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BALLAD: FOR A WW II SHIPMATE AND HIS UNANSWERED PRAYER
(Forgive Us, Joe, We Ain't There Yet)
(for: Joe Fay)
Joe Fay, our new ship's cook, listened well.
He had a round, open face, long, sturdy limbs,
And eyes which were mirrors for what he was told;
excitement, wonder, happy news, sad news.
Sad news? Forget sad news. Joe Fay, our cook, had a way,
While feeding us, of listening our sadnesses away.
Older than most of us on our ship,
Joe was a husband and father of two sons.
Also, unlike us, he'd had a job back home.
Joe became the shipmate we told about ourselves,
Our adventures, and our distant, post-war dreams.
Joe had delivered milk, in Boston,
Before the draft brought him to our ship.
It was a ship which worked.
It opened and closed anti-sub nets at a harbor mouth,
To permit passage to the heroic ships,
the war sluggers, the champs.
Joe cooked our meals, listened, spoke his all-purpose word.
His tongue was Bostonese. His word was, "Jeez."
Excitement? "Jeez." Wonderment? "Jeez." Puzzlement? "Jeez."
Recamouflage our ship for Atlantic duty? "Jeez."
Install two new guns, for going overseas? "Jeez."
Would we become a slugger, too? "Jeez."
In convoy, we went. We did not slug. We worked.
Throughout that bright, mild summer, with
long, pure days, we toiled.
We cleaned the first port into France,
Removed the mines and other obstacles to
The horny sluggers, trained
To war and win.
Until one Sunday, in the fall of '44,
our starboard watch was allowed ashore.
On the beach, for something neat to do, Joe Fay and I
hitched a ride in an Army truck,
with a load of supplies for a radar post
a few miles up the coast.
Joe and I sat face to face
on benches in the back of the truck.
The day was supreme.
The sky was tall, the sun alive.
The air held a brilliance like
glints of fire in a diamond.
The road along the coast
was two ruts worn by prior trunks.
In the rear of the bumpy truck,
I arose, as Milk Man Joe,
through clenched jaws, groaned, "Jeez,"
gripping the edge of his bench.
After standing awhile and calibrating my knees
to absorb the bumps,
while drinking in that day,
I turned towards Joe Fay to say,
"Stand up, It's better this way."
I never spoke. The land mine intervened.
I awoke in casts, half blind, after an unknown sum of days had passed.
What had happened was then described to me.
My question now to you, Joe Fay, Milk Man is:
when I was propelled through the top of that truck
and into those trees,
and your body ripped open,
and you clutched at the blood and the life that was leaving you,
Old Friend, tell me, please, weren't you praying for peace
with that final scream, "Jeez?"
Our thanks to Vic Bull for this very moving and fitting tribute to his friend and fellow sailor, Joe Fay. And our thanks to both of them for their service and their sacrifice.
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