You forgot if it was day or night
until you breathed the blitz-burnt air
outside at watch's end.
Weather, seasons, all the same,
duty was duty,
you grinned and bore it,
and kept on pushing
counters across a chart
unthinking, unfeeling,
except when the counter
stood for his convoy,
en route to Singapore,
and you were not
allowed to tell him
you knew where
he was ending up,
though,
in fact,
you only
thought
you knew.
Wild Bill Balding
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/muriel-1941/
