619 OUT OF 41


Been out most of the night and tossed down a few.

Too many pints, what’s an old swabby to do?

Twas the last night in Dunoon, it was time to depart.

For those fine Scottish Lassies will break a sub sailor's heart.


Sailing out of Holy Loch, heading down the Firth Of Clyde.

Setting course for the open ocean, beneath the waves she will hide.

She is the old Andrew Jackson, a fine boat indeed.

Made many a patrol when her country was in need.


You better be salty or your gills will turn green.

When you’re in the North Atlantic on that old submarine.

The crew is well trained, they are the ship's soul.

For there’s no room for a mistake, on a deterrent patrol.


Someday they’ll return, with sea stories to tell.

Possibly into Charleston and those pretty southern belles.

Then they’ll fly back to Groton at the end of the run.

And a night at the El Rancho can be lots of fun.


That boat was one of the best, her sailors still say.

She even launched a missile for a proud J.F.K.

The AJ is gone now, her hull put to rest.

Her sailors met every challenge, they passed every test.


Being a submariner is more than just running a sub.

There’s camaraderie with shipmates and Argylle street pubs.

There were friends like Glenn Barbour, who has since passed away.

May his soul rest in peace, for this we do pray.

By John Chaffey
SSN639, SSN687, SSBN619


Poetry Index - Home