Paul J Penton – Songwriter

Cannonball – Daily Writing – April 29

HMS Victory, Portsmouth UK, a square rigged man of war in dry dock. Decked in yellow and black unmissable, don’t mess with us! No yellow submarine this one. Inside, in gloomy compartments and layers are rows of cannon with spiralling barrels as thick as your arm, some as big as your head on other levels. As a child I go filtering back through time, through every pirate movie I ever saw, with scabbarded seamen wearing flapping bandanas.

The smell of gunpowder and cordite fills the air, the boat is shaking as if it’s just stepped into a chilly Boston morning, cannons are being reeled back, loaded with wadding, cotton wool wadding, gun powder and the cannonball. It’s heavy, seems to require more than one man to carry this tiny sphere, this world of destruction that will spin across the galaxy of the battle field. It’s a cold sphere of death, smooth but with pitted edges, as if your running over a day or so’s growth, freindless, dull grey metal in its basic state.

The fuse is lit and all stand back. The cannon roars and kicks back like a colt that refuses to be broken. Time to reload again. All along the walkway men are running through the procedure knowing at any moment an enemy cannon ball scould come splintering through the oak, blinding them with shards of wood or impailing them . The fear and excitement of battle are a soup they all drink in as they focus on their task, on their duty. Wadding, gunpowder, ramming, fuse. Yells and screams of ‘contact’ and ‘fire’ strain the air and indeed the screams and moans of those injured lying in bloodied pools.