The Ensign and the Plank

You've pulled a man from the freezing sea all black with ship's oil fuel
You've cleaned him off, and see his wounds and wondered what to do,
You see the whiteness of his ribs where steam has skinned him too.
The guilt you feel when you look at him feeling glad it isn't you
And all you have to ease his pain is aspirin and 'goo.'

You fear to look him in the eye for the question you know will be there
The answer you know is certain death, and there's nothing more you can do.
You light him a fag, and give him your tot as he looks for the rest of his crew.
Then you lay him out on the iron deck knowing that's his lot
Briefly wondering if you did aright by giving him your tot.

For the rest of the watch, with a sail maker's palm with needle and with thread
You sew him up in canvas with the rest of that night's dead.
With a dummy shell between their feet, making certain that they will sink
You sit and sew till the morning's glow, amid the mess and stink.
By dawn's grey light you carry them aft, to the ensign and the plank.
And the hands off watch gather round all bleary eyed and dank.

Then the skipper with his bible says a sailor's prayer
Our father which art in heaven (we hope you're really there).
One by one the dead are gone slid from the greasy plank
A second's pause and then a splash, they sink beneath the main.

The hands go forward, feeling chill, thinking of those that were slain
with a certain knowledge in a while we'll do it all again.
Each one being still alive, breathes a silent prayer of thanks
Wondering, with a cold dark fear, will I be next on the plank?

Petty Officer Stanley Kirby