Johnny Turk is a young Turk
And a fine young man is he,
staring down on Suvla Bay and our dogged infantry,
staring down from Sari Bair on the heights we never took,
for Johnny Turk is a young Turk
with a mean ferocious look.
I see him through binoculars,
I see him in my sleep,
peeping through moustachios and a riflescope too deep,
peeping down from rock and cliff on my riflepit below,
where I grease out particulars
of my Enfield cartridge stow.
I see him high above the smoke
of our intermittent shells
as high explosive lands among us like thunderous funeral bells,
as high explosive rattles our heads and blows our headgear off,
I see that raffish Turkish face
peer into my life and cough.
If we'd have been a bit more bold
we'd have carried Suvla Bay,
but we weren't, and we lost, and we dug delay
into our trenches and lost the chance to meet
my Johnny Turk, as things unfold,
in POW Street.
Johnny Turk is a young Turk,
as he cocks his sniper piece,
staring down with disbelief as we abandon our trench with ease
staring down with disbelief as we board our boats and go
for Johnny Turk is a young Turk
and caused our overthrow.
With a little help from the Ordnance Board
and ill trained new recruits,
undersupply and a tactical lie in the chaos of Turkey Shoots,
undersupply and a tactical lie that trapped us down below,
for Johnny Turk is a young Turk,
and I'm glad he let us go.
© Michael Higgins
