The following poem provided by Bob Crowder, "Squeeks" RM3, OR Division. USS Helena CA-75 '56 - '57 - '58.
Bob, in turn received the poem from another Radioman he was stationed with on Kwajalein M.I

A Radioman's Dream

You awake with a start to the Bosn's shake
Feet hit the deck before you awake
Out of your pit and into your dungs
Then up the berthing ladder, rung by rung

Onto the mess deck with lights too bright
For a horse cock sandwich to last the night
A cup of Joe, a butt or two, then off to the shack
Your duty to do

You climb to the Oh one deck, through salty spray
Dark clouds above march past in their dress grey
White water amidships, bow goes under green
Water swirls aft, sweeping decks clean

You enter the hatch, fresh coffee you smell
Along with stale smoke and the new man's pail
Transmitters emit a hot bees wax odor
Aging capacitors sound like outboard motors

Two weathers are pending and NMH is not here.
We lost him on twelve, they faded into thing air.
Eight was tried with out success, four is no better.
Comms are a mess.

Five hundred is still alive and noisy with code.
NRUS tried to relay but lost her M.O.
The Chief will be up at quarter till three.
Copy press and publish the Daily.

With the watch relieved and gone below
I adjust my key, sending real slow
Searching for a station to rid us of traffic
Finding nothing there but that darn static

You have braced yourself, wedged into position
Fired the FRT23 up and started transmission
She suddenly rolls to port, lurches ahead
Bangs into a wave and seems to stop dead

Shuddering up, shaking her prow
Ridding herself of the water somehow
Through all of this with a coffee cup balanced
Not a drop spilled to foul the Chief's palace

On eight a tone, five by the signal comes through
You get rid of weathers, another message or two
The OBS period over, no AMVERS to steal
Quite proud of yourself is the way to feel

Your watch starts drawing to an end
You think of wife and family, start to grin
For it is day twentyone on station for you
No more watches, it's over and through

Underway watches leave little to be done
You are homeward bound from Delta, "Ole Son"
But suddenly you wake up and it is all a dream
Of Ocean Station days, your youth's past seen

No more station in the middle of a grid square
Nor a Radioman to found, not anywhere
A key of brass, an Underwood mill
Are of the past, are over the hill

The mission is still there, waiting to be done.
The challenge laid down, accepted by younger ones.
Radioman are gone, the code also you see.
Tradition carried on by computers, remotes and TCs