THE
OLD MAN AND THE SAILOR
by Robert L. Harrison .
July 22, 1997 . Greenfield,
Indiana
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He was old and worn and a bit
forlorn as he ambled through the park,
He spoke to me and I could
see that his eyes had lost their spark.
His gait was slow and his voice
was low as he asked to sit with me,
And I answered him with a friendly
grin, The sittin’ here is free.
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He gave a smile and we talked
a while and his voice was rather weak,
But his mind was strong and
it wasn't long til he began to speak
Of yesteryears and I saw the
tears as the mem’ries flooded through
For he spoke of times and other
climes as old men often do.
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He smiled at me and I could
see as he glanced at my Navy blues
That he’d earned his keep on
the briny deep and paid his share of dues.
I asked if he would share with
me some mem'ries from his career,
He said he might if the price
was right, and the price was a can of beer!
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I’ve shipped on subs and oily
tubs, on battleships and cruisers,
Ten thousand mates and I can
state not one of them was losers.
LST’s on foreign seas, from
Tarawa to Leyte,
You name it, lad, I’ve been
there, from Alaska down to Haiti.
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Liberty ships of paper clips,
balsa wood and glue,
I saw one break apart one time
and lose her gallant crew.
Marine Corps I took ashore
on Tarawa and Truk.
Oh what the Hell, for quite
a spell, I've had my share of luck.
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One thing more, he said, before
I move along,
There ain't no air that’s quite
as fair as the pipe of the boatswain’s song.
And the place to be is on the
sea riding a fair sea swell,
With mates like you in Navy
blue who’ll follow you straight through Hell.
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So here’s to you and your Navy
crew who take our ships to sea,
You’ve fought and died and
never cried throughout our history.
You’re heroes all and ten feet
tall and your spirits never lag,
You’re the nation’s best and
you never rest in defense of our country’s flag!
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He rose to leave and I believe
that he seemed to move much faster,
His eyes agleam like a laser
beam and his skin was alabaster,
He glowed at first then soon
dispersed in a cloud of misty cotton,
A dream at most, perhaps a
ghost, but not to be forgotten.
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