The Tripple Veterans from Upper Island Cove

To the memory of the veterans from Upper Island Cove, specifically Gilbert Janes and Herbert Jones. To the “Old Sweets” who answered every bugle call from the red dust of South Africa to the mud of the Somme, and finally to the cold watch of the Newfoundland coast. Their service is the bedrock of the Rock.

The Tripple Veterans from Upper Island Cove

The bugle called in ninety-nine, and Gilbert caught the sound,

He left his home of Island Cove for the Veldt’s red-dusted ground.

With no local flag to carry him, he sought a foreign name,

To face the Boer in burning sun and find a soldier’s fame.

He learned the weight of steady steel and how a soldier lives,

Taking all the bitter lessons that a desert battle gives.

But peace was just a hollow breath before the Somme would roar,

And the veteran of the African dust went back to fight once more.

An “Old Sweat” in the trenches now, with a Sergeant’s weathered face,

He led the boys from Blackberry Cove at a fierce and steady pace.

Across the wire of No Man’s Land, through the Kaiser’s iron rain,

The history of the North was etched in the legacy of Janes.

When the world went dark in thirty-nine, and he’d reached his sixtieth year,

He didn’t seek the easy chair or the safety of the pier.

With Herbert Jones there by his side, two giants of the Rock,

They stood against the rising tide and the battle’s heavy shock.

From the Veldt’s red dust to northern mist, they stood the coastal line,

Two watchmen for the island home in the fall of thirty-nine.

Though the U-boats prowled the freezing deep, they kept a steady eye,

Ready to defend the cliffs beneath a Newfoundland sky.

From the Somme’s dark clay to Africa, through fire and the flames,

We’ll raise a glass to Herbert Jones and the legacy of Janes.

They followed every bugle call, no matter where it drove,

To bring the honor of the world back home to Island Cove.

Through three separate wars they marched, and freely gave their blood,

From the heat of South Rhodesian plains to the bitter Flemish mud.

They were the “Watchmen of the Coast,” the island’s silent ghost,

The men who gave the very most when the world required it most.

We remember the “Black berries” now, and we honor every name,

That kept the spirit of the Cove within a soldier’s frame.

From the rocky shores to foreign fields, through the dark and through the light,

Gilbert and Herb stood fast for us through the longest, coldest night.

James E. Mercer *** February 25, 2026 *** Copyright protected, all rights reserved.