 Words that war presents, who dare to live? I have loved ships too much, perhaps, for my own good. God help us sentimental chaps when steel and wood and faithful craftsmanship can so contrive to work their spell until that alchemy becomes alive in you as well. A brave man dies but once, I've heard. And who am I to doubt a poet's or a brave man's word? Others try to join the ragged band who share the mortal pain of death repeated. Yet who dare to live? Again. Words at war. The national broadcasting company in cooperation with the Council on Books and Wartime brings you another in the series of radio treatments of important books of this war. Tonight, our presentation is the narrative poem Who Dare to Live by Frederick B. Watt, Lieutenant Commander of the Royal Canadian Naval Volunteer Reserve Attribute to the British Merchant Marine and to the merchant semen of all the United Nations. Italy is near Vancouver in British Columbia. Just a bit north of your own proud state of Washington. Just a bit dearer to me and Bess than anything in God's world. Except a certain flying gentleman we call our son. Well, let him ride the wind over Germany. I am here in the quiet, lighted living room at Fairleigh with Bess. Happy? Yes, that well might be. Except for two sad letters on my knee. Sorry dear captain. There is no place for you at present. All our births are filled. Of late there's been more ships than captains kill. Added to that it's really only fair younger, less tested men should do their share. You after all are one of those who bore all the strain the first two years of war. When there's an opening... Oh, it was kind and slick. But kinder had they said, you've served your trick, face it, face it and accept it. There can be no ship for any man who once has lost his grip. Nothing can strike more savagely than doubt about a master once the word is out. Cruel enough it were had it been true. At 45 a man should not be through. And Dr. Warren's name was down to tell the world that I was absolutely well. Strong as a mule, those 20 pounds regained. No trace of my strange willingness remained. And in its place the idle months had penned a great new vigor. Urgent to be spent. Something beyond the ambition of the spell that drives the seamen seaward ill or well. Burns nicely, doesn't it? A good letter paper. And the other one, Jack. It's rather flimsy stock yet might not burn as well. You know what I mean. Yes, my darling, I know what you mean, decide. Decide what? The sailor ship for a lot of felt this swine of whom the old time press gangs would be ashamed. You'll be ill again if you go on like that. No, I'm not ill and I'm not going to be ill best. Although this in itself is enough to give a man a nervous breakdown. But it's good for me to rant a bit at the utter gall of the hungry fleet. Yes, that's what they call them, the hungry fleet. The dregs of the shipping business. But Jack, they've done nothing to you but offer you a command. It's for you to decide whether or not you're... What is it? I've not read you the post script of this letter. And perhaps it's time you shored. Yes. P.S. It is necessary to add this advice with no intended disrespect toward your high rating as a master of fine ships for so many years. Before we are prepared to offer you the command of a vessel in our fleet, we think you should serve a trip or two as mate. I didn't know. I might cry too, except I'm not the sentimental sort, you know. Still it's good to sit here with Bessie's arms around me and remember a little. One warm tear of her striking my hand is a key to many memories. So few, I'm sad to say, concerned with Bess. For a ship's captain, well he's only a homing pigeon, not a roosting bird. But I recall a stranger looking at her picture once, then quickly at me and asking, Your wife? His suddenly excited tone inferred, Good Lord, imagine married to this bird. Who was to blame them? Reason had not been a factor when we married in 19. Impulse alone had guided Bess to choose a freighter on a Caribbean cruise in which to flee the crazy life that thrived where fragments of her shattered world survived. Sick of amusements, quick to flame and die, she had cast for something new. And there was I. Findlay, the master, cynical and tight, congratulated us with grim delight, asking, Just tell me ma'am, how do you rate a catch like this? I blasted second mate, what can you offer? Bess had caught my arm before I did the smirking rumper. Captain, set your fears at rest, whatever I have to give will be my best. You should have let me at him. No, Jack, but I'll go this far with you. We've just been married by the meanest man in the world. You'll go father, you'll go a lifetime. You're wonderful. Time for my watch. You're wonderful too. And I feel that way about only one other man aboard this ship. Say that again? Mr. Samson. Oh, Barney Samson, why, of course, you would, any girl would. No girl would marry that big bear. Oh, there'll be one. But doesn't he walk like a bear? Yes. And talk like a bear? A big, kind-hearted, grisly, if there is such a thing. I've always thought of Barney Samson as being like an old-time viking. Viking? Well, maybe. Anyway, next to you is the best friend I've got in the world. You'll go far, Barney Samson will. You'll both be masters of your own ships one day. Going hard liquor, hard times, and war. You don't care for hard liquor. Not much. No, not much. And you're smart enough to make your way through hard times. And we've done with war, darling. If only for the somewhat ungodly reason that no nation has the strength to fight them anymore. The strength came later after 20 years. There were few ports I'd known that had no memory of Captain Barney Samson. Mr. South or East, he was forever topping some horizon at times when you expected him the least. Broad as the sea, as wild, as grimly faithful, as endlessly alive. His creaming wake had brought sound satisfaction to his owners. Yet would it please to frobisher or drake. Strangely, best liked him. Pa, we laughed together. When last the three of us on Mercy's side stepped out to flicks and supper on the evening before the westbound convoy caught for tide. The best had come up from Plymouth to be with me for those swift days allowed us to discharge. Tired and subdued, she'd seemed, until we encountered the tank of brim with Barney bulking large. Somehow his booming laughter made for quiet. And somehow all his nonsense made for sense. I saw him once again, a grizzled jove who held a restaurant wrapped as he made havoc of two huge lobsters fresh from Peggy's Cove. One of them would have stuffed an average mortal until he gagged. But Barney and his stride had ten men's appetite for life and living. Nor was the going modest when he died. That came just ten days later, where sea and sky fused formlessly at dawn. Bream lay not far from my ship just a starboard, a smurged dark shape some youngster might have drawn. And suddenly it happened. I was looking in her direction when there came the flash. Captain, she's filled with aviation spirit. A voice cried out. I never heard the crash. I only saw Bream slender formers sleeping uprooted from the deck. And then the light was gone. For ten sick heartbeats we were blinded. But slowly there appeared to tortured sight a black and mighty shadow rising, rising a ghastly, greasy, mushroom-swelling skyward and locked within its heart the tanker lay. Upward and upward fought the sable giant, entrapped and mad and straining to be free. Till with the roar the very dawn exploded and all the world was flaming sky and sea. An hour later everything was over. The Bream was gone. The sky was clean as turn. But sight and smell still live. The dreadful minutes. It isn't nice to watch a shipmate burn. And still I heard his ready laughter rising above the blazing cargo's thundered note and crazy words. I'll match my Viking's funeral with that of any admiral afloat. So this is the baguette, a neat poor sigh, Curlser. Just wait until you try your donkey engines, lad. You'll be picking up 6,000 tons like you would a baby. Ah, and that's the truth. A little truth that strikes me. How long have you and your oiler been aboard the tub, chief? And what's her skipper's name again? We've been aboard the baguette long enough to know her well. And her master's name is Captain Jack Harmon. Ah, come off now. I meant no impudence. Choke it, then. Ah, pass me the coffee. Right, huh? How about the radio? Wanted on while we finish chow? That might, before you let it live. At least while we're in New York, Arbor. I've been sitting and listening in the barge master's office all morning until Captain Jack sent for me. Is that all right, chief? Some call him Captain Jack. Well, all I say is I'm tired of hard-boiled American radio announcers sighing British bombard their former allies' fleet. There's just so much a decent bloke can stand. Anyway, why should we fight the French? There'll be joy tonight in hell just the same. Ah, what's the good of it? Where's the ending of it? Who's to stop this turning of friend on friend? Well, fellows like you and such as care to stick it out. Sure. Who else but the likes of me who have no choice? I know a pole who would gladly fill your shoes. Where are you off to, Mike, if not finish? Where's he off to, chief? Let him go. The ruddy fool believes he has no choice. And has he? Have you? Why? I never thought it through. I don't mind sighing. I'm scared as a rabbit, though. Been scared ever since France fell flat on a blooming feist. Tell me, chief, what do you think the answer is going to be for all of us? Pour me a little coffee, will you please? Well... Suppose you tell me this. Suppose Churchill would have come aboard the baguette tonight and say, well, lads, we're losing the war. If you want to give up, that's that. What would be your answer, Mr. Flood? Come off. Now, I shove him on to you. You know all the answers, chief, but you're not ending them out. I know them too, sure, but I want to live. All right, all right. I seem to get exactly nowhere blowing. I'm the kind who'd rather take a drink than try to unsnarl a thing like this. Who wouldn't? Men like you and Captain Jack. Why is that? Because you're a pair of a few who grab at their thing called duty. Why is that, Mr. Flood? You live your lives with nothing else to lose. Oh, tell me, you've been around the ship this morning. Didn't you see the picture of the lass who hangs in the captain's cabin? I did, and she's a lovely one. Who do you suppose she is? I know. It's his wife. He is? A merchantman's wife? Mr. Flood, do you think that a man would gladly grab a duty if that woman loved him that much? I tell you again, chief, there are a lot of things I never trouble to think through. But... Yes, I guess he would. If you had been master of the burgater, you would have loved her very rivets. And for the most part, you would have admired and respected her crew. I know I did. We got around a lot, the burgater, her men, and I. We dodged torpedoes successfully. We dodged planes and bombs without a scratch. And then, one day, came a plane. And a bomb. And a surprise. Well? How close is it to bomb? He gone the dex, but we made all all right. Well, enough to knock him down at any rate. How are you below? Healthy how? Knocked my engine room around. I've got some checking to do. I'll call you when I can give you the damage. No, come to the bridge and get some air, chief. I'll have plenty to do here. I know that, but I may have something to say to you that I don't want to yell at the top of my lungs when you're ready, come to the bridge. Very good, sir. Well, chief? It's going to be several hours, Captain Jack. I don't have to tell you the engines are stopped. What's the damage? I never saw such a little jar of course or many things to break. This is not the luck of the burgater, Captain. They're just like a sitting duck. Whatever it is, chief, you've got to clean it up and make it fast. The German sub patrol certainly must have heard our call go out when that plane came at us. We'll get it done, Captain. If I dawdle, you can have me sacked. Lord, the ocean's loneliness. All the worse since one could guess that no certain guarantee lay in that which I could see. Even now, beneath the gray waste to score of miles away, hidden, hunting eyes might find easy prey. For once the blue cloudless sky brought no delight. Fog or rain or blackest nights would have been a glad relief. Down below the sweating chief drove his men who would at length give burgater back their strength. Strength to fight, to dodge, to run. Minutes crawled. The very sun seemed to haunt its westward swing, just to watch our suffering. Then the chief from down below cried, Two hours more to go. Later, as the daylight wane, cold snatched up the glass and strained forward on the bridge's rail, focusing. His face was pale when he handed me the glass. If you will, this cup should pass. I'll be grateful, Lord, he said. Then I saw it far ahead on the surface, low and lean. It had come the submarine. Get down on deck, leave far on the bridge with me. Aye sir, take the glasses, Mr. Flood. The sub's dead ahead. Right, how? Awake, Cole. You're too much to the four inch crew. I know the sub's out of range, but man the gun anyway. Very good, sir. Pack all ship's books and the weighted box. Get your lifeboats on the davits and have stores and gear last in proper position. All of this is just in case, but get started. Aye sir. What the devil's the matter with this engine room for? Couldn't sigh, sir, but they'd better speed it up down there. He's just submerged. Chief, there's a submarine dead ahead. What are the chances down there? How long before you're through? I'd say another hour. That's no good. Pass the word for all your men to clear out. No man of my crew waits for a 10 fish below the waterline. Since one of you answered for my men, we make our own decisions down here. What? Hello. Hello, Chief. Can't find it that man's a prime patient. Bridge? Well, Chief? My mistake before I apologize. The engine room has now been cleared. Very good. It's cold. Aye, sir. To abandon ship. Man your stations. All men to stations. All men to stations. Now, what the devil is that? Well, sir, I... Already, sir. Abandon ship. Abandon ship. Answering your question, sir. I'd sigh that Chief changed his mind about clearing the engine room. Now, of course, maybe I'm wrong. You're right, Mr. Flood. I know. I checked only five men as they came on deck. Captain! Beautiful, faithful baguette. I tried to console myself with, well, there'll be other ships. Got nowhere with that. Thinking of Chief. No male, others of that grand crew who gave their lives. Well, there'll be other ships. I kept repeating. Thinking of a new commission. And went down to meet the owners. A proud company, proud of me. But there had been two years of war with ships and men hard to come by. The owner told me... We can still buy proud hulls, the old ones, but men. The best of them, already sailing and fighting, the rest, we'll simply have to try. Then came the orders. I was to assume command of a rebuilt American vessel. The owner said, the Sarah Clamp is the last war baby. But she's a sound bottom and she'll sail. We'll get a crew to you somehow. Stand till you may... I want to talk to you. Your ship is the Sarah Clamp. She's no beauty, but she's honest and clean. It's taken me two days to collect you out of the jails and hotels and gutters. You were brought over here from England at company expense. You were put up at good hotels here and treated well with stiff advances. I've sailed with the best in the merchant marine. But I know your kind, too. Well, your fun's been head. You've kept this ship from sailing without a thought that it's England, not the company that you wreck, without a thought of your own wives and kids waiting for the cargo. I drove the ship to Norfolk, got her loaded, and pushed her head towards Halifax at last. Each day was like a whip stroke as it passed. At times I think I have enjoyed the battle. I heard their jibes, I saw their filthy glances. But these were blows I scarcely seem to feel. The punishment I took was in the watches that found me nightly on the bridge alone when chief returned in lusty, bull-voiced barny in scores of other seamen I had known. One night, again, I dreamed myself in London. And so he came to Halifax. All Sarah had happy quivers as we passed the gates, but none there were for me a British master who had brought his vessel in a full month late. That afternoon I faced the tall commander beneath whose touch each convoy took its form and told him how I'd failed. But I was sorry. Sit down. I remember the baguette her well, Jack. She was quite a lady. A fine ship. And a fine man. Thank you, sir. You've been at these things since the war began, Jack. How long since you've had a proper rest? I've done all right, sir. Perhaps. Well, I think, my dear fellow, we'll check with the doctor on that. I tell you, I'm all right. A little weight loss, maybe, but what of it? That's nothing to stop me from taking the Sarah Clamp to England. Perhaps, but let's make certain... I... I just find I... All right, Jack, all right. Tears are nothing. Don't let the tears embarrass you. Though I must say the damn things and get in the man's way now and again. Come along now. Let's see what's what. Long enough for me to ruin your collar with my foolish weeping. You foolish. Never foolishness. I have been at times, but this is no time for it, Jack. I want you to decide... and become a mate of a hungry fleet. I think I'd sooner captain a garbage scowl. The convoys go on, Jack. The ships that make them may not be as sleek as the baguette, but the ships and the cargoes must move. And as long as you can help to see them safely to port, you'll not fail them. No, you'd sooner die than not serve England now that you're strong and well. Silence was on the mountains in the sea. Along the beach, the mist was drifting free, and in the woods, the rain's accented drip grew slower. From the Gulf, a ship spoke hoarsely as it felt its cautious way through fog that still hung low beyond the bay. Some hard old tramp I wagered from her tone, a bellow half defiant, half a grown. Glory there was in that old craft as she resolute put her shoulder to the sea. Somewhere the track led on if I'd be led. The hungry fleet was there. It would be said in the war's annals that the convoy sailed or faltered when the flow of seamen failed, that some one nation's people learned to serve at any post they could, and did not swerve until the day was won. Yes, I'll go back. As the 20th program of Words at War, we have brought you a dramatic impression of Lieutenant Commander Frederick Watts' narrative poem Who Dare to Live. The poem was adapted for radio by Neil Hopkins. In tonight's program, House Jameson played Captain Jack, Sarah Burton Bess, and Frank Lovejoy Chief. Others in the cast were Joseph Bolan, Richard Gordon, and Gilbert Mack. The original music was composed and conducted by Morris Mamorsky.