FROM A RUSSIAN CONVOY

A cargo ship is steaming into the Bearents Sea,
Heaving, rolling, pitching, bound for Murmansk quay,
The previous night in awful plight, her convoy had been scattered,
Best-laid plans are history now as slim defence is shattered.

Arctic storms are frequent, floating mines abound,
Dodgy is the compass and ice floes all around,
Watching out for U - boats and torpedoes mortal run,
The only means of fighting - an antiquated gun.

The fog and snow - sixty below, in the freezing winds,
Sodden clothes and eyes are froze staring through the `bins,
High on deck lifelines rigged to struggle fore and aft,
Shipping seas all over, in deeply laden draught.

Through a gap a spotter plane at distance overhead,
Homing in the Stukas with spectre of bloodshed,
Vital cargo must get through - vehicles and tanks,
Ammo with the aircraft and stores for army ranks.

Seldom war quite like it, in all our history,
Knowing that our chances are only two from three,
Even berthed in Russia the bombs fall every day,
Twenty minutes flying time - the Germans have their way.

There is no special medal for this appalling run,
Facing awful weather and unremitting Hun,
Many Merchant Seamen never make it through,
Giving all for Country in this year of `42.

J.S.Earl