Letters from my Aunt #8

Back in nineteen hundred and sixty-nine  
on the deep water jetty of al Muharaq,  
three kliks from Manama on Bahrain isle,  
a gray nuclear powered warship of the USA steamed back  
from Vietnam where its huge shells attacked  
positions of the commie Viet-Cong,  
and me, a bit scared, in my telegraphists shack  
hoped that those on R&R would soon be gone...  
 
It was, briefly, a kinda anxious time  
as I keyed in my reports in that little shack,  
on the long finger of that jetty's quarter mile  
back to land, then to Manama town down deserted tracks  
where sailer boys strolled or milled about, just back  
free, for a time, from a vicious war they had long  
abhorred but had barely touched me but I don't lack  
empath so when the truck brought my relief along,  
 
I walked back to town past gray ships anchored in line  
to find perfectly gentlemanly Jolly Jack  
Tars, who urged me to join them eight-thirty for nine  
to watch Barbarella on the poop deck, that's at the back,  
for the chat, lemonade, ice cream and salty snacks  
I recall they all hailed from Texas, their song  
The Yellow Rose of, and their hors d’oeuvres beat my ration pack  
they noted their gray boat all white. I guess all, long gone...