war poems

Norwegian Hills

Back in 2004 two men met. A unique meeting then, in that year. Yet the event that led up to that meeting, the actual cause, was something else. Do I call it majestic? No.

YOU decide what to call it.

A burning Halifax bomber fell in flames between two hills. Two or three engines on fire. What happened to the other six men? Raped by Nazi gunfire. So many lost, dead.

I wish I could see the scene the Norwegian man saw. Or not. Did he pull the sole English survivor out of the wreckage?

NORWAY MY HOME.

So much war. Not Vikings or myth but real. Burning RAF bomber fell between two hills. Where are the men? Only one was there in 2004, with his saviour. Does he miss his mates? Where are his pals? Still in the charred bomber?

There Are Two

In our world there are two wars. Both are equally deadly. Casualties and deaths are enormous. Our soldiers are at war all over the world, campaigns in Iraq, Afghan, Libya and more. Insurgent bullets claim some, IEDs others. Young people serving their country, often paying the highest price.

The second war is even more devastating and knows no geographical boundaries, the whole world. Lives are stolen like Lynette Hammond's life by her selfish boyfriend when he drink drove them to oblivion.

Is anyone innocent?

Look at my mad past. I created casualties of war by my angry drunken actions, married no more. Pints of beer are like bullets, have one more and drive your car.

Do drugs?

Fancy a knockout spliff, like a grenade. Bang goes your mind. Onto Class A, rob and murder a pensioner to pay for your dirty habit. Will you OD or do bird? More war casualties on our streets.

How many soldiers end up in both wars? Flashbacks leading to mind collapse, war without end. I ask why?

Hurri

Been up to see the Hurricane crashes at Tintwistle. Heather covered black hillside, treacherous rocks to snap a leg, somewhere hides the wreckage. Oh don't you know I went too far. Ended up at the quarry. Those rock faces are something.

I stumbled thru wicked undergrowth and climbed the hill. This way and that led me to the memorial cross to the three lost pilots. I paid my respects. Looking on Google, I saw where the crash was.

Over the wire, I found it in a few minutes. Smashed alloy and bent pipes. My poppy is now amongst the bits that belong to three Hurricane fighters. Last resting place of three brave pilots, killed before they lived their young lives.

It was nearly thirty years ago when I was there before. I was just a kid. I promise to go there soon.

Flames are tears. Tears are flames, till the bitter end.

Belgrade

Broken warplane falls wreathed in smoke.

Me with two German bullets in my chest.

How it hurts.

Funny how I feel alive right now, before I die.

Was I dead when we met?

Something precious died inside when you left me.

So I joined the air force and became a pilot.

People feted me wherever I went.

Don’t you know I shot two Huns down?

Then number three got me.

Good and proper in his bull’s eye.

Sorry my dear wife, I won’t be coming home.

I fall down in a burning fighter plane near Belgrade.

I died for you and our Motherland my love.

Let Marshal Tito be proud of me.

Sincerely love me my dear wife,

I’m sorry we fought and you left...

And There Were Three

Late mark Griffon engine Spitfire is sliced apart by German gunfire. Defeat! Spit pilot takes to the silk and bails. He saw his executioner executed. Swift justice handed out by a Tempest. No one said the Salamander was in service.

Volksjager peoples’ fighter, for everyone but only flown by the best, killed a Spitfire before  a Tempest killed him. Did the Nazi pilot perish? Unlike the Spit pilot? Eyewitness to his own shoot down. Advanced air war 1945, Armageddon beckons.

Enough! Time for a coffee and some biscuits, teen combat pilot dreams aside. I close my book and go to make a brew. No decaf for me. Need my caffeine before I battle the Luftwaffe in turbulent European skies. Shame I’ve no beer!

Never mind about being there, seeing history made. German jet genesis, almost mastering state of the art piston engine fighters. Back to my book. At 17 my mates were out chasing girls, I was in the skies.

Dying Pretty

Why now do I look at the Tupolev 160 White Swan and Rockwell B-1B bombers in a new light? Taken aback at how pretty both jet bombers are. Their World War3 mission is a dark job, end of days stuff. Not to be taken lightly, unless you're Dr Strangelove.

Less people die when the American B-1 goes to conventional war. Her nuclear mission is taken over by the B-52 and B-2. Soviet Russia built a design masterpiece by ripping off the B-1, just like they did with Concorde with their Tu-144. Cool jet planes, better than our Western counterparts? Just as cool.

Imagine if the White Swan and Lancer were used in humankind's last battle and that the nuclear mission was given back to the B-1. Each jet carrying twenty four nuclear freefall bombs, one megaton apiece. One million dead per bomb, city killers.

The Russian jets are named after famous pilots. I asked Tupolev why not call one Lilya Litvyak? A lady who I'd like to meet. What she achieved is rather special. See the two swing wing bombers as works of art.

Art not war.