Guilty Bombardier

I once met an anguished veteran,
A bombardier,
Crying as he discarded his medals,
He adored his flag,
And loved to fly just as much,
O’er mountain and border,
Turboprop and piston and jets,
But the air is the realm of war as well as cherubs,
They abused his aeronautical love,

He grew tired of painting red upon maps,
Weary of scorching the edges of the parchment,
Dropping bombs for powerful men,
Craters where lives once flourished,
The guilt overtook his pride over the years,
Aircraft were no more iron angels,
But dragons with dread munitions,
So he dropped those platinum medals,
As he once expelled hell from the sky.

Berlin

These steel wings under my direction,
This flying fortress,
Styled in camouflage sheen,
They once meant freedom to me,
Symbols of our fight against fascism,

But after that night,
That mission,

When I saw those fiery roses emerge,
Streets erupting in hellfire,
Becoming flowerbeds of sulphur and rubble,
I could almost hear screams over the turbines,
Hundreds of little ants amidst the blaze,

I felt that we became world-enders that night,
Warmongers rather than liberators,

We won that war,
But when those souls look up,
They will see us in the clouds,
And feel fear,
Not freedom.

Crash

Once I soared,
A plane built on dreams,
Yet lo did the winds change,
I was broken up in mid-air,
By bird strikes and heartbreaks,
My wings clipped,
Rock bottom welcomed me as a brother,
Fire and shrapnel were its gifts to me,

I am a crashed aircraft,
My frame was shredded,
With nuts and bolts scattered about my head,
Bound anew to the depressive earth,
Craters were my cellmates,
I work each day and night now,
Sweat and blood and kerosene,
To get myself back out of this wreckage,

And fly once more.

The Few

After months of planning,
The sea lion begins its attack,
Teeth bared,
A black cap upon its head,
And an iron cross on its breast,
Its minions swarm overhead,
Ready to drop hell upon the Isle.

Who can stave off the sea lions bite?

Men of the Isle,
Exiles from the east,
And allies from the west,
The bravest of pilots,
The Few.

They take to the heavens,
In their seraphs of war,
Raging Hurricanes,
And surging Spitfires,
Aces against the storm.

Remember their heroism,
303rd, 401st and 312nd,
Remember their names,
11th, 74th and 609th,
Brothers and comrades,
The Few.

The Battle of Britain calls,
This will be their finest hour.