Something cultural for a Friday....
Mar 7, 2015 3:15:02 GMT 12
Dave Homewood, ErrolC, and 2 more like this
Post by lifeboatadam on Mar 7, 2015 3:15:02 GMT 12
I have recently catalogued all the bits and pieces in my grandfather's collection. Amongst a lot of paperwork and personal reminiscences I came across the following poem. I know my grandfather didn't write it as it is a rear gunner's view of a bombing raid - My grandfather was a Nav/Rad in NF Mossies. But I think it is a powerful bit of writing that really brings home the experience of a bombing sortie.
It may not be NZ related, but as there were plenty of Kiwis who flew in Bomber Command, who knows. Apologies if this forum is the wrong place for this, but I thought it to good to be kept in a file for no one else to see.
Another Op
Bumping down the runway
With the turret on the beam,
Flashing past well-wishers
Lit by the drem's dull gleam.
The pulling of the stomach
As we slowly climb on track
Setting course to eastward –
How many will come back?
The clipped command to alter course
As we cross the Anglian shore,
Then extinguish navigation lights
As the engines increase their roar.
The throbbing of the engines
Disturbs the fading light
As onward, ever onward
We fly into the night.
Routine settles to a rhythm,
And those 'up front’ dictate
The course, the speed, the height
And the passage of our fate.
Searching ever searching,
The turret turns to and fro,
Looking, always looking
For our enemy and foe.
The sound of throbbing engines
Envelopes our immediate night,
And the clammy taste of oxygen
As I adjust the dull ring sight.
A quiet statement from the Nav -
‘Enemy coast a head’,
The blood flows quicker thro’ the veins –
Our training stifles the dread.
Searching ever searching,
For that darker smudge of black.
Looking for the fighter
That could stop us getting back
The Nav again is heard to say
‘Target. Dead ahead’.
The tightening of the stomach
Is the only sign of dread
As a lonely, cold rear gunner
I always face the rear
And never see the target.
Till the aircraft’s there.
Flying ever closer, closer
To that awful scene.
Every nerve is strung so tight
You stifle the need to scream
The observer now takes full control
And by his directed call
Keeps the tingling nerves on edge
Till he lets the bomb load fall
With the sudden upward lift
We all expect the worst,
But heave a sigh of intense 'relief
As the aircraft changes course.
Nose well down and increased speed
To escape from that dreadful sight.
We race across the crimson sky
To the safety of the night
As those up front now search the sky
For the fighter that lurks in the dark
While I at last see the target fires
Where we have left our mark.
It may not be NZ related, but as there were plenty of Kiwis who flew in Bomber Command, who knows. Apologies if this forum is the wrong place for this, but I thought it to good to be kept in a file for no one else to see.
Another Op
Bumping down the runway
With the turret on the beam,
Flashing past well-wishers
Lit by the drem's dull gleam.
The pulling of the stomach
As we slowly climb on track
Setting course to eastward –
How many will come back?
The clipped command to alter course
As we cross the Anglian shore,
Then extinguish navigation lights
As the engines increase their roar.
The throbbing of the engines
Disturbs the fading light
As onward, ever onward
We fly into the night.
Routine settles to a rhythm,
And those 'up front’ dictate
The course, the speed, the height
And the passage of our fate.
Searching ever searching,
The turret turns to and fro,
Looking, always looking
For our enemy and foe.
The sound of throbbing engines
Envelopes our immediate night,
And the clammy taste of oxygen
As I adjust the dull ring sight.
A quiet statement from the Nav -
‘Enemy coast a head’,
The blood flows quicker thro’ the veins –
Our training stifles the dread.
Searching ever searching,
For that darker smudge of black.
Looking for the fighter
That could stop us getting back
The Nav again is heard to say
‘Target. Dead ahead’.
The tightening of the stomach
Is the only sign of dread
As a lonely, cold rear gunner
I always face the rear
And never see the target.
Till the aircraft’s there.
Flying ever closer, closer
To that awful scene.
Every nerve is strung so tight
You stifle the need to scream
The observer now takes full control
And by his directed call
Keeps the tingling nerves on edge
Till he lets the bomb load fall
With the sudden upward lift
We all expect the worst,
But heave a sigh of intense 'relief
As the aircraft changes course.
Nose well down and increased speed
To escape from that dreadful sight.
We race across the crimson sky
To the safety of the night
As those up front now search the sky
For the fighter that lurks in the dark
While I at last see the target fires
Where we have left our mark.
