Prelude to a Storm: The British Expeditionary Force, 1939-1940

by Brad Skow

Prelude to a Storm: The British Expeditionary Force, 1939-1940

God knows we needed work. The army paid
Room, board, two shillings and “a real man’s life,”
And soldiers’ uniforms would turn the heads
Of pretty girls, on streets and busses, their eyes
Drawn to the borrowed dignity that propped
The corners of our awkward smiles. Some friends
Discovered that their feet were flat, and some
Acquired diagnoses of myopia, 
As epidemics of convenience burned
Through our ranks. We exchanged our knowing looks, 
And watched them fade away like ghosts. We made
For the coast, at the docks we boarded ships,
Remembering mothers who admonished us
Not to shoot “those poor German boys.” Off, then,
Across the Channel, on to glorious France!
We found the British pound could buy a castle;
Eggs, butter, bread aplenty; we gorged on fruit,
Oranges and grapes, until our stomachs ached;
And with every dinner we could drink champagne.
Billeted with the French, some sour, some welcoming,
Sometimes in rooms that had been occupied
By German soldiers in the previous war:
We woke up in their beds, washed in their basins,
And looked at our reflections in their mirrors.
When we would march, the streets would line with children
Admiring us, and raising a salute;
And from our sentries, they’d learn to curse in English.
The villages were bright with bars, and brothels—
We peeked in, listening to the cheerful cries;
We hurried past and down the darkened block,
To turn around and walk back, lingering
Until hot-blooded curiosity 
Could dress our shyness up as courage. We saw
Long teenage legs, saw perfect backs cascading
Luscious brown hair; heard voices loud and French
All smiling and enticing us upstairs
For just ten francs. Some claimed exhaustion, some
Could not keep human nature belted tight.
Daytime, we fell in love with girls in town
Who courted us with parish invitations;
We plead our ignorance of Catholic rites. 
In groups we toured defensive lines, the French
Grinning with pride: their forts impregnable, 
Control rooms buried deep inside the bowels
Completely mechanized, buttons to fire
Weapons from safe and air-conditioned distances;
They Will Not Pass asserted on the badges
They handed out for us to wear, as souvenirs,
Or propaganda. Mornings we’d go up
And see the enemy across the line,
And we would wave, and he’d wave back. We heard
Rumors that German tanks were made of cardboard;
But the French soldiers wore their shirt necks open,
And cigarettes hung loosely from their mouths.

The tenth of May: bombs woke us before sunrise.
We rushed outside undressed, and searched the sky.
Like those who, startled by the shaking ground,
Will fail at first to recognize an earthquake,
We wondered why the fighters’ wings bore crosses,
Until they came in low and opened fire.
We hastily assembled, and advanced
Along roads clogged with Belgian refugees
Retreating, young and old, with horses, carts,
Prams, wheelbarrows, anything to carry
A residue of life. The way was blocked;
We spread into the fields that flanked the road, 
And watched as bombers dove and hit the helpless
Column. Cruel, needless death: arms, legs, dismembered
Bodies, all blasted in a heavy cloud of dirt
And blood. The wounded horses we could shoot, 
But for the human beings we had nothing.
This was the enemy that we would fight.
We made our camp, and after darkness fell,
By lamplight our commanding officer said
Heads down, my boys, spirits high, you’ve trained for this. 
We’re now at war. When you shoot, shoot to kill.
We stood, and grabbed our packs, and marched into the night.

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Brad Skow is a Professor at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. He writes about poetry and philosophy at Mostly Aesthetics on Substack. His first book of poetry, American Independence in Verse, was published in November.

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Poet’s Note

There are no great narrative poems about World War II. But no recent event is more in need of an epic style, not least to memorialize the people who gave or lost so much—many of them, everything—to its horrors. I often think of what we owe them.