From the Woolner Family
© Leslie Woolner Bardsley
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A Poem
Frank Woolner
Journalist, Headquarters, 3rd Armored Division

Year of writing unknown; apparently 1944-45


Comrade, the skies are boundless today
And knighthood is ruling the blue.
Our spandaus are chattering death on the way,
But our hearts are light, for we're young and gay;
And we know no fear,
And we've nothing so dear
As the black, imperial eagle.

Comrade, I glory as onward we flash
Splitting asunder the cloud with our wings.
Strapped in the cockpit, eyes on the dash,
Whether we live, or whether we crash;
We shall always say,
It's the glorious way,
To die for the maltese cross.

Comrade, my plane's like a thing of life
And the prop is whipping a whirlwind.
I'm ruddering in to the thick of the strife
My wings are cutting the breeze like a knife;
And the sky's aflame...
It's a glorious game,
All for a sable eagle.

Comrade, my wings, they're riddled! on fire!!
I've started the whirling death-dive.
The fuselage is melting, it's junk and it's wire.
It speeds to the earth, to my funeral pyre;
I go down so fast,
A meteor blast, but I laugh!!
As my smoke trail forms... an eagle.

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