Francis Robert Tudge

 August 18th, 1942

Before the sun lit the night time sky,

We heard, we saw red tracers arching high.

A thought; how to pass this gate of flames?

Quietly we passed through as playing a game.

When the sun rose in a clear blue sky,

Our craft touched white beach with a grinding sound.

Two Churchill Tanks ran off onto pebbled ground;

Motors roaring, no headway was made,

Neither tank made it up the shingle grade.

Behind Barbed wire, to our front, not far away,

An enemy heavy gun, crouched, awaiting prey.

A shell hit the bow of our tank landing craft,

A Churchill swung slightly to get in a shot. 

Our gunner was good; he blew up the lot.

Guns fired, shrapnel fell,

Those living would have tales to tell.

Our craft was grounding, time was running late,

We were thoughtful; now, what was our fate?

A messenger made the situation clear,

Do not land, ordered the Brigadier.

Communication with our regiment has been lost.

To land would be a sacrificial cost.

The bow of our craft destroyed, and our motor, too,

Not much anyone aboard could do.

A motor torpedo boat; the last—checking the shore,

Offered a tow, saying it would be no chore.

The towing ropes were tightly tied,

Cut the ropes! Cut the ropes! Our major cried.

Those men on the beach are mine!

Ships captain replies; we have no time, 

Towing the craft back, we can fight another day.

The law of sea must have its say;

We have lost the battle; as you well can see,

Saving my craft is the honour of the sea.

The sea was rising; we float high,

Our bow was open to the beach and to the sky,

Heavy guns fired, shells whirled overhead,

We thought any moment, we would be with the dead.

There wasn’t much talk among our lot,

We knew our pals had been killed or caught.

We were soul-heavy, wet, watching the beach recede,

Knowing what had been done today was a gallant military deed.

There was no cheer that we alone were here,

Our thoughts were of pals of many long years.

The little boat chugged along, we in its wake;

To touch land again, how long would it take?

We watched vapor trails of fighters high in the sky,

Sweeping, twirling, fighting, or falling to die.

The trail looked like skate marks on snow-covered ice,

Our thoughts were sad; our pilots too, pay the ultimate price.

Time no longer existed, nor the setting sun,

Our thoughts were of the dead, of roaring guns.

Brave men died today; brave men still live.

Are not those who tow us now,

Risking their chances, roped to our bow?

Pulling slowly, slowly across the English sea,

These are brave men, brave, brave men to me.