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Poems.
Hero's repatriation:
The leviathan of the sky does land
In Englands green and pleasant land.
It's cargo more precious than gold
The body of a Hero, bold.
Once the Giants engines stopped
The cargo ramp is is gently dropped
Carried by six on shoulders true
The Hero is saluted by the crew.
The coffin draped in Union Jack
Is slowly carried out the back.
Out of the dark and into light
Slowly down the ramp and to the right.
The six approach the hearse all black
And place the Hero gently in the back.
The six then turn and march away
Their duty has been done this day.
Politicians have much to say
No sign of them near here this day !
They hide away and out of danger,
Much easier if the Hero is a stranger.
The hearse with its precious load
Moves slowly out on to the road.
The floral tributes line the route
While comrades snap a smart salute.
At the edge of a Wiltshire town
The cortege slows its pace right down.
The streets are packed, many deep
Some throw flowers, most just weep.
The crowd have come to say farewell,
The church bell rings a low death knell.
Regimental standards are lowered down
As the Hero passes through the town.
The cortege stops and silence reigns
The townsfolk feel the families pain.
The Nations flag lowered to half mast
Our brave Hero is home at last.
***
Staff Sgt Andy McFarlane wrote this on the flight home reflecting on his Comrades who had paid the ultimate sacrifice and were being flown back for burial. 2009.
***************
THE FINAL INSPECTION
The soldier stood and faced God,
Which must always come to pass.
He hoped his shoes were shining,
Just as brightly as his brass.
'Step forward now, you soldier,
How shall I deal with you ?
Have you always turned the other cheek ?
To My Church have you been true?'
The soldier squared his shoulders and said,
'No, Lord, I guess I ain't.
Because those of us who carry guns,
Can't always be a saint.
I've had to work most Sundays,
And at times my talk was tough.
And sometimes I've been violent,
Because the world is awfully rough.
But, I never took a penny,
That wasn't mine to keep...
Though I worked a lot of overtime,
When the bills got just too steep.
And I never passed a cry for help,
Though at times I shook with fear.
And sometimes, God, forgive me,
I've wept unmanly tears.
I know I don't deserve a place,
Among the people here.
They never wanted me around,
Except to calm their fears.
If you've a place for me here, Lord,
It needn't be so grand.
I never expected or had too much,
But if you don't, I'll understand.
There was a silence all around the throne,
Where the saints had often trod.
As the soldier waited quietly,
For the judgment of his God.
'Step forward now, you soldier,
You've borne your burdens well.
Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets,
You've done your time in Hell.'
Author Unknown~
It's the Military, not the reporter who has given us the freedom of the
Press.
It's the Military, not the poet, who has given us the freedom of Speech.
It's the Military, not the politicians that ensures our right to Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.
It's the Military who salutes the flag, who serves beneath the flag, and whose coffin is draped by The flag.
*****************
Psalm 139 - The Airman's Psalm.
If I climb up into the heaven, Thou art there;
If I go to Hell, Thou art there also.
If I take the wings of the morning
And remain in the uttermost parts of the sea,
Even there also shall Thy hand lead me;
And Thy right hand shall hold me.
**********
High Flight
by John Gillespie Magee, Jr.
This is said to be the most evocative poem for aviators and is used in the Sermon at the annual Battle of Britain Memorial Service at Westminster Abbey.
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 untrespassed sanctity of space
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
John Gillespie Magee Jr. History
During the dark days of the Battle of Britain, hundreds of Americans crossed the border into Canada to enlist with the Royal Canadian Air Force. Knowingly breaking the law, but with the tacit approval of the then still officially neutral United States Government, they volunteered to fight Hitler's Germany.
John Gillespie Magee, Jr., was one such American. Born in Shanghai, China, in 1922, Magee was just 18 years old when he entered flight training. Within the year, he was sent to England and posted to the newly formed No 412 Fighter Squadron, RCAF, which was activated at Digby, England, on 30 June 1941. He was qualified on and flew the Supermarine Spitfire.
Flying fighter sweeps over France and air defence over England against the German Luftwaffe, he rose to the rank of Pilot Officer. At the time, German bombers were crossing the English Channel with great regularity to attack Britain's cities and factories. Although the dark days of the Battle of Britain were over, the Luftwaffe was still on the job of keeping up the pressure on British industry and the country.
On September 3, 1941, Magee flew a high altitude (30,000 feet) test flight in a newer model of the Spitfire V. As he orbited and climbed upward, he was struck with the inspiration of a poem -- "To touch the face of God."
Once back on the ground, he wrote a letter to his parents. In it he commented, "I am enclosing a verse I wrote the other day. It started at 30,000 feet, and was finished soon after I landed." On the back of the letter, he jotted down his poem, 'High Flight'.
Just three months later, on December 11, 1941 (and only three days after the US entered the war), Pilot Officer John Gillespie Magee, Jr., was killed. The Spitfire V he was flying, VZ-H, collided with an Oxford Trainer from Cranwell Airfield while over Tangmere, England. The two planes were flying in the clouds and neither saw the other. He was just 19 years old. He is buried in the churchyard cemetery at Scopwick, Lincolnshire.
############################
A Different Christmas Poem.
The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light,
I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight.
My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,
My daughter beside me, angelic in rest.
Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
Transforming the garden to a winter delight.
The sparkling lights in the tree I believe,
Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.
My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep.
In perfect contentment, or so it would seem,
So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.
The sound wasn't loud, and it wasn't too near,
But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear.
Perhaps just a cough, I didn't quite know, Then the
sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.
My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
And I crept to the door just to see who was near.
Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,
A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.
A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old,
Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.
Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child.
"What are you doing?" I asked without fear,
"Come in this moment, it's freezing out here!
Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,
You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!"
For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,
Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts..
To the window that danced with a warm fire's light
Then he sighed and he said "Its really all right,
I'm out here by choice. I'm here every night."
"It's my duty to stand at the front of the line,
That separates you from the darkest of times.
No one had to ask or beg or implore me,
I'm proud to stand here like my fathers before me.
My Grandfather died in France ' on a day in December,"
Then he sighed, "That's a Christmas 'Gran always remembers."
My dad stood his watch in the jungles of Burma
And now it is my turn and so, here I am.
I've not seen my own son in more than a while,
But my wife sends me pictures, he's sure got her smile.
Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,
The red, white, and blue... a Union flag.
I can live through the cold and the being alone,
Away from my family, my house and my home.
I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a trench with little to eat.
I can carry the weight of killing another,
Or lay down my life with my sister and brother..
Who stand at the front against any and all,
To ensure for all time that this flag will not fall."
" So go back inside," he said, "harbour no fright,
Your family is waiting and I'll be all right."
"But isn't there something I can do, at the least,
"Give you money," I asked, "or prepare you a feast?
It seems all too little for all that you've done,
For being away from your wife and your son."
Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,
"Just tell us you love us, and never forget.
To fight for our rights back at home while we're gone,
To stand your own watch, no matter how long.
For when we come home, either standing or dead,
To know you remember we fought and we bled.
Is payment enough, and with that we will trust,
That we mattered to you as you mattered to us."
PLEASE, would you do me the kind favour of sending this to as many
people as you can? Christmas will be coming soon and some credit is due to our
Armed Service men and women for our being able to celebrate these
festivities. Let's try in this small way to pay a tiny bit of what we owe. Make people
stop and think of our heroes, living and dead, who sacrificed themselves for us.
Chris Smith. (Skipatrol). Royal Marine Ret.
************************
LEST WE FORGET !
(On behalf of the American and English troops active in the conflict zones !)
You stay up for 16 hours
He stays up for days on end.
You take a warm shower to help you wake up.
He goes days or weeks without running water.
You complain of a 'headache', and call in sick.
He gets shot at as others are hit, and keeps moving forward.
You put on your anti war/don't support the troops shirt, and go meet up with your friends.
He still fights for your right to wear that shirt.
You make sure you're cell phone is in your pocket.
He clutches the cross hanging on his chain next to his dog tags.
You talk trash about your 'buddies' that aren't with you.
He knows he may not see some of his buddies again.
You walk down the beach, staring at all the pretty girls.
He patrols the streets, searching for insurgents and terrorists.
You complain about how hot it is.
He wears his heavy gear, not daring to take off his helmet to wipe his brow.
You go out to lunch, and complain because the restaurant got your order
wrong.
He doesn't get to eat today.
Your maid makes your bed and washes your clothes.
He wears the same things for weeks, but makes sure his weapons are clean.
You go to the mall and get your hair redone.
He doesn't have time to brush his teeth today.
You're angry because your class ran 5 minutes over.
He's told he will be held over an extra 2 months.
You call your girlfriend and set a date for tonight.
He waits for the mail to see if there is a letter from home.
You hug and kiss your girlfriend, like you do everyday.
He holds his letter close and smells his love's perfume.
You roll your eyes as a baby cries.
He gets a letter with pictures of his new child, and wonders if they'll ever
meet.
You criticize your government, and say that war never solves anything.
He sees the innocent tortured and killed by their own people and remembers why he is fighting.
You hear the jokes about the war, and make fun of men like him.
He hears the gunfire, bombs and screams of the wounded.
You see only what the media wants you to see.
He sees the broken bodies lying around him.
You are asked to go to the store by your parents. You don't.
He does exactly what he is told even if it puts his life in danger.
You stay at home and watch TV.
He takes whatever time he is given to call, write home, sleep, and eat.
You crawl into your soft bed, with down pillows, and get comfortable.
He tries to sleep but gets woken by mortars and helicopters all night long.
If you support your troops, send this on.
If you don't support your troops well, then don't send this out.
You won't die in 7 days, your love life won't be affected, and you won't have the worst day ever.
It's not like you know the men and women that
are dying to preserve your rights.
REMEMBER our Troops, and do not forget them LATER.
Lest we forget !
#####################
ITS CHRISTMAS DAY ALL IS SECURE.
TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS HE LIVED ALL ALONE
IN A ONE BEDROOM HOUSE MADE OF PLASTER AND STONE
I HAD COME DOWN THE CHIMNEY WITH PRESENTS TO GIVE AND TO SEE JUST WHO IN THIS HOME DID LIVE
I LOOKED ALL ABOUT A STRANGE SIGHT I DID SEE
NO TINSEL NO PRESENTS NOT EVEN A TREE
NO STOCKING BY THE MANTLE JUST BOOTS FILLED WITH SAND
ON THE WALL HUNG PICTURES OF FAR DISTANT LANDS
WITH MEDALS AND BADGES AWARDS OF ALL KINDS
A SOBER THOUGHT CAME THROUGH MY MIND
FOR THIS HOUSE WAS DIFFERENT IT WAS DARK AND DREARY
I FOUND THE HOME OF A SOLDIER ONCE I COULD SEE CLEARLY
THE SOLDIER LAY SLEEPING SILENT ALONE
CURLED UP ON THE FLOOR IN THIS ONE BEDROOM HOME
THE FACE WAS SO GENTLE THE ROOM IN SUCH DISORDER
NOT HOW I PICTURED A LONE BRITISH SOLDIER
WAS THIS THE HERO OF WHOM I'D JUST READ
CURLED UP ON A PONCHO THE FLOOR FOR A BED
I REALISED THE FAMILIES THAT I SAW THIS NIGHT
OWED THEIR LIVES TO THESE SOLDIERS WHO WERE WILLING TO FIGHT
SOON ROUND THE WORLD THE CHILDREN WOULD PLAY
AND GROWNUPS WOULD CELEBRATE A BRIGHT CHRISTMAS DAY
THEY ALL ENJOY FREEDOM EACH MONTH OF THE YEAR
BECAUSE OF THE SOLDIERS LIKE THE ONE LYING HERE
I COULDN'T HELP WONDER HOW MANY ALONE
ON A COLD CHRISTMAS EVE IN A LAND FAR FROM HOME
THE VERY THOUGH BROUGHT A TEAR TO MY EYE
I DROPPED TO MY KNEES AND STARTED TO CRY
THE SOLDIER AWAKENED AND I HEARD A ROUGH VOICE
'SANTA DON'T CRY THIS LIFE IS MY CHOICE
I FIGHT FOR FREEDOM I DON'T ASK FOR MORE
MY LIFE IS MY GOD, MY COUNTRY. MY CORPS'
THE SOLDIER ROLLED OVER AND DRIFTED TO SLEEP
I COULDN'T CONTROL IT I CONTINUED TO WEEP
I KEPT WATCH FOR HOURS SO SILENT AND STILL
AND WE BOTH SAT AND SHIVERED FROM THE COLD NIGHTS CHILL
I DIDN'T WANT TO LEAVE ON THAT COLD DARK NIGHT
THIS GUARDIAN OF HONOUR SO WILLING TO FIGHT
THEN THE SOLDIER ROLLED OVER WITH A VOICE SOFT AND PURE WHISPERED 'CARRY ON SANTA ITS CHRISTMAS DAY AND ALL IS SECURE'
ONE LOOK AT MY WATCH AND I KNEW HE WAS RIGHT
'MERRY CHRISTMAS MY FRIEND AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT'
*****************
THIS POEM WAS WRITTEN BY A PEACE KEEPING SOLDIER STATIONED OVERSEAS
THE FOLLOWING IS HIS REQUEST.
PLEASE WOULD YOU DO ME THE KIND FAVOUR OF SENDING THIS TO AS MANY PEOPLE AS YOU CAN
CHRISTMAS WILL BE COMING SOON AND SOME CREDIT IS DUE TO OUR BRITISH SERVICE MEN AND WOMEN FOR OUR BEING ABLE TO CELEBRATE THESE FESTIVITIES.
LETS TRY IN THIS SMALL WAY TO PAY A TINY BIT BACK OF WHAT WE OWE TO THEM !
Anon.
*********************
Her hair was up in a pony tail, her favourite dress tied with a bow.
Today was Daddy's Day at school, and she couldn't wait to go.
But her mommy tried to tell her, that she probably should stay home.
Why the kids might not understand, if she went to school alone.
But she was not afraid; she knew just what to say.
What to tell her classmates of why he wasn't there today.
But still her mother worried,for her to face this day alone.
And that was why once again, she tried to keep her daughter home.
But the little girl went to school eager to tell them all.
About a dad she never sees a dad who never calls.
There were daddies along the wall in back, for everyone to meet.
Children squirming impatiently, anxious in their seats
One by one the teacher called a student from the class.
To introduce their daddy, as seconds slowly passed.
At last the teacher called her name, every child turned to stare.
Each of them was searching, a man who wasn't there.
'Where's her daddy at?' She heard a boy call out.
'She probably doesn't have one,' another student dared to shout.
And from somewhere near the back, she heard a daddy say,
'Looks like another deadbeat dad, too busy to waste his day.'
The words did not offend her, as she smiled up at her Mom.
And looked back at her teacher, who told her to go on.
And with hands behind her back, slowly she began to speak.
And out from the mouth of a child, came words incredibly unique.
'My Daddy couldn't be here, because he lives so far away.
But I know he wishes he could be, since this is such a special day.
And though you cannot meet him, I wanted you to know.
All about my daddy, and how much he loves me so.
He loved to tell me stories he taught me to ride my bike.
He surprised me with pink roses, and taught me to fly a kite.
We used to share fudge sundaes, and ice cream in a cone.
And though you cannot see him. I'm not standing here alone.
'Cause my daddy's always with me, even though we are apart I know because he told me, he'll forever be in my heart'
With that, her little hand reached up, and lay across her chest.
Feeling her own heartbeat, beneath her favourite dress.
And from somewhere here in the crowd of dads, her mother stood in tears.
Proudly watching her daughter, who was wise beyond her years.
For she stood up for the love of a man not in her life.
Doing what was best for her, doing what was right.
And when she dropped her hand back down, staring straight into the crowd.
She finished with a voice so soft, but its message clear and loud.
'I love my daddy very much, he's my shining star.
And if he could, he'd be here, but heaven's just too far.
You see he is a Canadian soldier and died just this past year
When a roadside bomb hit his convoy and taught Canadians to fear.
But sometimes when I close my eyes, it's like he never went away.'
And then she closed her eyes, and saw him there that day.
And to her mothers amazement, she witnessed with surprise.
A room full of daddies and children, all starting to close their eyes.
Who knows what they saw before them, who knows what they felt inside.
Perhaps for merely a second, they saw him at her side.
'I know you're with me Daddy,' to the silence she called out.
And what happened next made believers, of those once filled with doubt.
Not one in that room could explain it, for each of their eyes had been closed.
But there on the desk beside her, was a fragrant long-stemmed rose.
And a child was blessed, if only for a moment, by the love of her shining star.
And given the gift of believing, that heaven is never too far !.
Anon,
***************
A poem heard at the time went:
Join the Air Force. Learn a trade.
Adventure, travel and well paid
These are the things you're fed upon
And like a sucker you sign on.
But when they've got you in their grip
Where are those smiles, that comradeship,
Where are those friendly helpful types
And who's the B... d with three stripes
With brasses bulled to bright perfection
Pay parades and kit inspections.........
The verses go on and on, so if anyone knows the rest please get in touch.
They were rough days and worse nights but like most National Servicemen we persevered and did our bit WE DID GO !
Regards Ray Taylor.
We would like to complete this ditty - can anyone help please ! PGH webmaster.
***************
We have to thank Brian Ingleson (ex ARMY) who sent me the following copy:
Join the Air Force. Learn a trade.
Adventure, travel and get paid !
These are the things you're fed upon
And like a sucker you sign on.
But when they've got you in their grip
Where are those smiles, that comradeship ?.
Where are those friendly helpful types ?.
And who's the B... d with three stripes
First you're issued with your kit
And uniform that does not fit.
Braces left and braces right !
A kitbag to be scrubbed snow white.
One large and one small pack,
A webbing belt with brasses black
Pouches and buckles "B".
Shirts of blue, collars and studs, issue 3.
Boots and mugs - all thick with grease ?
Ain't it ever gonna cease ?
And so at last you think you're through,
You ask the Sgt what to do
He looks at you as though your mad,
"see that kit - well clean it lad !"
Followed by another word,
The strangest one you've ever heard !
You look at him with aching heart,
"But Sir, I don't know where to start"
The Sgt groans and starts to swear,
"You see that ................ Webbing there ?
Well, scrub it till it looks like new,
Then you can clean the washhouse too.
And in the morning - on the dot
I'll be around to inspect the lot."
And so begins your new career
In this unfriendly atmosphere.
You think of home, your friendly bed,
And wish like heck that you were dead.
The months roll by - you work and bow.
Lets look in and see you now !
Drill Parade and kit inspection,
With brasses bulled to bright perfection.
Weapon training and PT,
Lifes one endless misery.
Squad attention - stand at ease !
Obeying orders such as these.
Then in some dreary office job,
You count the days to your demob.
How hopeless it appears to you !
You find you've got a year to do.
But then one day (don't say I told you !)
Other Blokes will say "Hello old Airman".
Then you - like one - will feel at peace
Because you're nearing your release.
But then you'll tell a younger Lad
About the smashing time you've had,
About the service you have seen
And all the places where you've been.
And then you wipe away that frown
"Don't let the Air Force get you down".
Stick to it Lad - keep smiling through !
You've only got one year to do !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Anon.
***********************
Just a common Soldier !
He was getting old and paunchy and his hair was falling fast,
As he sat in the legion hall telling stories of the past.
Of a war that he had fought in and the deeds that he had done,
In his exploits with his buddies, Heroes every one.
Tho' sometimes to his neighbours his tales became a joke,
All his Soldier mates, they listened, for they knew where of he spoke.
But we'll hear his tales no longer for old Bill has passed away,
And the worlds a little poorer - for a Soldier died today !
He'll not be mourned by many, just his children and his wife,
For he lived a very ordinary and an uneventful life.
He held a job and raised a family, quietly in his own way,
And the world won't note his passing, though a Soldier died today.
When politicians leave this earth, their bodies lie in State
While thousands note their passing and proclaim that they were great.
Papers tell of their life story from the time that they were young,
But the passing of a Soldier goes unnoticed and unsung !
Is the greatest contributions to the welfare of the our land
A man who breaks his promises and cons his fellow man ?
Or the ordinary fellow who, in times of war and strife
Goes off to serve his Country and offers up his life. ?
A politicians stipend and the style in which he lives
Are most times disproportionate to the service that he gives;
While the ordinary soldier, who offers up his all,
Is paid off with a medal and "maybe" a pension, small !
It's so easy to forget them for it was long ago
That the "old Bills" of our Country went to battle but we know
It was not the politicians, with their compromise and ploys,
Who won for us the freedom that our Country now enjoys !
Should you find yourselves in danger with your enemies at hand,
Would you want a politician, with his ever shifting stand ?
Or would you prefer a Soldier, who has sworn to defend
His home, his kin, his Country and will fight until the end ?
He was just a common Soldier and his ranks are growing thin,
But his presence should remind us, we may need his like again.
For when Countries are in conflict, then we find the Soldiers part
Is to clean up all the troubles that the politicians start !
If we cannot do him honour while he's here to hear the praise
Then at least lets give him homage at the ending of his days.
Perhaps just a simple headline in a paper that would say:
"Our Country is in mourning - for a Soldier died today".
A Lawrence Vaincourt. WW2 Air Force Veteran. 1985.
**********************************************
I SAW THE SOLDIERS MARCHING.
by A. Lawrence Vaincourt
I saw the soldiers marching, one drear November day,
Those heroes bold, from wars of old, in countries far away.
I heard the drums like thunder, the sound of marching feet,
As men of ancient valor marched down our little street.
I heard the skirl of bagpipes, the blare of brasses bold,
As heroes from another time relived the days of old.
The old, the halt, the lame, the slow, they marched with solemn pace,
To honor comrades fallen at another time and place.
I felt the tightness in my throat, the tears that burned my eyes,
As I watched the quiet dignity of old men marching by.
The fine young men, and women too, in battles long ago,
Who gave their youth and some, their lives,to fight our country's foe.
On this day will be remembered by comrades who remain,
And by the heavens, weeping, with softly falling rain.
The medals softly jingling on every passing chest,
In memory of companions who've long been laid to rest.
There are some unfit, and some who sit, in wheelchairs, row on row,
While they recall what price was paid to turn our country's foe.
And some will stand with tear-dimmed eyes, and some with faces grim,
While all repeat the solemn vow,
"WE WILL REMEMBER THEM."
2004 A. Lawrence Vaincourt
****************************************
NO WEEPING NOW.
I went back to the lonely wolds, the fens and the empty sky,
I saw the tall gaunt elms, heard the calling rooks, how time had passed me by,
Grass had grown on the runways, in the hangers stood rusting ploughs,
The dispersal points were empty, just starlings and grazing cows,
The watch office stood deserted, or maybe the ghosts of men,
Stood and watched as I walked remembering, for I'd said I'll come back again.
The windsock hung in tatters, forlorn in the cold damp air,
Then I thought! what does it matter, there's no one here to care,
The crew huts were but ruins, rotting timbers and sagging floors,
Not a voice to break the silence, just the wind and creaking doors,
Then I recall these once were billets, full of life and the noise of men,
With the crackling roar of merlins, or the whispering scratch of a pen,
So I stood quite still to listen, was there a message there for me,
In the shadows would they remember, had they left me a sign to see,
If they had it was too elusive, made dim by the vale of years,
And I recalled all the purpose and courage, till my eyes were blurred with tears,
I turned away down-hearted, for this was not the field I had known,
Not the brave bold home of my memories,, fool I was for the years had flown.
Anon.
***********************
UNMENTIONED IN DISPATCHES.
Some of them never come home to fanfares,
they dump their kit-bags down at the door,
kiss their wives and let their children
wrestle them down to the kitchen floor,
switch the telly on, pour out a whiskey,
search for the local football score.
Some of them skip the quayside welcome,
dodge the bunting and cannonade,
make their landfall in silent harbours,
nod to the coastguard, but evade
the searchlight of public scrutiny
like those engaged in the smuggling trade.
Some of them land at lonely airfields
far removed from the celebration,
hang their flying gear in a locker,
cadge a lift to the railway station,
make for home and take for granted
the short-lived thanks of a grateful nation.
Some of them miss the royal salute,
the victory parade along the Mall,
the fly-past, the ships in formation passing
the cheering crowds on the harbour wall.
Remembered only by friends and relatives,
some of them never come home at all.
(c) Peter Wyton
***************************
THE UNKINDEST DEFENCE CUT OF ALL
I'm the last man left in the Air Force,
I've an office in MOD
and a copy of Queens Regulations
which only apply to me.
I can post myself to Leuchars
and detach me from there to Kinloss,
or send me on courses to Innsworth,
then cancel the lot - I'm the boss.
I'm the last man left in the Air Force,
but the great Parliamentary brains
neglected, when cancelling people,
to sell off the Stations and planes.
The result is, my inventory bulges
with KD and camp-stools and Quarters,
plus a signed book of speeches by Trenchard
which I keep to impress the reporters.
I'm the last man left in the Air Force,
I suppose you imagine it's great
to be master of all you survey, but
I tell you it's difficult, mate.
I inspected three units last Thursday,
As C-in-C ( Acting ) of Strike,
then I swept half the runway at Laarbruch
and repaired Saxa Vord's station bike.
I'm the last man left in the Air Force,
it's not doing a lot for my health.
Unit sports days are frankly exhausting
when the Victor Ludorum's oneself.
On guest nights the Mess is so lonely,
there are times when I wish I was able
to pass the port to the chap next to me,
without seeing it fall off the table.
I'm the last man left in the Air Force,
my wife says I'm never at home,
when I'm not flying Hercs, I'm at Manston,
laying gallons and gallons of foam,
or I'm in my Marine Craft off Plymouth,
shooting flares at the crowds on the Ho,
or I'm Orderly Corporal at Luqa.
It's an interesting life, but all go
I'm the last man left in the Air Force.
I'm ADC to the Queen,
I'm Duty Clerk at St. Mawgan,
I'm the RAF rugby team.
Tomorrow I'm painting a guardroom
and air-testing numerous planes.
The day after that I'm for London,
to preach at St. Clement Danes.
I'm the last man left in the Air force
and I'm due to go out before long.
There's been no talk of any replacement
and I won't even let me sign on.
I hope to enjoy my retirement.
I've put up a fairly good show,
and I won't cut myself off entirely.
There are always reunions, you know.
(c) Peter Wyton
**********
Three cheers for the man on the ground.
Where ever you walk, you will hear people talk.
Of the men who go up in the air.
Of the dare-devil way, they go into the fray,
Facing death without turning a hair.
They'll raise a cheer and buy lots of beer
For a pilot who's home on leave.
But they don't give a jigger
For a Flight Mech. or Rigger
With nothing but 'props' on his sleeve.
They just say 'nice day' and then turn away
With never a mention of praise
And the poor bloody erk who does all the work
Just orders his own beer and pays.
They've never been told of the hours in the cold
That he spent sealing Germany's fate
How he works on a 'kite', till all hours of the night.
And turns up next morning at eight!
He gets no rake-off for working till take off
Or helping the aircrew prepare
But when there is trouble, its 'quick, at the double'.
The man on the ground must be there.
Each Flight Crew could tell you
They know what this man's really worth
They know he's a part of the RAF's heart
Even though he stays close to the earth.
He doesn't want glory, but please hear his story
Spread a little of his fame around,
He's one of the 'few', so give him his due.
Three cheers for the man on the ground!
Eric Sykes, 1942.
*****
Goodbye to my England, So long my old friend
Your days are numbered, being brought to an end
To be Scottish, Irish or Welsh that's fine
But don't say you're English, that's way out of line.
The French and the Germans may call themselves such
So may Norwegians, the Swedes and the Dutch
You can say you are Russian or maybe a Dane
But don't say you're English ever again.
At Broadcasting House the word is taboo
In Brussels it's scrapped, in Parliament too
Even schools are affected, staff do as they're told
They must not teach children about England of old.
Writers like Shakespeare, Milton and Shaw
The pupils don't learn about them anymore
How about Agincourt, Hastings , Arnhem or Mons ?
When England lost hosts of her very brave sons.
We are not Europeans, how can we be?
Europe is miles away over the sea
We're the English from England, let's all be proud
Stand up and be counted - Shout it out loud !
Let's tell our Government and Brussels too
We're proud of our heritage and the Red, White and Blue
Fly the flag of Saint George or the Union Jack
Let the world know - WE WANT OUR ENGLAND BACK !!!!
***********************
An Erk's Eye View by Keith Beddis.
I turned up at Cardington
To be kitted out in Blue.
The food that they served me
To-day I would sue.
That night in our billet
Some boys knelt down to Pray,
Others I found out
May have been blooming Gay.
The language was a mixture
From Refined to Foul,
But everyone had a bed
Though some did rather howl.
The storeman worked for Tesco's
When our kit was handed out,
Pile it high and sell it cheap
Of that there was no doubt.
We swopped our clothes and boots around
Looking for a better fit,
And they only gave you one bag
To shove in all this Kit.
Medical inspection came and went
And the jokes you all know,
Like he was in front the queue
And why is that one hanging low.
Then we went down to the Square
To be shipped to our separate Camps,
The carriages were like cattle trucks
All that was missing were the ramps.
We were introduced to our D.I.'s
They let them out of their cage,
They marched to the front of us
And turned on us in rage.
My God this cannot be real
My Mum wasn't like this one bit,
We struggled into a carriage
And found somewhere to sit.
The D.I. was in the corridor
Marching up and down,
And on his angry face
There was a perpetual frown.
We reached our destination
West Kirby is where I went,
I never knew where it was
But that's where I was sent.
Our Mobile Corporal Fog Horn
He kept us moving quick,
We never even had the time
To really feel Homesick.
So that was my introduction
To the Famous R.A.F,
And Square Bashing and Trade Training
Came in the time that I had left.
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