WWII: Fighting Poet Laureates

November 4, 2022

Re-enactors dressed as WWII soldiers marching through forest.

Fighting Poet Laureates

"I never tried to put my thoughts to poetry back at school," wrote one alumni lieutenant, "but now I'll try my hand at it." The lost art of poetry is somehow finding itself in the maze of letters that wend home. From somewhere in New Guinea or the foxholes of Guadalcanal or near the shores of Tripoli, Oregon men are thinking and writing for better in terms of verse. Emerald Managing Editor G. Duncan Wimpress, ’44, writes the story of a few of the works that find their way home. They aren't the works of a Tennyson, but they tell a doughboy's thoughts on duty "over there."

Neither snow nor rain nor sleet…" might well apply to several of the University alums and ex-students now serving in Uncle Sam's armed forces, for even the war can't keep down their urge to wax literary. And, strangely enough, poetry is what they write.

Take, for instance, Sergeant Dick McClintic, ’41, who's with the army medical corps "somewhere in New Guinea." He wrote to his sister Mary at the University and included this poem written by him in collaboration with an Australian buddy.

Untitled poem by Dick McClintic

Somewhere in New Guinea where the sun is like a curse,
Where each day is followed by another, only slightly worse,
Where the dust is thicker than the drifting desert sand,
And the white man dreams and wishes he were in a fairer land.

Somewhere in New Guinea where a woman's never seen,
Where the sky is never cloudy and the grass is never green,
Where the siren's nightly howling robs a man of blessed sleep,
Where there isn't any whisky and the beer is never cheap.

Somewhere in New Guinea where the mail is always late,
And a Christmas card in April is considered up to date,
Where we never have a payday, so we never have a cent,
But we never miss the money 'cause we'd never get it spent.

Somewhere in New Guinea with a pack that Atlas couldn't carry,
Dreaming of the beer at Perrin's with Tom, Dick, and Harry.
So take me back to Aussie, let me hear the bookies yell,
For this is God's forsaken outpost and substitute for hell!

Somewhere in New Guinea with the flies, mosquitos and the ants,
And a soldier's constant dreaming is of an unexpected chance
To return once more to the USA, to hear the newsboys' yell,
For this is God's forsaken outpost and a substitute for hell!

(The fourth stanza is the ending Dick's friend put on; the fifth is Dick's own.)

Fred B. Ehlers, ’41, sent three poems back to the University from San Francisco where he is stationed as bomb disposal officer in the western defense command. The first one is titled, "Permanent Station."

"Permanent Station" by Fred B. Ehlers

The many years have stamped him,
(As the service does its own)
And he's traveled many weary miles
In lands away from home.

All through these long, long years,
Whether on guard in Panama
Or down on the Rio Grande, he's lived
True to his code and law.

But all the while he's waited
For that time not far away
When he'd have a home all of his own
Somewhere along the way.

He wanted a permanent station—
There to spend the lazy days
Dreaming of the world he's seen
Through its fading, time-worn haze.

He stopped one day just short of his dream,
But his memory still goes on;
And a small, white cross now marks him
As "Permanent Station: Bataan."

Fred's second poem was a little more humorous and was called, "Ode to a Bride's Cooking."

"Ode to a Bride's Cooking" by Fred B. Ehlers

Upon the palates of luckless males are thrust
The choicest gems our culinary rib designs,
So fashioned with loving care that he,
For intention's sake, gladly dines.

Burnt and wrinkled, cracked and crisp;
Scorched beyond a gourmet's recognition—
Fallen, tough and rubberized,
But never twice in the same condition.

Oh, praise be for she who tries
To duplicate a mother's cooking;
And orchids, too, for he who eats
Without a grimace when she's looking.

Literature from the navy comes in the form of poetry from the pen of Dick Shelton, ’44, who's now a seaman second class–address unknown. Dick was a quarter miler of some renown while on the campus and was a member of Delta Tau Delta. Dick titled his poem, "Webfoot."

"Webfoot" by Dick Shelton

You know, as you stand that nightly watch,
Say, the one from twelve to two,
You think a lot about your home
And the things you used to do.

Now, if your home was happy
And your town was full of fun
Then there's lots of things to remember
Before four bells are rung.

In my case, I'm from Portland
That's in the Webfoot state.
And the things I have to remember
I could dream on until eight.

I used to go out to Jantzen's
Every time I had a chance;
We'd go out early to swim awhile
Then later on we'd dance.

I wish I could go to the "Uptown"
And dance from nine till one
Or stand near the clock at Meier and Frank's
And wink at the girls for fun.

Yes, the sugar cubes at the "Rainbow"
Were a perfect place for your note.
And remember the time in Washington park
When she was cold and wanted your coat?

I remember, too, how I hated rain
And swore at it every day,
But now! Say, for an Oregon mist
I'd give a full month's pay.

I want to settle down for good,
And let it rain, snow, or sleet;
'Cause water never did bother us at all,
That's why we're called "Webfeet."

Private Lee Hamilton Young who's in the infantry at San Francisco, sent in a philosophical poem entitled, "War Moon."

"War Moon" by Lee Hamilton Young

The tropic moon has risen in the island sky
O'er the coral sands being pounded by the surf,
Where a soldier paced his weary post near by,
For all is not peace upon this earth.
As nations have risen up in bloody strife,
In disagreement over ways of life.

Good men are leaving cherished homes and wives
To join in battle for all democracy;
That for its cause they gladly give their lives
In hopes that all the world might soon be free
With unity and steadfast determination
They fight that freedom shall be won.

Let not these lives be sacrificed in vain,
Nor shall victory be lost in weak attempt,
But, with sacrificial working we shall gain
That freedom which for all the world is meant,
And all world strife and tyranny shall cease
That every man may live in lasting peace.

- By G. Duncan Wimpress, ’44, Old Oregon February 1943