donaldbyers
6/17/2014 8:34:40 AM | A MISSION
The fog of England thinning slight,
Standbys were on for all the flights.
I stood and watched the sunset glow,
And trembling thought of tomorrow’s foe.
To sleep that night was all in vain,
But thoughts of dying fell like rain.
I felt my fort blown clean in half,
And heard the German’s victory laugh.
At three-ten sharp the whistle blew,
Out ran the pilots and their crews.
And piled in trucks jampacked, and soon,
We headed for the briefing room.
We saw the map of England plain,
But curtains hid the target’s name.
A ribbon thumb tacked red and bright,
Showed clear our rendezvous and flight.
The curtain from the map was thrown,
The spine chilling target clearly shown.
Deep in the oil fields of the Reich,
A Goering yellow-nose delight.
They told us where the flak guns lay,
How many could shoot at us that day.
And how the cloud bank broke off clear,
When at the target we would steer.
We loaded in those might forts,
With an occasional fifty caliber report.
As a nervous gunner slid in place,
A polished barrel, the foe to face.
We hovered at the runway’s end,
Wing to wing, and fin to fin.
When we saw the flare from the tower glow,
Released her brakes and let her go.
She lurched out like a striking bird,
The roar of her engines for miles was heard.
And down the blacktop runway raced,
Like a beautiful swan, the sky to face.
Up from the fog drenched land we climbed,
Then breaking clear where the sunlight shines.
Soon looking down on the fogbanks glow,
Like a solid drift of purest snow.
Up from the blackened earthen hearse,
To where God’s beauty cannot be versed.
We came where only eagles fly,
In the clear and peaceful sapphire sky.
And there I felt the hand of God,
Take hold of mine, and smile and nod.
Even the birds from here fall not,
Without the Father’s notice brought.
A peace that cannot ere be told,
Came over my troubled, worried soul.
I dreamed of home and peace sublime,
As higher our beautiful fortress climbed.
We headed across the great North Sea,
Straight as the flight of a honey bee.
And came all too soon to the shores of France,
Where began that awful game of chance.
First the smoke puffs black, that now looked thin,
Split by our graceful dorsal fin
Until hoary black became the sky,
Then glowed the center of the flak’s red eye.
And many a fort close by our side,
Lurched and paused in its graceful stride,
Like a sickened bird, with a sudden haze,
Plunging down and back before our gaze.
I watched their tumbling spinning plunge,
As ever downward my turret swung,
Until through clouds they disappeared.
And, I prayed for voices I’d never hear.
Then the wing man on our right,
Blew to a million pieces, in a gory sight.
And silence filled its roaring place,
As it disappeared into blacken space.
Out from a day that once was bright,
Into the hell of the battles night.
As sickened ships sunk in the gloom,
And wondering when would be our doom.
At last when out the barrage of flak,
And closing ranks took up the slack,
The new crew on our right was Tom’s
Who flew his ship with greatest calm.
And gathering high at one o’clock,
We saw the swarm of bee like dots,
And knew that Goering’s Messerschmitt's,
Would soon be there to give us fits.
Then in they came like swarms of bees,
As fingers to the triggers freeze.
We saw their noses, burst red with flame,
As eternally it seemed their passes came.
Tom’s ship was hit, paused in flight,
Praying, I counted their shoots so white.
George, and Bill, Jim, Ted, and Slim,
As their ship plunged down through the battles dim.
Tom, and Fred, and Joe that’s all,
No, that’s just nine – where’s Ben Nuxall?
But down it fell in the cloud bank white,
And disappeared from my tortured sight.
Then over the target clear and bright,
Our bomb ran perfect, in level fight.
And “Bombs away!, get the hell outta here”
Came over the intercom, from the bombardier.
And turning for home our lights forts sped,
With anxious heart, our Colonel led.
And shunning every possible gun,
In close formation our fortress swung.
Though many a battle twixt there and home,
At last the shores of England shone.
The beautiful, beautiful England shore,
Tom’s ship was hit, paused in flight,
Praying, I counted their shoots so white.
George, and Bill, Jim, Ted, and Slim,
As their ship plunged down through the battles dim.
Tom, and Fred, and Joe that’s all,
No, that’s just nine – where’s Ben Nuxall?
But down it fell in the cloud bank white,
And disappeared from my tortured sight.
Then over the target clear and bright,
Our bomb ran perfect, in level fight.
And “Bombs away!, get the hell outta here”
Came over the intercom, from the bombardier.
And turning for home our lights forts sped,
With anxious heart, our Colonel led.
And shunning every possible gun,
In close formation our fortress swung.
Though many a battle twixt there and home,
At last the shores of England shone.
The beautiful, beautiful England shore,
Where tomorrow we’d rise to fight once more.
Contributed by Will Smith
Will's Grandfather was Clair Shadwell Smith he flew over 20 missions total before he was grounded. He stayed in Deenethorpe as a ground crew member for the duration of the conflict. He was the crew chief on "Caroline" under Capt. Garland and by right should have been the top turret gunner, but he was smaller so he flew as the ball turret gunner. He flew several missions with the crew of "Hell's Angels out of Chute 13" as well.
Thank you Will !!!
Sgt. Donald C. Byers, 613th Bomb Squadron, Togglier, 42-97344 Carrie B II, KIA 08/24/1944.
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