Blind Man's Buff

For three long days of storm all planes were grounded, Shipping immobilized. Late on the fourth We left Amchitka under cover of darkness And ventured out into the angry Bering "Minesweepers roll because of shallow draft," The skipper said, "and this one's no exception. Down . . . down . . . and over, almost on her beam. . . . That's normal in a heavy sea like this, But the old bitch is slow in coming back. Lucky I'm not the imaginative kindI'd soon go raving mad and claw the bulkhead, Thinking each mighty roll would be her last. Her wooden hull is foul with barnacles That started growing in the south Pacific And tons of kelp acquired in the Aleutians; She's one more weary ship in need of drydock, But more than that, the Navy needs her here, So here she is, at work, with patched-up engines And groaning hull, on winter convoy duty." "Convoy?" I asked. "Where are the other ships?" "One other ship," he said, "somewhere close by, Relying on our sound detection gear And armament, in case of enemy subs." "Can we not see this other ship and speak to her?" "Blackout and radio silence are preserved." "A little like a game of blind man's buff." "A whole lot like it, played in hell's hip pocket, And played in deadly earnest. We, the escort, Must steer close to our charge, but not too close— The escorted ship outweighs us four to one. We're like an aged sheep-dog deputized To guard a Kodiak bear, especially When you consider that . . . she flies Red Baker." "You mean that ship is packed with T.N.T.?" "She is indeed. I wasn't going to tell you, But now you know the worst we have to face. Let's pray to God we pass the ammunition . . ." "And stay afloat . . "And may this night end soon!"