Submarine Poems
“My Heart’s at Sea Forever”
Long ago I was a Sailor.
I sailed the Ocean blue.
I knew the bars in Olongopo…
The coastline of Peru.
I knew well the sting of salt spray,
the taste of Spanish wine,
the beauty of the Orient…
Yes, all these things were mine.
But I wear a different hat now,
no tie and jacket too.
My sailing days were long ago…
with that life I am through.
But somewhere deep inside of me…
the sailor lives there still.
He longs to go to sea again,
But knows he never will.
My love, my life, is here at home,
and I will leave here never.
Though mind and body stay ashore…
my heart’s at sea forever
~Author Unknown~
Contributed by Luis Duran
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“A Submarine”
This is a WWI poem found by a submariner at the Submarine Base Groton, CT in 1966 Author unknown
Born in the shops of the devil
Designed in the brains of a fiend
Filled with acid and oil
And christened “a submarine”
The poets send in their ditties
Of battleships spick and clean
But never a word in their columns
Do you see a submarine?
I’ll try and depict our story
In a very laconic way
Please have patience to listen
Until I have finished my say
We eat where’re we can find it
And sleep hanging up on hooks
Conditions under which we’re existing
Are never published in books
Life on these boats is obnoxious
And that is using mild terms
We are never bothered by sickness
There isn’t any room for germs
We are never troubled with varmints
There are things even a cockroach can’t stand
And any self respecting rodent
Quick as possible beats it for land
And that little dollar per dive
We receive to dive out of sight
Is often earned more than double
By charging the batteries at night
And that extra compensation
We receive on boats like these
We never really get at all
It’s spent on soap and dungarees
Machinists get soaked in fuel oil
Electricians in H2SO4
Gunners mates with 600W
And torpedo slush galore
When we come into the Navy Yard
We are looked upon with disgrace
And they make out some new regulations
To fit our particular case
Now all you battleship sailors
When you are feeling disgruntled and mean
Just pack your bag and hammock
And go to “A Submarine”
Avast, Matey!
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THE GUPPIES
Bob Harrison
Greenfield, Indiana
Long before the advent of the hippie and the yuppie
There was a class of warship that was fondly called the Guppy,
Now the Guppy was a submarine, in case you didn’t know,
Long and black and sleek she was, and always on the go.
In World War Two, the submarines were our first line of attack,
Many of them went out to sea and some did not come back,
Now the submariners knew this but still they went to war,
To defend their nation’s freedom was what they were fighting for.
After World War Two had ended, when the Japs and Germans quit,
Someone thought the old subs should be streamlined just a bit,
So they re-designed the old boats and titled them Tang Class
With snorkels, better batt’ries and a hull to make’em fast.
They went to sea both north and south from the East to setting sun,
They never knew when night was o’er and daytime had begun.
Theirs was a life of silence and the darkness of the deep,
Sometimes their only pleasure were a few hours of blessed sleep.
They ploughed the seas from Pole to Pole in defense of freedom’s goals,
From Pearl Harbor, and Yokosuka to the faroff Iceland shoals,
To spy on Soviet submarines and other ships of war
Was the job of these brave lads who roamed the ocean floor.
They ran patrols from Greenland to the shores of Timbuktu
The GIUK GAP and MED RUN were just nothing for a crew
Of Guppy sailors who thought the NORTHERN RUN okay,
Then take shore leave in Norfolk for another night of play.
How many Guppies were there? Far more than I could name.
And each has earned an honored place in the Guppy Hall of Fame.
They fought the War with Soviets in secrecy and guile
Until the foe gave up the fight, which made it all worth while.
Now they’re gone, as all ships go when their tour of duty’s o’er,
Brave Guppies, stalwart warriors, they roam the seas no more,
They’ve gone to graves far out at sea and this should be their lot,
Gone from the sight of those they served but not to be forgot.
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For DBF Sailors
John Eckard
They say we have it easy, and maybe they are right.
We’ve never felt a depth charge, we’ve never seen a fight.
We don’t stink of deisel, we wash our clothes each week.
The nukes will make us tons of water, our hull it doesn’t leak.
The smokeboat sailors have their fun, they say no boomer’s cool,
“Hey squid can I come on your boat and swim around your pool?”
They say we’re soft, we’ll never know, just what their boats went through
to end a war they didn’t start and wish they never knew.
Yes it’s true, our fish stay dry, none pass the outer doors.
But wasn’t that the final goal of The War to End All Wars?
So listen now, and listen well, we stand our watches well
and if the time should ever come, we too, will face our hell.
You did your job, you’ve earned our thanks, and the lessons that you taught
are passed to each and every nub that thinks that he’s so hot.
His quals will be as tough as when you first filled out your card.
No sleazy sigs will sully what was meant to be damned hard.
For when those dolphins are tacked on, you know he’ll beam with pride.
And pass on those traditions of the men who fought and died.
We share the tales we’ve heard from you, sometimes we change the names.
But don’t you ever start to think, we’re out here playing games.
We might not have to close and shoot, a ship that’s in our scope.
Our mission differs from what you had, and so, you’d better hope,
that in our life, your children’s too, in fact, for long past that,
that we will never get flash traffic with a message that
cause birds, not fish, to swim away and bring their judgement down
on an enemy that we’ve not seen, nor pinged with sonar sound.
For if we ever fire those shots and bring the fury of the sun
to those who threaten you and yours, then our hell has just begun.
You came back heroes to your homes, maybe greeted with a band.
But we’ll come back to nothing, no homes, no kids, no land.
For our war will be the one that really is the end.
It started with the fires of hell that we were told to send.
So go ahead and have your fun, we’ll take on your best shot,
but then go home, and go to sleep, our job is finished not.
We’ll just go on making more patrols, not much to do out here.
Four knots to nowhere, punching holes in an ocean, without fear.
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Soul of a Submariner!!!
By John Chaffey, Powell, WY-c 2001
He cast his soul to the wind, and let his spirit free.
And his life was set on course, with a submarine decree.
Society had many rules, no way he would live by.
No commuting to an office, no wearing suit and tie.
No time to conform, no time for kids and wife.
The sea was to be his home, the service was his life.
If only he could tell, of the sights that he had seen.
Of the seas that he had sailed, on that fine old submarine.
But his tales will go untold, because of history past.
Of lessons paid in blood, the “Silent Service” it was cast.
Though the days drift into years, the memories do not fade.
Of good boats and tough missions, and the sacrifices made.
Of Silver Dolphins and great shipmates, and moonless dark sea nights.
Of travel to exotic lands, and many bewildering sites.
O’ to hear the claxon sound, his friends they do not know.
He prays to once again, go where Submariners go.
Each year he grows more restless, the salt flows through his veins.
But the depths are for the young, not the old with many pains.
His heart beats with a fever, his mind drifts to the sea.
He knows the taste of liberty, and what it costs to be free.
He will hear the vents no longer, he will go to sea no more.
For his final set of orders, has cast his soul ashore.
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