Wartime Journey
by JAN STRUTHER
THE westbound train is running four hours late.
A dozen times at least it’s pulled into a siding,
And the passengers listen, and wonder,
And listen, and wait
For the growing thunder and then the dying thunder
Of troop train or freight
Ta king the right of way.
The conductor’s an old man, patient and gray:
He’s ridden this road for thirty years or more,
And he knows the score.
“Yes, Sir,
Wartime riding’s not like peacetime riding.”
A dozen times at least it’s pulled into a siding,
And the passengers listen, and wonder,
And listen, and wait
For the growing thunder and then the dying thunder
Of troop train or freight
Ta king the right of way.
The conductor’s an old man, patient and gray:
He’s ridden this road for thirty years or more,
And he knows the score.
“Yes, Sir,
Wartime riding’s not like peacetime riding.”
Five hours late, and crowded. At the end of the aisle
There’s a girl with blonde hair and a tired smile,
Writing V-mail to a boy gone overseas.
There’s a woman with a fretful baby on her knees:
His dad’s not seen him; she’s traveled a night and a day;
The Army camp is three nights more away.
Servicemen: a bunch of young trainees —
Through with their basic, but no insignia to show it
Except hands calloused, shoulders broadened by drill —
Eyeing with frank respect
The man in new civilians, whose chest is decked
With a ribbon, and his face with a fresh-healed scar.
He stares in front of him, not at the railroad car
But at jungles and fever-swamps in the South Seas.
For him it’s over, but his buddies are there still,
Sweating, fighting, dying or dead. He is tall,
And walks wit h a limp when he fetches a drink of water.
He’s the only one in the coach who has known slaughter,
But the others will know it, or their men will know it,
In a few months, less or more,
And they know the score.
“Yes, Ma’am.
This war, ‘t ain’t just the menfolks’ war.”
There’s a girl with blonde hair and a tired smile,
Writing V-mail to a boy gone overseas.
There’s a woman with a fretful baby on her knees:
His dad’s not seen him; she’s traveled a night and a day;
The Army camp is three nights more away.
Servicemen: a bunch of young trainees —
Through with their basic, but no insignia to show it
Except hands calloused, shoulders broadened by drill —
Eyeing with frank respect
The man in new civilians, whose chest is decked
With a ribbon, and his face with a fresh-healed scar.
He stares in front of him, not at the railroad car
But at jungles and fever-swamps in the South Seas.
For him it’s over, but his buddies are there still,
Sweating, fighting, dying or dead. He is tall,
And walks wit h a limp when he fetches a drink of water.
He’s the only one in the coach who has known slaughter,
But the others will know it, or their men will know it,
In a few months, less or more,
And they know the score.
“Yes, Ma’am.
This war, ‘t ain’t just the menfolks’ war.”
Six hours late. The slim quicksilver bar
On the wall of the coach has climbed to 94°.
It isn’t a real coach, but a baggage car
Hauled from retirement, fixed to meet the rush:
The seats are upright, covered in dirty plush;
The sides, windowless iron, vibrate with the heat.
In back, two businessmen unfasten their collars
And loosen their shoes to ease their swollen feet.
They missed the Limited — scrambled on at a run.
“This is a hell of a train,” says the paunchy one.
“I wouldn’t take it again for a thousand dollars.”
But the thin one has a son
In Africa or the Arctic (he doesn’t know which —
This is a crazy war),
And to him it doesn’t matter any more
Whether he travels the poor man’s way or the rich.
He know’s the score.
“Yes, Sir.
Folks know things now they never knew before.”
On the wall of the coach has climbed to 94°.
It isn’t a real coach, but a baggage car
Hauled from retirement, fixed to meet the rush:
The seats are upright, covered in dirty plush;
The sides, windowless iron, vibrate with the heat.
In back, two businessmen unfasten their collars
And loosen their shoes to ease their swollen feet.
They missed the Limited — scrambled on at a run.
“This is a hell of a train,” says the paunchy one.
“I wouldn’t take it again for a thousand dollars.”
But the thin one has a son
In Africa or the Arctic (he doesn’t know which —
This is a crazy war),
And to him it doesn’t matter any more
Whether he travels the poor man’s way or the rich.
He know’s the score.
“Yes, Sir.
Folks know things now they never knew before.”
Seven hours late. The lamps begin to dim.
(“This is a borrowed car from another road:
The lights don’t jibe — they’ll fold up pretty soon,”
The conductor says, when the fat man rails at him.)
“This is the damnedest train — let’s sit in the diner.”
But the other grins, retorting,
“We got no diner. This ain’t the Streamliner.”
So he pipes down. There’s some Scotch in one of his grips,
And when it’s reached his lips
Often enough, he nods, and begins to snore.
The baby’s sleeping now, its head at rest
Against the chain-store rayon of its mother’s breast;
And she too drowses, wondering whether her Joe
Will be somebody changed, or the guy she used to know.
The blonde girl sleeps, her high-heeled, open-toed,
Frail shoes lolling over.
She dreams about her lover —
An evening at the movies, a soda, a juke-box tune,
And back-porch good-night kisses under the moon.
She knows the score.
“Yes, Ma’am.
Wartime courting’s not like peacetime courting.”
(“This is a borrowed car from another road:
The lights don’t jibe — they’ll fold up pretty soon,”
The conductor says, when the fat man rails at him.)
“This is the damnedest train — let’s sit in the diner.”
But the other grins, retorting,
“We got no diner. This ain’t the Streamliner.”
So he pipes down. There’s some Scotch in one of his grips,
And when it’s reached his lips
Often enough, he nods, and begins to snore.
The baby’s sleeping now, its head at rest
Against the chain-store rayon of its mother’s breast;
And she too drowses, wondering whether her Joe
Will be somebody changed, or the guy she used to know.
The blonde girl sleeps, her high-heeled, open-toed,
Frail shoes lolling over.
She dreams about her lover —
An evening at the movies, a soda, a juke-box tune,
And back-porch good-night kisses under the moon.
She knows the score.
“Yes, Ma’am.
Wartime courting’s not like peacetime courting.”
Eight hours late: and now there’s no more light
At all, and the trainees sleep,
Dreaming of the dropped rifle and the Top Kick,
K.P., the G.I. boots, the bucking jeep,
The latrine rumor, the chow-hound and the gold-brick.
The thin man dreams of his son, freezing or sweating.
The fat man dreams of wealth, but now and again
Something breaks into his dream like a thief in the night,
And instead of begetting
Money, he’s killing men.
The tall man stares before him: it’ll take
Longer for him to sleep. The things he’s seen
Lurk still behind his eyelids. He dare not drop them
In case those pictures haunt him — he cannot stop them.
He’d sooner stay awake.
But even he, lulled by the train’s noise,
Sleeps fitfully at last, dreaming of boys
He knew who will not any more
Discuss the double-header at the corner store.
All of these know the score.
“Yes, Sir. Yes, Ma’am.
This war — seems like it’s everybody’s war.”
At all, and the trainees sleep,
Dreaming of the dropped rifle and the Top Kick,
K.P., the G.I. boots, the bucking jeep,
The latrine rumor, the chow-hound and the gold-brick.
The thin man dreams of his son, freezing or sweating.
The fat man dreams of wealth, but now and again
Something breaks into his dream like a thief in the night,
And instead of begetting
Money, he’s killing men.
The tall man stares before him: it’ll take
Longer for him to sleep. The things he’s seen
Lurk still behind his eyelids. He dare not drop them
In case those pictures haunt him — he cannot stop them.
He’d sooner stay awake.
But even he, lulled by the train’s noise,
Sleeps fitfully at last, dreaming of boys
He knew who will not any more
Discuss the double-header at the corner store.
All of these know the score.
“Yes, Sir. Yes, Ma’am.
This war — seems like it’s everybody’s war.”
Nine hours late: and even that ill-matched couple
On the front seat — the lady with the blue-white hair
And the young Negro soldier, silent and supple —
Who, at the journey’s start,
Sat ramrod straight, aware of one another
Beyond invisible bars, sister and brother,
Both ill at ease, yet both without escape
From a base-born, base-bred,
Nebulous, opposite yet identical dread
(He of a white folks’ glance he’s learned to fear,
She of a touch she feels is kin to rape) —
Even these two now sleep: they’re drowned in peace,
White head and black head nodding an inch apart.
On the front seat — the lady with the blue-white hair
And the young Negro soldier, silent and supple —
Who, at the journey’s start,
Sat ramrod straight, aware of one another
Beyond invisible bars, sister and brother,
Both ill at ease, yet both without escape
From a base-born, base-bred,
Nebulous, opposite yet identical dread
(He of a white folks’ glance he’s learned to fear,
She of a touch she feels is kin to rape) —
Even these two now sleep: they’re drowned in peace,
White head and black head nodding an inch apart.
Exhaustion brings oblivion, lulls mistrust,
Falls blindly on the just and the unjust,
Quenches discrimination, gives release
From self-forged barriers to the human heart.
“Yes, Sir.
Seems like that’s what’s required.
I’ve ridden this road for thirty years or more
And I reckon I know the score.
Yes, Ma’am.
God keep us tired.
God keep us tired.”
Falls blindly on the just and the unjust,
Quenches discrimination, gives release
From self-forged barriers to the human heart.
“Yes, Sir.
Seems like that’s what’s required.
I’ve ridden this road for thirty years or more
And I reckon I know the score.
Yes, Ma’am.
God keep us tired.
God keep us tired.”