A Poem

The following poem was written by Captain Charles W. Vogel of the 301st Bomb Group on VJ Day. Even though it is from WWII it could reflect the thoughts of airmen of all wars and so I thought it worth sharing. I found it to be rather poignant.

When the war is over with all the battles won,
I'll come flying home again to put away my gun;
To sit beside the fire and spin a lusty tale;
To feel the old desire as we drink October's ale.
But when the fire's dying and the room is growing cold,
I'll drink alone, rememb'ring the tales I have not told.

I rather like the one by Yeats:
An Irish Airman Forsees His Death

I know that I shall meet my fate,
Somewhere in the clouds above.
Those I fight I do not hate,
Those I guard I do not love.

Law nor duty bade me fight,
Nor trumpet blast or cheering crowd.
A lonely impulse of delight,
Drove to this tumult in the clouds.

I balanced all...brought all to mind,
The years ahead seem'd waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind.
In balance with this life, this death.

Leave it to the Irish to touch the very soul of the matter.
VBR,
Jim

Not ALL Irishmen were saccharine sweet and sentimental. Pat O'Brien, Hollywood's generic Irishman of the 1930's liked this one and sang it in one of his early aviation movies:
Take the carburetor out of my stomach,
Take the pistons out of my head,
Send my arms home to dear old mother,
And tell her I'm finally dead.

There once was a flyer from Nantuckett
Who's Spad was so big he could....

Well you know how it goes

Tobias