From the Bomber Command Assn newsletter... By R Bailhache in memory of his father Flt Lt Bailhache who died recently (and his crew) 50,000 telegrams, fallen from the sky, 50,000 telegrams on a desk piled high, 3 lines for a young man's life is all there is to show, It seemed so little, perhaps they're right, our children shouldn't know. d-rum, d-rum, d-rum, sound bursts of light, as death comes flashing by, tap tap tap, the vain response, comes hammered out reply, dac dac dac, a writhing mass: typewriters in the sky. We know you didn't like them, boys, those jobs you had to do, We've forgotten that we sent you to fan blazing skies from blue, Theres nothing more to give you now, we hope you understand, That what you did, though vital then, now lies wilted in the hand. 50,000 telegrams, fallen from the sky, 50,000 telegrams, on a desk piled high, 3 lines on a telegram, for a job they can't describe, Tap tap tap for a young man's life, typewriters in the sky. My dad has moved along now, to join his crew at rest, Wonder what he'll tell them, that they did their very best, 3 lines on a telegram, to pin onto a chest, That's all that I can give you, boys, for your sacrificed test. Tap tap tap for a young mans life, typewriters in the sky, I'd like to give you more, boys, than confetti 3 miles high. We all did our jobs, boys, at least we did but try, War's a dirty game, boys, so sorry you had to fly that night, so sorry you had to fly. And form paths of power, comes still that pitiful refrain, That's all we can give you boys, a telegram for the pain. We've forgotten that we sent you to fan blazing skies from blue, That what you did was vital then, essential to carry through. There's nothing more to give you now, it just happened, or was it planned, That order to thousands every night, became inconvenient to understand? For war's a dirty game now, not all deserve the same, While some dirty jobs get credit, others pass without blame. That's all we can give you now, undone and not re-wound, Tap tap tap for a young man's life, buried in the ground. 3 lines on a telegram, piled 50,000 high, Tap tap tap for a young man's life, typewriters in the sky. I thought this was really beautiful so I thought you guys & gals would appreciate it too
In my mail box and am, as requested, passing it on. CRABBY OLD MAN When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in North Platte, Nebraska, it was believed that he had nothing left of any value. Later, when the nurses were going through his meager possessions, they found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital. One nurse took her copy to Missouri . The old man's sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas edition of the News Magazine of the St. Louis Assoc. for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem. And this little old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this 'anonymous' poem winging across the Internet. Crabby Old Man What do you see nurses? . . . . . What do you see? What are you thinking . . . . . when you're looking at me? A crabby old man . . . . . not very wise, Uncertain of habit . . . . . with faraway eyes? Who dribbles his food . .. . . . and makes no reply. When you say in a loud voice . . . . . 'I do wish you'd try!' Who seems not to notice . . . . . the things that you do. And forever is losing . . . . . A sock or shoe? Who, resisting or not . . . . . lets you do as you will, With bathing and feeding . . . . . The long day to fill? Is that what you're thinking? . . . . . Is that what you see? Then open your eyes, nurse . . . . . you're not looking at me. I'll tell you who I am. . . . . . As I sit here so still, As I do at your bidding, . . . . . as I eat at your will. I'm a small child of Ten . .. . . . with a father and mother, Brothers and sisters . . . . . who love one another. A young boy of Sixteen . . . . with wings on his feet. Dreaming that soon now . . . . . a lover he'll meet. A groom soon at Twenty . . . . . my heart gives a leap. Remembering, the vows . . . . . that I promised to keep. At Twenty-Five, now . . . . . I have young of my own. Who need me to guide . . . . . And a secure happy home. A man of Thirty . . . . . My young now grown fast, Bound to each other . . . . . With ties that should last. At Forty, my young sons . .. . . . have grown and are gone, But my woman's beside me . . . . . to see I don't mourn. At Fifty, once more, babies play 'round my knee, Again, we know children . . . . . My loved one and me.. Dark days are upon me . . . . . my wife is now dead. I look at the future . . . . . shudder with dread. For my young are all rearing . . . . . young of their own. And I think of the years . . . . . and the love that I've known. I'm now an old man . . . . . and nature is cruel. 'Tis jest to make old age . .. . . . look like a fool. The body, it crumbles . . . . . grace and vigor, depart. There is now a stone . . . . where I once had a heart. But inside this old carcass . . . . . a young guy still dwells, And now and again . . . . . my battered heart swells. I remember the joys . . . . . I remember the pain. And I'm loving and living . . . . . life over again. I think of the years, all too few . . . . . gone too fast. And accept the stark fact .. . . . that nothing can last. So open your eyes, people . . . . . open and see. Not a crabby old man . . . Look closer . . . see ME !
Sarah Churchill: 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, dead-weight 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."
An Airman Grace Father John MacGillivary, Royal Canadian Air Force. Lord of thunderhead and sky Who place in man the will to fly Who taught his hand speed, skill and grace To soar beyond man's dwelling place You shared with him the Eagle's view The right to soar, as Eagles do The right to call the clouds his home And grateful, through your heavens roam May all assembled here tonight And all who love the thrill of flight Recall with twofold gratitude Your gift of Wings, Your gift of Food.
Silver Wings I have seen the birth of dawn and the sunset die And rode my steed, the thunder; across the sky. I have lived among the towering heights and known a thousand; Nay a million endless, wondrous delights. And beyond the swirling mists on high I have rolled and zoomed far above enveloped in the golden glory of my one, my love. So how do you say, good bye to a pair of silver wings, a sunlit sky and oh, so many things? After all these joys I have known , how do you say adieu? I know not my friend. Do you?
High Flight John Gillespie Magee Jr. 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. Hovering 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.
Number 33 Squadron song There is an RAF Squadron, it’s called thirty-three, Existing on sand storms at Mersa-on-Sea. We rise every morning the last star to see, Then nip away smartly to skive and make tea. ‘Duff gen’ is our motto – another move near, Then we all get blotto on “shandies” and beer. Far out in the desert, way out in the blue, Existing on sand storms at Mersa Matruh.
Bomber Squadron song (Greece) To Valona, to Valona Every morning just at nine Same old kites and same old Squadron Same old target, same old time. North of Corfu dawn is breaking And the sun begins to shine Macchi-hundreds and G fifties Waiting for us dead on time. Do four runs up says the CO And make every bomb a hit. If you do, you’ll go to heaven, If you don’t, you’re in the grit. On the way back, same old fighters And the gravy’s running low. How I wish I could see Larissa Through the snow storm down below. How I wish I were in Athens, Drinking cognacs by the score, And I need not ever go back To Valona any more.
My Verse for The West Yorkshires . My dads Regiment in Burma WW2 A young boy answered his countries call And went to train to go to war On board a ship so crammed in To arrive at Deolali all tired and hot A trek through the jungle with 70lb Burgens strapped to their backs Arrived in Dimapur so hot and weary Stayed a month for jabs and more training Then thousands of men marched off to war Their war had begun but not what they thought As Malaria, dysentery, typhus, and malnutrition Killed a third of the men They finally arrived at their Theatre of War The Arakan was where they were going to give their all Hand to Hand combat, shells flying overhead Many men killed in the forgotten war They beat the japs in their first big battle They buried their mates where that had fell Then the West Yorkshires got word they were needed Their mates were surrounded at the Admin Box Off they went to help their mates and for 26 days they held the japs off . Hand to Hand combat was nothing new, these were battle harden soldiers of 19 years old The noise of the shells, and artillery bombardments were the norm of the day The battle was won and the japs all dead And what was left of the West Yorkshires was ordered To march to a place called Dozahari where Dakota's Were waiting to fly them to Khohima The West Yorkshire's did what all good soldiers do They fought with their colours, with pride in their hearts and helped chase the japs right out of the war So this year on Rememberance day Honour the dead of the forgotten Army and all of the Soldiers of all the wars but lets not forget those that Survived and came home to live with the horrors of war
This is on display in Lissington Church, not far from RAF Wickenby. Wickenby Now where is that? Not heard of it you say. It's just a tiny village Near Lincoln. Tucked away among green fields. Where nothing ever happens Except the clouds drift by. And country folk get on with life As the world just passes by. Some who live there Can recall When it just wasn't so. Their fields were taken over To house the "Boys in Blue," And huge Lancaster Bombers, Painted in matt black, Shattered the calm of that sleepy village. Many did not come back. One thousand and eighty very young men, From this one place alone, Were destined never to return To the place that was their home. The men who came back return each year To honour their comrades, who died So that Wickenby could become again Just part of the countryside. Anne Crowson, 1985
