The enemy’s reported,
And he’d like to see the show,
But he handles ammunition
So he’s got to go below.
And he’s ready on his station,
Every nerve alert and keen,
With a group of grim-faced sailors
In a lower magazine.
They can feel the ship’s vibrations
When the broadside salvos go,
And the shatter of the turrets
When they batter at the foe.
“Send ’em up and keep ’em coming!
Man the phones and man the hoist!”
Sweat and curse and pass the powder
Till the very deck is moist.
But the enemy is daring,
And his planes get through the screen,
A torpedo rips the blister
Just above the magazine.
Water fills the whole compartment,
In another fires rage,
But the guns still get their powder
And the enemy engage.
Trapped below, the lads are living,
And the hungry hoist they feed,
Though the first concussion stunned them
And their deafened ears must bleed.
Other hits, the foeman scoring,
Thunderous roars of flaming sheen,
“Save the ship from an explosion,
Flood the lower magazine!”
Lads, farewell! The air was dirty
With a lot of fume and smoke,
It’s as bad, lads, when you smother
As on briny water choke.
But the enemy’s defeated,
Thanks to you who’ll never know,
You who handled ammunition
And who had to go below!