Buried was the bloody hatchet, / Buried was the dreadful war-club, / Buried were all warlike weapons, / And the war-cry was forgotten.

Throughout this period, and beyond, into the rest of the battle, aircraft of various types and loadouts are crisscrossing the skies in desperate harassment attacks, with the pilots having to play constant games of guess the carrier to decide where to land as escort carriers are hit, sunk, disappear in columns of shell splashes, or are forced to evade at angles to the wind that make landing on them impossible.

I heard a grey hen cackling among the ling; I called and thought, If I could get a sight of you now, it would be your last cackle; just then I heard something moving behind me on the path.

And his father had told him if he ever wanted anything to write home to him and, whatever he did, never to peach on a fellow.