if it can, another love esteem. But all too long your chains upon my heart Have left a scar which testifies me dead To all frivolity. I have no part With lightsome love. I write to you in red! _’TIS WINTER NOW_ When spring again revisits earth, And in the dark there comes a stirreth Of seedlings bursting with the birth Of summer’s future flowers, Then will I sing you songs of love And apple blossoms branched above Shall know the dear devotion of My poor poetic powers. But wait till then--’tis winter now. My thoughts in solitude are claimed. Yet every wind shall hear my vow Repeated through the hours, It’s you alone I love, And unashamed. _SONNET_ Like solitary mountain peaks that list And seem to sink in seas of restless grain My love for you goes drowning through a mist Of unrequited, unrecorded pain. Oh, while there’s breath of life and passion still, While yet remains a warmth, a failing flame Within the fallen fortress of my will, Give me a moment of your love to claim. Come let me hold you close in hushed embrace And crush you with the force of fierce desire, Yet by that love no future plan to trace, But just to love that moment to conspire. I will not chain you, though enchained by thee; The memory of your love will prison me. _THE TROPIC DAWN_ The tropic dawn is beautiful at sea, The clouds respond so readily to light. Though overhead the stars continue bright And scattered like a broken string of beads, The eastward doors of night are opened wide And light floods all the ocean floor inside. The sun gets up, a painter out of bed, To work again his canvas of the world, To change black water into blue instead, To tint what little frantic foam gets hurled From two waves’ temperaments with ruby fire, And make the sea a thing for man’s desire. The day comes gently, working through the clouds, Which light and burn with brilliance many-hued. A sailor somewhere singing in the shrouds With naked chest and feet and arms tatooed, His sailor hat at angle on his head, Salutes the day with thoughts of home and bed. Oh, take me back, away from dawn and sea, Oh, take me where the heart of me would be, And in some blessed meadow set me free! _TWILIGHT_ A little while ago that sky was gold, And green that hill, And blue the white-capped sea, And I stood watching through these vines a ship That moved, hull down, beyond, Beneath the point. I wonder now, before the stars are out And long black clouds have filled the sunset sky, Will I remember this at midnight hour: How much I longed to be aboard that ship! _ECHO_ Oh, weary heart, dependent for a song On whether someone smiles or not at thee. Oh, weary life, the loveless years are long Yet deathless are the thoughts of him to me. Within an ancient castle on the coast, Where all the sea-dead sailor lads make moan, I hear a melancholy cello sing Its mad and mournful music to the moon, A dirge of febrile beauty and despair That fills the night with phantom, frantic song. And phrase to phrase with sexual life responds While fierce satyriasis, orchestrally, Like nine symphonic horns unharmonized Calls wildly through the hollows of my heart. _STAR COURSE_ Into the darkening east we ride, Wave upon wave we thrust aside, White and defiant they seethe around. What do we care! We’re homeward bound! The sea beneath and the sky above, These are the things a man can love, Not when he leaves his native shore, But when, far out of the sight of land, He takes the wheel with a steady hand To guide him home once more. Then homeward, homeward be my course, And constant be my star, For I have wandered east and west And I have wandered far, Yet home and joy can only be Where love and friendship are. I’ve searched among the isles of men The love I left behind, Explored for friendships in the waste Of broken, humankind, And sought for beauty, sought for wit, With naught of all to find. In dens of laughter when I laughed There came a hollow sound, Yet every night I went again To join the merry round, And every night I knew that there My heart would not be found. Then homeward, homeward be my course, And constant be my star, And may I not have changed too much Because I’ve wandered far. Their love and laughter now I need Who home and friendship are. _MEMORANDUM_ Quick are the sands that bury a man When he lays him down to die, And quick are the hands if there be no sands Of such fellows as you and I. _THE LITANY OF PEARL HARBOR_ Harbor of morning, Day has begun. Hills of Oahu Are waiting the sun. Harbor of reveille, Hammocks away. Sailors are stirring On ships in the bay. Harbor of happiness, Green and complete. Day from the summit Has smiled on the fleet. Harbor deceived, Death in the sky Plummets to earth Before colors shall fly. Harbor surprised, Torpedo and shell Tear through the living, Harbor of Hell! Harbor of terror, Harbor of death, Harbor where fellows Are choking for breath. Harbor of drownings, Thunderous sound. Flooded compartments Harbor the drowned. Harbor of fire, Harbor of flame, Steel and humanity Crumble the same. Harbor determined, Stations are manned. Against the aggresor The Harbor will stand. Harbor of courage, Gunners and guns Speak of the worth Of America’s sons. Harbor of shipmates, Sanctified flood, Dying together, Harbor of blood! Harbor of wounds, Beneath the attack, Fighting the enemy, Driving him back. Harbor of smoke, Blinding the sun. Harbor contested, Yet to be won. Harbor of roaring, Harbor ablaze, Harbor of horror, Harbor of praise. Harbor resurgent, Out of the gloom, Self-resurrected Out of the tomb. Glorious Harbor, Harbor of woe, Harbor of vengeance Blasting the foe. Harbor of hours, Endless, intense, Harbor victorious, Epic defense. Dedicate Harbor, Shipmates are there Sleeping forever. Harbor of prayer. _WE WERE WAITING THAT MORNING FOR COLORS_ We were waiting that morning for colors, And the bands were ready to play, And a motor launch crossing the harbor Was making its peaceful way, But to war and the roar of its thunder Old Glory went up that day. The firmament split, and our gunners, The bravest and handsomest crew, Mid fiery bomb and shrapnel, Oh, how to their stations they flew! They fought like a legion of angels Against the corruption of Hell, In the blaze of a sacred vengeance For shipmate lads who fell. They fought off the vicious invader, They cut him out of the air, And he dropped through the smoke of the combat To death and destruction there. And our flag through the hours of battle Flew on till the fighting was won. Oh, beautiful, dedicate banner, Our victory has only begun. With such gunners as ours to defend you, So bright and beloved in the sky, While devotion and manhood attend you, Brave standard, continue on high. We were waiting that morning for colors. Old Glory forever shall fly! _THE MOTOR LAUNCH CREW_ Crossing the harbor, four lads in a motor launch Saw the invader host drop from the sky, Saw a torpedo’s white wake through the water Make for the stern of a vessel nearby. “Jump!” cried the coxswain, “Here is my duty, Here is the logic for which I was born, One life asunder to stop the torpedo Ere from their bodies a hundred are torn!” “Nay,” cried the bowman. “We’re in this together. Glory to God and such men as ye are!” Seizing a boat hook he jumped to the gunwhale, As mad as old Ahab, as fixed as a star. Oh, the wild race in the harbor that morning! Prayed to his Diesel the kid engineer, “Fail me not now, O my beautiful engine!” Swiftly the launch and torpedo drew near. Wake upon wake, the two masses converging, Never a word by the sternman was said. Oh, there was death in the harbor that morning! Under the keel the torpedo shaft fled. Then with the force of a mighty harpooner, Melville’s dread hero, such bowman was he, Then from his arm the long boat hook went plunging Faster than death and destruction could flee. Into the blades of the whirling propeller, Following after, the iron hook sank, Changing the mark where the war head exploded, Tumbling the rocks and a tree from the bank. Then all around them the harbor was seething, Concussion and fire and shouting and fear, And they, too, are dead. Dead that motor launch coxswain, That bowman, and sternman and kid engineer! _TO THE GARRISON AT WAKE_ A little while, O sacramental dead, Unvisited a little while yet be. You shall not lie forgotten nor alone While ships there are, and planes, and guns, and men. For now, more adamant, more fierce, more keen, In permanence and purpose fixed as stars, To finite manhood hereby we annex The infinite almightiness of God, And we shall be His judgment! Woe to that Ambitious offal sprung from Hell’s abyss Which catastrophically we shall destroy, Annihilate, forever make extinct. No evil feet, where from your chaliced hearts The precious blood has spilled, shall tread that earth, That holy, transubstantiated isle Whose very soil is body, soul, and blood Of restless lads who loved America! On who so tread shall light and darkness pounce, Vast winged horrors plummeting, destroy, Consuming brilliance, glut-engulfing night, Like twin devourers, feed there on them! Ye ancient dead, who fell with Greece or Rome, Or in the name of Allah and his prophet, Who fell through all the cycled years of war, Through plague, disaster, fell in civil strife, Through revolution, famine, flood and fire, Apocalyptic woe or freezing night, Ye ancient dead, to whom heroic stance And unsurrendered dignity still cling, Receive who come among you now like gods, Four hundred splendid, handsome, golden lads. To them extend that comradship of men Who live the rugged military life, Who smile that full, good-natured kind of smile, Most boyishly unstudied, most beloved, Who know each other’s thoughts and wants and hopes, Who know what prayers are said and what forgot, Who know that greatest, crucifying love Where friends for friends on strange new crosses die! And you, O Seraph Outpost Garrison, Who side by side heroically made stand, No quarter given, none received, none asked, Who fought those vicious legions in the three Old elemental spheres, and of the fourth, Almost invincible to flame and death, Stood firmly placed before, beneath the attack Like Milton’s epic host against all Hell, New rest, brave lads, in consecrated sleep, While lonely trumpets sing through muffled drums A requiem and threnody of grief. Ah, great Cecilia, Bach, and Handel blind, Those last full-throated notes to swell from earth, That trumpet song of loneliness and night, Give it a contrapuntal theme beneath, Whose pedal harmonies orchestrally Shall hint of resurrection, while the pipes And organ-pillar’d flutes resound the mode To which the ancient dead have matched and sung. Then light the strings until they burn as bright And numberless as candles round a shrine, Then start the rolling drums, and set the brass Cannonically recalling one another, And let the reeds’ ancestral wisdom speak, What though at first the grave bassoons must weep Their melancholy, febrile lamentation. Unsheathe the horns and cut the harmonic knot. Let full grand orchestra astound the void With soaring fugue and metric tympani. And in this last, let herald trumpets sing While bright kid-trumpeteers who fell at Pearl Resound a call to quarters there beyond! _CORREGIDOR AND CALVARY_ Corregidor and Calvary, And Christ again is crucified, And all the lovely lads who died Are His this day in Paradise. They hung upon a wretched cross, We watched them day by day, And wondered how such men could live Who hung in such a way, Who hung in thorns of screeching steel And had no time to pray. We knew that soon the lads must die, And yet they battled death Unmindful of his awful wings And black, consuming breath, Unmindful when he roared at them Or whispered what he saith. For shattered men will die in pain, And shaken men will weep, And there are things which blast the blood And through the body creep, And men will not lie down at night Afeared that they will sleep. Afeared they would too deeply sleep, That battered hearts would burst; And though each knew that he must die, The dawn must beckon first, And each must feel again the grip Of loneliness and thirst. For none would die alone, apart, By twos and twelves they fell, And if a man could walk he worked, He loaded shot and shell, For none would die alone, apart, Within a narrow cell. Within a narrow cell at last All men someday must lie, But while their blood was in the heart And light within the eye, They would not leave the stand they took Beneath the open sky. They would not leave us, watching them, Examples of defeat, That when we come to look on death, And though our ranks deplete, Somehow we must think back to them, The way they met it, meet! _Alas, Love, I would thou couldst as well_ _defende thy selfe as thou canst offende others_ --SIR PHILIP SIDNEY When he and I had met I knew The way he smiled at me That we’d become the best of pals Two guys could ever be. For night and day he filled my thoughts, I talked of only him, But there were eyes which watched us both, Suspicious, cold, and dim. Suspicious eyes and little mouths That each reporting made Of all the times we went to swim Or rested in the shade. They told of how we’d taken horse To ride about the lea, And how two lonely mounts were seen Beneath a rugged tree. They gossiped how instead of church We went to watch the sun Come charging over purple hills To see the day begun, And how we came not home again Until that day was done. And he and I went off to war, Yet still their evil fed. He never knew, not ever will, The wretched things they said, For he was on Corregidor, And now the lad is dead. _TO THE MARINES_ There’s only one banner says “Semper Fidelis!” There’s only one flag we defend, There’s only one heart and one mind and one body In all of our battles we send. We fought and we bled on Bataan and Corregidor, Oh, how we held them at Wake! And waited in vain for more men and munitions With all the Pacific at stake. The sleepers were many, but we were the few Who wakened the quickest and fought, And while readjustment and training were planned, We did what we could, what we ought. Our dead are at Henderson. Think you they rest? They fight even now at our side, Refusing to enter the realms of the blest Until we have beaten the tide! _THE LADS WHO GO BELOW_ The enemy’s reported, And he’d like to see the show, But he handles ammunition So he’s got to go below. And he’s ready on his station, Every nerve alert and keen, With a group of grim-faced sailors In a lower magazine. They can feel the ship’s vibrations When the broadside salvos go, And the shatter of the turrets When they batter at the foe. “Send ’em up and keep ’em coming! Man the phones and man the hoist!” Sweat and curse and pass the powder Till the very deck is moist. But the enemy is daring, And his planes get through the screen, A torpedo rips the blister Just above the magazine. Water fills the whole compartment, In another fires rage, But the guns still get their powder And the enemy engage. Trapped below, the lads are living, And the hungry hoist they feed, Though the first concussion stunned them And their deafened ears must bleed. Other hits, the foeman scoring, Thunderous roars of flaming sheen, “Save the ship from an explosion, Flood the lower magazine!” Lads, farewell! The air was dirty With a lot of fume and smoke, It’s as bad, lads, when you smother As on briny water choke. But the enemy’s defeated, Thanks to you who’ll never know, You who handled ammunition And who had to go below! _THE ROAD TO HIGH WOOD_ It was on the road to High Wood That we found him lying dead, The soldier boy in khaki With the broken, battered head. No more at dawn or sunset Will he hear the bugle note, Nor thrill to taps ascending From a trumpet’s silver throat. It was on the road to High Wood Where the maple leaves were burned That the lad went out at morning And nevermore returned. There are many roads to High Wood, There are many roads to Hell, And the fields of wheat are rotten Where a thousand heroes fell. _NIGHT WATCH_ His ship is on the ocean But the sailor lad’s ashore, And deeply, deeply sleeping, He’ll waken nevermore. We buried him atop the hill That overlooks the bay, And one there was who walked from there With slower steps away. And one there is on watch at night Who wears the strangest smile, Because he sees a specter lad And talks with him awhile. Across the world he comes to me, And far horizons dim, And I await the day when I, Instead, shall go to him. Then we will sail on all the seas That poets can recite, And stand beside another lad, And watch with him at night. _THE SOLDIER AND THE SAMOVAR_ They shot him as he left the house And stripped him in the snow But still he held the samovar And would not let it go. Who knows from what fine home he came With afternoons at tea? If I had been that lonely lad, They would have shot at me. For I’d have run as desperately Behind some log to settle, And sit me down beside my theft, The big, old Russian kettle. But dead he lies; the snow piles high And winter fills the land, And only spring will move the thing And take it from his hand. _NOCTURNE_ Beside you while you slumbered, lad, My restless heart had lain Through all the hours of the night Aware of love and pain. Aware of love and morning’s light And eyes that must betray When someday you should look in mine Then ever look away. I’ll come to where you slumber, lad, If death shall mark me not And say the prayer that now I pray, And thought I had forgot. _THE SWING_ The crooked swing that hung beneath The crooked willow tree Brought all his laughter to my ears When school was out at three. When later years and afternoons Their symphony had sung Beneath the crooked willow tree An idle swing had hung. Then war came on. There’s always war To readjust the past, And he got leave and I got leave, And home we came at last. But I alone return tonight And naught to battle bring, For he is dead beneath the tree And broken hangs the swing. _SOMEWHERE ON LEAVE_ Unfurrowed field and lonely plow, The laughing lad has fled, Sweet-throated, unaccompanied lark, The laughing lad is dead. I found him on a barren tract, Stretched out and lying still, And on his lips the blood had dried, And on the blasted hill. Oh, that was far from hills like these, A hundred thousand guns Are booming, bursting in his ears And he does not hear a one. A soldier’s thoughts and a soldier’s laugh And a soldier’s boyish grin Are dead on a lonely battlefield, And the war is yet to win. _THE SENTRY_ The night wind hums a lullaby, A watchful bivouac keep. The guns are silent now awhile, Yet, soldier, do not sleep. Though weary with the force of night, And weary with the war, Sleep not, be watchful, quick alert, Or sleep forever more. But words are nought to tired eyes, And what are words of praise To minds that long to dream a bit Of other, saner days. He sleeps, unmindful of his oath, And then they find him dead, The other soldier stands his guard Who shot him through the head. The night wind hums a lullaby, A watchful bivouac keep. The guns are silent now awhile, Yet, soldier, do not sleep! _I WATCHED HIM IN THE TOURNAMENT_ I watched him in the tournament, And when he bowled a line I saw the way his eyes would smile When things were going fine. I saw the lonely little frown That made him look so grave And older than his twenty years When things would not behave. And then we did not meet again; I heard that he was dead. The savage sea, not you nor me, Knows where he is instead. _SOUTH PACIFIC_ How often had the sun been red The sky as deep a blue Behind long, tired stretched-out clouds When I was then with you. How often had the evening sea Which you so much admired With archipelagos of foam Been bright and ruby-fired. Oh, all these things tonight are here Upon a distant sea, But I have found no other one To stand and watch with me. _DECK-APE_ He was just a little deck-ape With a happy kind of smile, And a line of boyish chatter That could make you laugh awhile. He was just a little deck-ape Always ready with a hand When a shipmate needed someone Who would help or understand. He was just a little deck-ape, And we buried him at sea When he stopped a strafer’s bullet That was meant, I think, for me. _SAILOR BOY_ Upon a railway station bench he lies, Majestic image of a heathen god Cast down unknown centuries of time, And on his back for all the world to see. He sleeps the silence of unspoken love, A smile upon his lips, his cheeks aglow With all the fire of his rhythmic heart Betraying there the secret of his dream. And breath and life are one where fills his chest, And where the texture of his thighs impress The pagan phallic frontlet in his loins He testifies unknowingly to youth. Unstirring in the rapture of his thoughts He slumbers in the wakeful watch Of envy and desire! _AVENGE_ Avenge! Avenge! Great sword of God, The massacre of these Ten thousand Polish soldier lads, All hung from gallows’ trees. Send down Thy angels armed with fire, Send down Thy fiery lake, Avenge the tortured, fiercely marred, And killed for killing’s sake, Brave prisoners of Guam, Bataan, Corregidor, and Wake! O hasten, hasten, wrath of God! Five times five thousand slain In one red week of murderous lust, New Christs, new cross, new pain! Our patience and our mercy wait While they who slaughter don’t. Annihilate! Annihilate! We’ll do it if You won’t! _THE CROSSING OF THE RHINE_ And what is the talk we make tonight As we fill our glasses amber bright And drink to the guys who are in the fight, The crossing of the Rhine. And the song we sing is a simple thing Of a tune that moves with a martial swing To a set of words that have caught the ring, The crossing of the Rhine. We laugh and we jest, and we wish them well, And then we remember the lads who fell By blasted bridge and screaming shell, The crossing of the Rhine. Let’s stand as we pledge the guys who are there, The guys who are fighting everywhere Through blood and guts and the power of prayer, The crossing of the Rhine! _THE BALLAD OF THE DEAD SAILOR_ Oh, where are the rest of my shipmates, And why am I not at sea, And what is this lonely valley Where no one is but me? Have they sailed away without me? Will they ever again return? I never thought when he was dead A sailor’s heart would yearn. Oh, how did I die? In battle? Or how did I die? Asleep? Were there any who laughed when they heard it? Were any too stunned to weep? But who dressed me up so neatly? Who brushed and combed my hair? Some fellow just doing his duty Or someone who tried to care? Whoever it was I thank him, But what have they done to my heart That it will not rest like a lonesome guest In this world where they’ve set me apart? Must I still call out for companions And want them again at my side, Though breath is forbidden me ever As the longing I want to confide? O you who are shipmates together, Look well at each other today, Or you’ll lie deep as I in your anguish, And pine your dead heart away. _THE DEATH OF THE SCHARNHORST_ On Christmas Day in forty-three The Nazi _Scharnhorst_ put to sea, For word somehow had reached Berlin An Allied convoy was within Two hundred miles of where she lay In some Norwegian, hidden bay. She went ahead, two-thirds her speed, A mighty, master-monster steed, She left the fjords, mountain walled, Where oft her echoing bugles called, She cleared the channel, marked the land Drop far astern on either hand. She steamed through fog and arctic day, And then at night, when darkness lay Completely over all the waste, The _Scharnhorst_ charged with fuller haste To intercept the Allied ships Which dared these bold Murmansk-bound trips. Meanwhile the convoy, slow, serene, Behind an escort naval screen, Proceeded eastward off North Cape. The _Scharnhorst_ sensed the coming rape, And manned her guns that early dawn, But this is what she came upon: The cruisers _Norfolk_, and _Belfast_, And _Sheffield_, all the long night past Had known the wild sea horse was free To terrorize the Northern Sea, And they had placed themselves between The charging _Scharnhorst_ and the screen. The winter’s dawn was blackboard gray. The _Scharnhorst_ held her plotted way. The _Norfolk_, _Sheffield_, and _Belfast_ Were tense with waiting. Hours passed As closer these two forces drew, Determined ships, determined crew. The British sensed the approach of doom. The _Scharnhorst_ paused within the gloom, But then a star shell, bursting high, Illumined her against the sky. The great seabeast began to snort From every nostril turret fort. The _Sheffield’s_ guns belched smoke and flame; _Belfast’s_ quick turrets did the same, The _Norfolk’s_ screaming shell bursts bit The monster’s triple hull, a hit! The _Scharnhorst_ screamed, she turned and fled To mend her wound, to count her dead. _Belfast_ forbade his ships pursue. He judged what _Scharnhorst_ meant to do, Pretend retreat and then renew Attack upon the convoy later. _Scharnhorst’s_ speed he knew was greater, So he kept his course the straighter. _Scharnhorst_ circled east and nor’ward, Hoped to bring her power forward. But the convoy changed its course To shun this grim, abhorrent horse. The cruisers cut the arc and then Awaited _Scharnhorst’s_ charge again. When, hours later, tense with rage, The Scharnhorst, plotted to engage Just merchant ships and escort craft, Had reappeared to run the raft, She met instead the concerted blast Of _Norfolk_, _Sheffield_ and _Belfast_. Once again the salvos thundered. _Scharnhorst_ knew that she had blundered, While her gunners cursed and wondered Shells and fire as before Through the gloomy twilight tore, Swiftly, surely, more and more. The _Norfolk’s_ afterdeck was hit, A blaze of flame, the air was lit. The _Scharnhorst_ did not wait to see What damage or what victory. She turned once more in fearful dread, Homeward set her course and fled. For _Scharnhorst_ was a worthy prize. Correctly had she made surmise That other ships, the British fleet, Would steam to intercept or meet, And so she fled, a wounded beast, To seek the dark, protective east. But all this while, to interplace Between the _Scharnhorst_ and her base, To cut the Nazi monster’s course, To bridle all her vicious force, To leave a wreck of twisted torque, There steamed the mighty _Duke of York_. Two hundred miles away or more The _Duke_ and her destroyers bore When first the battle message came. _Belfast_ continued to proclaim The _Scharnhorst’s_ course, and from this plot The _Duke_, her speed, position got. For brave _Belfast_, and _Sheffield_, too, And _Norfolk_ this time did pursue. The _Scharnhorst_ turned, she headed south, And flung herself into the mouth Of _Duke_, _Jamaica_, and the horde, _Saumarez_, _Savage_, _Scorpion_, _Stord_. “Illuminate the enemy!” _Belfast’s_ bright shell broke high and free. The heavy night with heavy haze Had been descending, but the blaze Of light and brilliance caught the steed, Betrayed her form, her frothing speed. The _Duke’s_ great turrets boldly spoke, Belched shell and fire, fume and smoke. Concussion tore the night around. The shells went screaming through the sound And landed close aboard the Hun, A “straddle” salvo number one. The _Duke_ corrected plot and range And there began a fierce exchange Of shell and suffering. _Scharnhorst_ blazed Where blasts and flame her structures razed. She turned to east in panicked fright And sought the dark, descending night. The _Duke_ sped after, sending shell, Fired havoc, roaring hell Raining down upon the fleeing Battered, bruised and barely seeing Nazi supership which sped Ever more and more ahead. At last the _Duke_ had lost the range. Her guns were silenced, but a strange New battle lit the horizon’s edge And smote the _Scharnhorst_ like a sledge. She reared and tossed and bellowed toward _Saumarez_, _Savage_, _Scorpion_, _Stord_. She did not flee as fast, for they, More swiftly speeding on their way, O’ertook her and on either bow Engaged the bleeding _Scharnhorst_ now. Her voice was wild, her aim was bad; She fought with all the guns she had. At forty knots the destroyers came. Ten thousand yards, they took their aim; Six thousand yards, without a change Of course or speed they closed the range. Two thousand yards, they launched their dread Torpedoes, and away they sped. The _Scharnhorst_ snorted, scored a hit. _Saumarez_ felt the blast of it. But then the launched torpedoes struck, And _Scharnhorst’s_ inner heart was stuck. Her guns began a wild, red fire, She’d lost her speed, could not retire. By now the _Duke of York_ had closed, And with another force composed Of _Sheffield_, _Norfolk_, and _Belfast_, _Jamaica_, and come up at last, Four escorts from the convoy screen, Began a new approach routine. The _Scharnhorst_ shuddered, shell on shell From eight destroyers upon her fell. From four crack cruisers she sustained The heavy, horrid fire they trained. Each salvo from the _Duke of York_ Left her unsteady as a cork. Around and round the battle raged, On every side she was engaged By greater force and stronger will, A broken thing of beauty still; And then the ships received command To stand well clear on every hand. The battle paused. The night returned, And in that dark the _Scharnhorst_ burned. The swift and final act began. _Jamaica_ left the cruiser van And headed toward the trembling pile Where life and metal burned the while. A neat destroyer trained her lights Upon the target and the sights Aboard _Jamaica_, set to kill, Could pledge the beast her final thrill. _Jamaica_ swung. Torpedoes leapt, Their course and their appointment kept. A last great roar the _Scharnhorst_ gave, Then rolled her fires beneath the wave, A wretched, moving, dying thing Within the watchful naval ring. The black, salt sea her vitals drank, And, quenched her thirst, the _Scharnhorst_ sank. _LITTLE BOYS AND LITTLE DOGS_ Little boys and little dogs Are made for one another. For show me, sir, a little dog Just taken from its mother That will not find a tenderness And clumsy kind of joy In the care, and taking care, of A loving little boy. U.S.S. OKLAHOMA _RETURNS TO HER CREW_ We did not recognize her as she sank among us here, A wretched hulk, dismasted, disemboweled and stripped of gear. We did not recognize her. They were selling her for junk When she listed like a derelict, abandoned, wrecked, and sunk. For we were sea-dead sailors wandering aimlessly the deep, Without a ship, without a bunk, without a place to sleep, For we were sea-dead sailors of a ship that killed us all When she rolled her weight upon us as the bombs began to fall. We loved that ship. Her lines were trim, her speed was fleet and free, And when she joined maneuvers she was beautiful to see. That morning when torpodoes struck, with water, oil and blood She swiftly filled and overturned her masthead in the mud. How long we lived, how long lay dead within her flooded sides Till all awakened, spirit-drifted, ebbing with the tides! Oh, some were brave but could not save the other, some afraid, And all upon a hillside we were later, gently laid. We did not recognize her, for the ship we loved so well Had died with us that morning in the harbor’s flaming Hell, And our remembrance was not this, a scrapped and broken hull That came among us timid as a shy and lonely gull. We turned our backs upon her; she was not of our command, But suddenly a seaman with a flashlight in his hand Began to signal frantically. We turned and somehow knew She was the _Oklahoma_ and she knew we were her crew. We wept, we cried, we swarmed aboard, we kissed her weary decks, We made a thousand seaweed leis and hung them round our necks. We danced, we laughed; our salted eyes flowed tears without relief, For it was good to know at last the end of all her grief. We built a superstructure, casemates, turrets, funnel, jack. We fitted out compartments and we put the galley back. We mustered on the quarterdeck and bowed our heads in thanks, And mourned for those, our shipmates, who were missing from the ranks. We stationed watch and quarters and we stowed our gear below. We manned the bridge and sea-details, and rode the undertow. Some evening in the sunset of a bright and happy day We’ll come steaming through the Golden Gate for San Francisco Bay! _NIGHT_ Night is a stricken bird whose breast is laid against the earth, Whose broken wings both comfort and surround the compassed air. Night is a fallen sparrow boys have stoned in spending small Or token sums of their vast wealth’s amazing cruelty. Night is a stricken bird whose heart has throbbed against my own, Whose broken wings have brushed my cheek, whose beak has hit my lip. Night is a restless fellow gone to bed, who cannot sleep, Yet will not rise to walk the parks and barter with desire. Night is all the sewers of a frustrate mind Spewing up positioned nudes inseminating one another! _FOR ALL HEROES_ Here are the guys who have died for the world, Died for the battles in which they were hurled, Died for the flags that have long since been furled, And on this cross, Christ! Here are the bastard, expendable lot, Here are the laughs when the laughter is not, Here are the guys who are always forgot, And on this cross, Christ! Look, you! Behold through the beard and the blood, The face of the lover inflamed with the crud; See the strong limbs that lie still in the mud. Look on the red lips that open no more. What does it matter by what gods they swore? War’s the procurer and here lies his whore! What can you say to a guy when he’s dead? Kneel down beside him, lift up his head? Thank what you thank it was not you instead? And on this cross? God love you and keep you, you son of a bitch, Scratching your ass or wherever you itch, Restless in sleep as you jump and you twitch. Go, when you’re called from your haunts and your sports; Go, be a number in battle’s reports. Drown your desires and shoot in your shorts Take up your rifle and take up your clip, Take the canteen and water you’ll sip. You’ve got a class that you don’t want to skip, As on this cross, Christ! _FOXHOLE_ Your nearness thundered through me and I shook, And when you said, “You’re trembling.” I said, “Yes.” And then you asked, “Ya scared?” What could I say? We two had been together since the States And I had kept the bluff and we were friends. Why, I remember how it was we met. We both were standing naked. You were soaped From head to foot and then the shower quit. I never heard a rhythmic stream of words So finely mouthed, and chewed and spitted out But now we lie together in the sand Upon a tropic beach. The enemy, For all our air and sea and boasted might, Had held his little island and opposed Our coming with such surety of aim That half our comrades dropped face down, face up, And did not feel the black and blooded wash That played between their sprawled and spreaded legs. We two were forward on the farthest flank That hoped to outmaneuver and destroy The deep pillbox entrenchment where the Nip Had taken his position and command Of all the open, dead-man beach between. We’d found a little dune and dug us in, And all the long tormented afternoon We lobbed our ineffectual grenades Against the fort foreknowledge of the Jap. When night came on we got the word to hold, But silence and the darkness held us close And I could hear your breathing, feel you near. And then there went through me an echoing roar As when a mountainside of snow and ice Lets loose its frantic grip and tumbles down. And then you said, “You’re trembling.” I said, “Yes.” You asked, “Ya scared?” And I said, “Yes,” again. The silence fell between us for a while. Your hand reached out and rudely grasped my arm. “You’re lying, kid.” Your grip was strong and fierce. You held me there as if to make me shout With pain or ecstasy, and time rushed by Unclocked. You shuddered then and let me go. “You’re lying, kid, and so, sweet God, am I.” The blast of brilliance, flame and heat that came Exploding close beside us threw the sand, And shell, and death and you and me apart. How long we lay half buried none will tell I know I wakened somewhere near the dawn And saw you stretched and saw your trousers torn. I crawled beside you, brushed away the sand That filled your eyes. I held you in my arms, And pressed my mouth to yours as if my breath Within your lungs would bring your arms around me. I know I sobbed, and wept, and cursed, and prayed. My fevered hands I burned beneath your blouse To touch your unresponsive, frigid flesh. And then I knew that you were dead, That you were dead, That you were dead, That we should lie no more! _BURY HIM_ Bury him! Not where the rough, raw earth With his fathers’ bones is filled, Nor bury him there where the old chiefs’ blood On the rich, rolled plain is spilled, And bury him not where he’ll be forgot, With the reason for which he was killed, But, bury him. Bury him. Bury him not in a lonely plot In the midst of the fools who cried Of his race and his face, and forgot every trace Of the reason for which he died, While the heart of the nation’s demoralization Began to ascend as it sighed, “Bury him. Bury him.” Bury him well. Let the bugler tell To the listening wind and the wood How an Indian boy, who was somebody’s joy And the pride of a small neighborhood, Met his death in the yell of a Korean hell, And, returned to his home, was accused Of his race and his place in a nation’s disgrace, And his burial there was refused. Let the volley resound and the hollows be found To re-echo the bugle and gun, Till the echoes grow dim and we know that in him We bury all men in this one. For we bury the stain when we bury the slain In these wars that are yet to be won. Bury him, then, where such comrades shall lie Side by side in the long marbled sleep, As have longed long for sleeping, and there in their keeping Assign him the grave he shall keep. In that company of others, his spiritual brothers, Whose tears all were salt when they’d weep. Bury him. Bury him. Bury him mournfully, he who was scornfully Thought to be brought to disgrace among men. Bury heroically here all the stoically Suffered injustice and wrong that has been. Bury the dead and defeated, repeated Mistakes that have tumbled our honor again. Bury the past with its hate and its slaughter, And from this sweet grave make beginning. Come, then, Bury him! Bury him! * * * * * _$2.50_ THE DEATH OF THE SCHARNHORST And Other Poems by Arch Alfred McKillen In the powerful narrative poem which furnishes the title for this impressive first volume, Arch Alfred McKillen tells the dramatic story of the sinking of the German battleship _Scharnhorst_, during World War II--an important day for the Allied Forces. These poems could have been written only by a man who has experienced deeply the emotions of which he writes. War is not the only subject of Mr. McKillen’s poems. He writes of love; and indignation prompts him to write strongly against racial prejudice. Sharpness and simplicity of style contribute greatly to the forceful effects which he achieves. Too often a reader’s enjoyment of poetry is marred by obscurity of meaning, but the clarity of thought and euphony of expression of the author, in this volume, leave no doubt in the reader’s mind of his intent. Reading THE DEATH OF THE SCHARNHORST AND OTHER POEMS will be a memorable experience for poetry lovers. A VANTAGE BOOK * * * * * _About the Author ..._ [Illustration] Arch Alfred McKillen was born in Chicago, in 1914. Upon completion of high school, he went to work in a wire-winding factory. Later he worked in a mail-order house, and as a bonded messenger. In 1939, Mr. McKillen enlisted in the United States Navy. He was stationed aboard the _U.S.S. Tennessee_ at Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941, when the Japanese attacked. Later, he served aboard other battleships in both the Pacific and the Atlantic, and finally was transferred to a Logistic Support Company on Okinawa. Mr. McKillen is now a bookseller. In his spare time he is doing research for his next book. 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