Armourer

Armourer

Poem about armourer loading bombs but would not be there when they were dropped.

1944-07-06

One page typewritten document

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[underlined]ARMOURER[/underlined]

He is Death’s mercenary. Impersonal
The hands which sow the dragon’s teeth;
It is his work, with cable, winch and fuse
To hoist them one by one, each snug in place;
He is their brain, ordains each deadly flight,
Their blast and fire, the screaming shrapnel crust,
And sweats all day, out on the aerodrome.
He’ll not be there when Hell’s abroad tonight,
He will not ponder on the fugues of death
Nor see the place his murderous charges fall;
But once he’s done, across his leathered face
He’ll draw a veiny arm, and spit into the dust.

Back in his hut, he’ll smoke, and hear the News,
And sprawl across his bed with dreams of home.

Tuddenham
6 July 44.