An ode to the bomber crews. by Charles Roberts.

 

Each puddle holds a fading sky,

Where ghosts of bombers seem to fly.

They were counted out and counted back,

Each with a loaded bomb bay rack.

To go over and give the enemy what for,

And try to even the unenviable score.       

The Halifax’s, Wellington’s, Lancaster’s, too,

Each with its five, or six, or seven man crew.

Far out over enemy held territory they went,

Those brave young men of the commonwealth sent.

To face the night fighters and the accurate flak,

Alone they flew to the target and empty their bomb rack.

There’s safety in numbers some would say,

But out of the hundreds who went some had to pay.

With their lives, they never came back,

Their bomb racks empty, but shot down by flak.

Night fighters harried them from target to base,

They opened their throttles wide to make haste.

Fifty five thousand never made it home,

Forever in the dark skies they roam.

We who now live free from the tyranny; they set,

The fires raging so that we will never forget.