Poetry - By/for/about aircrew

[Antipodean Andy]

Post WWII air poetry you come across here (okay, a carry over from the dark side but one of my favourite things so I've indulged!).

I'll start with the standard:

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee
412 squadron, RCAF
Killed 11 December 1941

[spidge]

The Unsung Hero's Lament

by Lt. L.W.Coquillette, Class 43-4-J

http://www.zplace2b.com/464th/poems/lament.htm

[Antipodean Andy]

Nice one, Geoff! Haven't seen it before and enjoyed it immensely.

[Kitty]

OOh I'll get the PC running tonight so i can post in here.

[Antipodean Andy]

The Airfield

I lie here still, beside the hill, abandoned long to nature's will.
My buildings down, my people gone, my only sounds, the wild birds' song
For my mighty birds will rise no more, no more I hear the Merlins roar
And never now my bosom feels, the rumbling of their giant wheels.
Laughter, sorrow, hope and pain, I shall never know these things again
Emotions that I came to know of strange young men so long ago,
And in the future should structures tall, bury me beyond recall,
I shall still remember them, those wide-spread wings of my flying men.

W Scott
From p316 Voice from the Stars by Tom Scotland

[spidge]

Originally Posted by Andy in West Oz

The Airfield

I lie here still, beside the hill, abandoned long to nature's will.
My buildings down, my people gone, my only sounds, the wild birds' song
For my mighty birds will rise no more, no more I hear the Merlins roar
And never now my bosom feels, the rumbling of their giant wheels.
Laughter, sorrow, hope and pain, I shall never know these things again
Emotions that I came to know of strange young men so long ago,
And in the future should structures tall, bury me beyond recall,
I shall still remember them, those wide-spread wings of my flying men.

W Scott
From p316 Voice from the Stars by Tom Scotland

Very moving, not heard that one before.

(I wannabe a poet)

[Kitty]

RESPONSIBILITY
By 1/Lt David F. Berry


If enlisted men meander
And indulge in rape or slander,
It's their airplane commander they defame.
If his officers are lazy,
Or alcoholically hazy,
And, in fact, a little crazy, he's to blame.

If they don't salute their betters,
If they fail to pay their debtors,
Or write censorable letters, or get stewed;
If they get back late from passes,
Or decline to go to classes,
You can bet it's not THEIR asses that get chewed.

For the pilot has his uses.
He's the one that makes excuses,
Answers charges, takes abuses from them all;
Though a flyer of acumen,
He's considered less than human
If he cannot keep his crewmen on the ball.

When a gunner's finger freezes,
Or the navigator sneezes,
Or unprintable diseases ground the crews;
It's the pilot's fault they're dying.
(If they aren't, they should be flying.)
And don't argue - for you're lying in your shoes.

If, returning from a sortie,
When the gas is down to forty,
And three engines abort, he brings them down,
Is the crew more understanding?
Sympathetic? Less demanding?
No! They criticize his landing with a frown.

Yes, it certainly is tough
For the hero of this ditty,
But don't waste your tears of pity on this fool;
For although he's nurse and mother
To Joe Blow and Joe Blow's brother,
He'd trade places with no other, the dull tool!

[Kitty]

CORRESPONDENCE
Anonymous


Can't write a thing - the censor's to blame-
Just say that I'm well, and sign my name.
Can't say where we flew from, can't mention the date;
Can't even mention the meals that I ate.

Can't say where I'm going, don't know where I'll land.
Can't even inform you if I'm met by a band.
Can't mention the weather, can't say if there's rain.
All military secrets must secrets remain.

Can't have a flashlight to guide me at night,
Can't smoke a cigarette except out of sight.
Can't keep a diary, for such is a sin,
Can't keep the envelopes your letters come in.

Can't say for sure now just what I can write,
So I'll just close this letter and tell you good-night.
I'll send you this letter to say that I'm well,
Still hoping and praying, and fighting like hell.

[Kitty]

LIGHTNINGS IN THE SKY
By a radio gunner before a mission over Italy


Oh, Hedy Lamar is a beautiful gal,
And Madeleine Carroll is, too.
But you'll find if you query, a quite different theory
Amongst any bomber crew.
For the loveliest thing of which one could sing
(This side of the heavenly gates)
Is no blonde or brunette of the Hollywood set.
It's an escort of P-38s.

Yes, in days that have passed, when the tables were massed
With glasses of Scotch and Champagne,
It's quite true that the sight was a thing to delight us,
Intent upon feeling no pain.
But it isn't the same nowadays in this game,
When we head north from Messina Straits,
Take the sparkling wine - and just make mine
An escort of P-38s.

Byron, Shelley, and Keats ran a dozen dead heats
Describing the view from the hills
Of the valleys in May, when the winds gently sway
An array of bright daffodils.
Take the daffodils, Byron; the wild flowers, Shelley;
Yours is the myrtle, friend Keats.
Just reserve me those cuties - American beauties -
An escort of P-38s.

Sure, we we're braver than hell; on the ground all is swell.
In the air it's a different story.
We sweat out our track, through the fighters and flak
But we're willing to split up the glory.
Well, they wouldn't reject us, so heaven protect us,
And until all this shooting abates,
Give us courage to fight 'em - and one more small item -
An escort of P-38s.

[Kitty]

I tend to associate this one with the flyboys as I got it from a book on local aircrashes. Always brings a tear to my eye.

Let Them In

Let them in Peter, they are very tired
Give them the couches where the Angels sleep,
Let them wake whole again to new dawns fired
With sun not war and may their peace be deep.

Remember where the broken bodies lie
And give them things they like, let them make noise,
God knows how young they were to have to die
Give swing bands not gold harps, to these our boys.

Let them love Peter, they have had no time
Girls sweet as meadow wind, with flowing hair,
They should have trees and bird song, hills to climb
The taste of summer in a ripened pear,

Tell them how they are missed, say not to fear,
It’s going to be alright with us down here.