A Muse Attack (Balz)

[Brag]

Lt. Fritz Gwitz writes:

21 May 1941

We were two hundred kilometers west of the Portuguese coast sailing south. Warm sunshine and calm seas made it a pleasure to stand watch on the bridge.
"Fluzeug gesichted!" a lookout bellowed.
Bernard, who was smoking a cigarette stolen from Balz's stash said, "Ach, that's a Portuguese patrol." He waved at the diving plane.
"Scheisse! That's a British Hudson, Alaaarm," I shouted louder than usual as Bernard snubbed his cigarette against my hand.

Tapatapatapa. Bullets hammered against the casing. I dogged the hatch closed. Bombs detonated--A couple of misses.

We changed course while going deep.
Balz sat on the chart table wearing his bunny tea cozy backward. "Where did that airplane come from? This is ridiculous," he growled.
"I know where it came from," Bernard said.
"Really?"
"Yes, Herr Kaleun."
"Pray, do tell, I wish to be informed."
Bernard pointed at the overhead.
Balz nodded. "Really?"
"What I mean, it came from somewhere else before it got above us."
"Like from where, you intellectually vacuumed bone-head?"
Bernard gave Balz a big grin. "From an airfield, Herr Kaleun."
Balz nodded. "You better remove yourself somewhere quiet, out of my sight and write poetry."
"Should I write it with a pencil or a pen?"
"Have you ever heard anyone say pencil a poem? No! The great Goethe always penned his poems."
After Bernard marched off to the aft torpedo room, Balz let out a sigh. "Now we can relax while that moron is gone."

That evening, at the dinner table, Bernard produced a piece of paper. "I wrote a poem in your honor, Herr Kaleun."
"Let's hear it," Balz said, "maybe you have finally found your niche in life."
Bernard cleared his throat.
"In a submarine we have a commander
who will meander
with one torpedo per ship he will slip in and out of a convoy
to destroy the convoy to give us great joy and kaboom oy, oy oy,
we finish the convoy.
His name is Balz and he eats his Schmalz spread on a piece of bread and he causes the British much dread, more than you have ever read."
"Is that it?"
"Yes, Herr Kaleun."
"Hmmm. The subject matter is good. What this lacks is meter. Poets write in meters. You write in inches." Balz banged his fist on the table. "I will show you how a great poet writes."
He twanged his tuning fork on Bernard's head, hummed for a few seconds and began to recite:
"Balz is the greatest and the best
Way above the rest
He was best, the moment he flew off the nest.
torpedoes away that is his way
to sweep Tommy off the sea
and squish him Like a flea."

Balz paused. "See how one meters poetry?" Then you add einz zwei hoochie-woochie and make it a song and you finish with: glory, glory, glory to Balz."

(I wonder how I can transfer to the Eastern Front).