Poetry - By/for/about aircrew

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

 

[FONT=Arial, Helvetica]The Unsung Hero's Lament

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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)

 

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!

 

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.

 

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.

 

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.

 

ONE MORE ROLL

We toast our hearty comrades who have fallen from the skies, and were gently caught by God's own hand to be with him on High.
To dwell among the soaring clouds they've known so well before. From victory roll to tail chase, at heaven's very door.
As we fly among them there, we're sure to head their plea. To take care my friend, watch your six, and do one more roll for me.

— Commander Jerry Coffee, Hanoi, 1968

 

IMPRESSIONS OF A PILOT

Flight is freedom in its purest form,
To dance with the clouds which follow a storm;
To roll and glide, to wheel and spin,
To feel the joy that swells within;
To leave the earth with its troubles and fly,
And know the warmth of a clear spring sky;
Then back to earth at the end of a day,
Released from the tensions which melted away.
Should my end come while I am in flight,
Whether brightest day or darkest night;
Spare me your pity and shrug off the pain,
Secure in the knowledge that I'd do it again;
For each of us is created to die,
And within me I know,
I was born to fly.

— Gary Claud Stokor

 

THE AEROPLANE

I sweep the skies with fire and steel
My highway is the cloud
I swoop, I soar, aloft I wheel
My engine laughing loud
I fight with gleaming blades the wind
That dares dispute my path
I leave the howling storm behind
I ride upon it's wrath.
I laugh to see your tiny world
Your toys of ships, your cars
I rove an endless road unfurled
Where the mile stones are the stars
And far below, men wait and peer
For what my coming brings
I fill their quaking hearts with fear
For death...is in my wings.

— Gordon Boshell, written after watching Battle of Britain dogfights from the streets of London

 

THE BOMBERS

Whenever I see them ride on high
Gleaming and proud in the morning sky
Or lying awake in bed at night
I hear them pass on their outward flight
I feel the mass of metal and guns
Delicate instruments, deadweight tons
Awkward, slow, bomb racks full
Straining away from downward pull
Straining away from home and base
And try to see the pilot's face
I imagine a boy who's just left school
On whose quick-learned skill and courage cool
Depend the lives of the men in his crew
And success of the job they have to do.
And something happens to me inside
That is deeper than grief, greater than pride
And though there is nothing I can say
I always look up as they go their way
And care and pray for every one,
And steel my heart to say,
"Thy will be done."

— Sarah Churchill, daughter of Sir Winston

 

An airman is always quite free, sir.
To land with a bump or a greaser.
Any old clunk,
can land with a thump,
But pro's go for smoothie crowd pleasers.
— Anon

 

The earth is a depot where wingless angels pass the time,
Waiting for the long journey home
Seeing a small boy, smiling in the corner, I ask him ;
‘You must be anxious to get home ?’
‘I am home’ he replied ‘ I just come here to play the games’
— Oliver Makin

 

Sky Fever

I must go up to the skies again, to the white clouds and the grey,
And all I ask is a high launch, and the chance to ‘get away’;
And the wing’s surge, and the wind’s song, and the quiet clouds’ drifting,
And a heat-haze on the land’s face, and the warm air’s lifting

I must go up to the skies again, for the call to soar and glide,
Is a free call, and a clear call, that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a sunlit day, and the bright height’s gaining,
‘Neath the ‘new-cu’ that towers above, and it’s lift maintaining

I must go up to the skies again, to the peace of silent flight,
To the gull’s way, and the hawk’s way, and the free wings’ delight;
And all I ask is a friendly joke with a laughing fellow rover,
And a large beer, and a deep sleep, when the long flight’s over

— Robbie, RAE Gliding Club, ‘Sailplane & Gliding’ magazine

 

Someday we will know, where the pilots go
When their work on earth is through.
Where the air is clean, and the engines gleam,
And the skies are always blue.
They have flown alone, with the engine's moan,
As they sweat the great beyond,
And they take delight, at the awesome sight
of the world spread far and yon.
Yet not alone, for above the moan, when the earth is
out of sight,
As they make their stand, He takes their hand,
and guides them through the night.
How near to God are these men of sod,
Who step near death's last door?
Oh, these men are real, not made of steel,
But He knows who goes before,
And how they live, and love and are beloved,
But their love is most for air.
And with death about, they will still fly out,
And leave their troubles there.
He knows these things, of men with wings,
And He knows they are surely true.
And He will give a hand, to such a man
'Cause He's a pilot too.

— unknown

 

FLYER'S PRAYER

When this life I'm in is done,
And at the gates I stand,
My hope is that I answer all
His questions on command.

I doubt He'll ask me of my fame,
Or all the things I knew, Instead,
He'll ask of rainbows sent
On rainy days I flew.

The hours logged, the status reached,
The ratings will not matter.
He'll ask me if I saw the rays
And how He made them scatter.

Or what about the droplets clear,
I spread across your screen?
And did you see the twinkling eyes.
If student pilots keen?

The way your heart jumped in your chest,
That special solo day-
Did you take time to thank the one
Who fell along the way?

Remember how the runway lights
Looked one night long ago
When you were lost and found your way,
And how-you still dont know?

How fast, how far, how much, how high?
He'll ask me not these things
But did I take the time to watch
The Moonbeams wash my wings?

And did you see the patchwork fields
And mountains I did mould;
The mirrored lakes and velvet hills,
Of these did I behold?

The wind he flung along my wings,
On final almost stalled.
And did I know I it was His name,
That I so fearfully called?

And when the goals are reached at last,
When all the flyings done,
I'll answer Him with no regret-
Indeed, I had some fun.

So when these things are asked of me,
And I can reach no higher,
My prayer this day - His hand extends
To welcome home a Flyer.

— Patrick J. Phillips

 

Seems i have a worrying amount on my puter.

I adore that Airfield one, its lovely. And so reminsicent of what is happening to many of them now