A.P. Herbert
(With respectful reference to the admirable exploit of Petty
Officer Alan Baker, of L .B .V. 37)
The Bluebell was a lighter, a dumb barge, a box,
For to lighten the ships in the stream and the docks;
But she weren’t very big, and she weren’t very new,
And she lay on the barge-roads with nothing to do.
Now, the lighters of London, they’ve names like a yacht,
Such as Blossom, and Zephyr, and Pilgrim, and Grot;
But their bottoms is flat, and, between you and me,
They was never intended to travel by sea.
But they took them old lighters, a thousand or more;
They cut out the ends and they put in a door;
They gave ’em a wheel, and a motor so fine,
And painted ’em camyflarge like a ship of the line.
Bill Fox was a lighterman, Bermondsey born,
A Freeman of the River, and twenty years sworn.
He could work a big lighter like a little canoe,
And all what’s to know of the River he knew.
You should see him a-drive—or, as you would say,drift—
With a mighty great sweep that you can’t hardly lift,
A-hitting the bridge-holes as nice as you please,
And making it look like a lifetime of ease.
All alone in his craft, with the wind right ahead,
A bit late on his tide, he’ll drive on till he’s dead.
For this is the oath all the lightermen swear:
‘I’ll never lay down till I get the craft, there.’
He knew every eddy from Vauxhall to Grays,
And the set of the tide, and the craft and their ways,
And the buoys and the lights from Barn Elms to the sea;
But he didn’t know more of the compass than me.
Now one day they says; ‘Come, you lightermen all;
We’re going for to crack this here Hitler’s West Wall:
But the Navy can’t do without lightermen like you!’
And the lightermen of London they done what was due.
They come up from Tilbury, they come down from Kew,
From the Prospect of Whitby, and the Dog and Duck too,
From Gallions, from Bugsby’s, from Bow Creek and all,
For to help the Royal Navy crack up the West Wall.
They made Bill a petty officer, with a peak to his hat;
They taught him some drill, and the compass, and that;
They gave him two stokers, two seamen, A.B.,
And there he is, captain of a Landing Barge (V).
Well, according to orders the Bluebell sets sail;
It’s rough, and it’s blowing a bit of a gale;
They lose the old convoy, the engine breaks down—
And there she lays rolling like a lord-about-town.
The stokers they struggle but can’t get things clear;
When up comes a corvette and says: ‘What’s all this here?
You’re out of the battle, but don’t you despair,
For I’m bound for U.K. and I’ll tow you back there.’
‘Why, thank you,’ says Bill, ‘but that’s no use to me;
For I’ve got to deliver these vehicles, you see;
I’m a lighterman of London, and I beg to declare
I never lay down till I’ve got the craft there.’
Then Bill to his crew he says: ‘Boys, are you game
To take these here vehicles across just the same?’
‘Aye, aye,’ says the stokers, ‘we’ve only one care,
Which is, how we proceeds—and, for that matter, where?’
Says Bill: ‘They’re so keen on “Security” now,
They didn’t say where we was bound, I allow;
But I fancy it’s France, and, the wind being fair, .
Well, what I suggest, we proceeds over there.
‘And as to the first point, we’ve got the two sweeps,
And we’ve got the tarpaulin what covers the jeeps:
I’d row the ship over if it weren’t for the gale,
But we’ll rig the tarpaulin and, see if she’ll sail!’
Well, that’s what they done. It weren’t easy, of course;
For that old tarpaulin she pulls like a horse;
But they hit the right part of the coast, which was queer,
And Bill says the Americans stood him a beer.
They’ve left them old lighters on the Normandy shore;
We won’t see the Bluebell at Limehouse no more:
But they’re lightening the steamers, a job that they know,
And passing the mustard for Hitler and Co.
And Bill’s back in civvies as right as the rain,
A-driving his craft through the bridge-holes again:
So let’s take a pint, sir—no more than is due
To the lighters of London—and the lightermen too.
© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes
Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem recounts a story of resourcefulness, determination, and understated heroism, centered around the character of Bill Fox, a lighterman from London. It highlights the unglamorous but vital role of lightermen—those who operate small boats used to transfer cargo from ships to shore—during World War II, specifically focusing on the role they played during the D-Day landings.
The poem is written in a lively, almost conversational style, with a tone that blends humor and respect for the protagonist’s unpretentious courage. By focusing on Bill Fox and his fellow lightermen, it brings attention to an essential, often overlooked aspect of wartime logistics. The narrative is rich with details that give the reader a sense of the grit and practical skills of these men. Bill Fox, though not formally trained as a sailor, knows the River Thames and its boats as well as anyone could. The poem describes him as a veteran lighterman, fully in command of his craft and crew, and it’s this grounding in the everyday, the practical, and the humble that gives the poem its charm.
The poem’s storytelling is propelled forward through a series of anecdotes and humorous moments. It is laced with colloquialisms and a rhythm that mimics the movement of the riverboats themselves, giving it a uniquely British, working-class flavor. The opening lines emphasize the humble origins of Bill’s vessel, the *Bluebell*, which is “a lighter, a dumb barge, a box” — not a glamorous, well-known vessel but a workhorse of the docks. This sets the tone for the poem’s treatment of its protagonist: not a traditional hero but an ordinary man doing extraordinary things when called upon.
The true test of Bill’s resolve comes when he and his crew are tasked with delivering vehicles during a mission, even after their engine breaks down in the midst of a storm. The phrase “I never lay down till I’ve got the craft there” captures the essence of Bill’s unwavering determination to complete the mission, no matter the odds. In this way, the poem subtly underscores the importance of perseverance in wartime—of pushing forward even when circumstances seem dire.
There’s a wonderful bit of humor woven throughout the poem, especially in Bill’s matter-of-fact attitude toward the situation. When a corvette offers to tow them back to the UK, Bill dismisses the offer with a kind but firm refusal, asserting that he has a job to do, and he intends to get it done. This, despite the fact that he doesn’t even know exactly where he’s going! It’s a great display of the working-class resilience that would have resonated with readers during and after the war.
Another important theme that runs through the poem is the camaraderie between the men—both in their casual approach to the situation and their sense of duty to one another. The stokers’ readiness to keep going, no matter the odds, and Bill’s ability to keep the crew motivated, even when things seem impossible, reflect the unity that was a hallmark of wartime Britain. The humor also carries a kind of irreverence, especially as Bill and his crew “hit the right part of the coast,” somewhat by accident, and end up being thanked with a beer from the Americans.
The final stanza returns to a more reflective tone, acknowledging that Bill Fox, after playing a pivotal role in one of the most important events of the war, returns to his former life on the Thames. It’s a quiet moment that speaks to the anonymity of many unsung heroes. Bill goes back to his work, but he has played a crucial part in the Allied victory. The closing lines provide a fitting tribute to the lightermen of London, raising a glass to them and their contribution, even if it went largely unrecognized.
In conclusion, this poem is a celebration of the working-class heroism that so often goes unnoticed in the grand narratives of war. Through Bill Fox and his fellow lightermen, the poem highlights the importance of even the most unassuming individuals in the larger machinery of war. It’s a tribute to their skills, determination, and practicality, told with a mix of humor, respect, and admiration. It also reminds us of the quiet victories that happen off the main battlefield, where men like Bill carry out their duties without fanfare but with steadfastness and resolve. The message is clear: heroism doesn’t always look like what we expect, but it’s no less vital for being unglamorous.