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home aviation aviation aviation links officers mess raf scampton lincolnshire 617 sqd base the dambusters this site is dedicated to the air and ground crews of the royal air force, in and around the county of lincolnshire in the united kingdom during the period 1939/45 of the second world war. the poems on this web site have been written by myself over a period of years, but eventually they will be collated into book form. i do hope that you will enjoy the poems as much as i have had in writing them. they are both happy and sad and reflect the reallity of life in and around raf bases throughout the second world war conflict in both hot, and some times very cold conditions. except for a major repair, like an engine change, a lancaster or similar sized aircraft was serviced outside in all weathers. more poems from my collection will be added to this site in time. several other poems can be seen on: www.airtransportauxiliary.com the poem 'real aviator's' on this page is dedicated to the majority of aviators, aviatrix, and the builders and inventors of the flying machine, who were prepared to give up both life and limb for the sake of aviation and the chance to sore like the birds. deep winter 1940 the only noise to break the eerie silence is the creaking of the bed as i rise. hot ash drops through the grate of the stove as i pass revealing bright red embers of the fire as it gradually sheds a long finger of light all around the room. i quickly wash and shave, trying not to make any noise which may disturb my fellow pilots, dress, and very reluctantly head towards the door. once outside, the comforting warmth of the room is soon forgotten as i become completely surrounded by a bitter winters morning. hoarfrost soon begins to nibble at my extremities, and grass crackles underfoot as i leave a very distinctive path accross winters fresh white carpet. my expelled breath hangs around me like a cloak before condensing away, a bit reminiscent of a turkish bath i had taken while on leave in london. the small amount of heat left in my body oozes away at every opportunity, leaving me shivering to the bone with a figure of collective form behind. i quicken my pace, and although clothed in a thick jumper and two pairs of socks, the thin sharp air soon begins to penetrate through to my temperature reducing mass below. my raf issue sheepskin lined boots although normally very good are no match for this type of weather, and my toes tingle as the cold seeps in making it much harder to walk. i swiftly make for the aircraft but the time seems eternal, my equipment is gradually becoming much heavier as it twists around my legs and slowly begins to slide to the ground. i stop for a moment to recover my breath, dulled tones drift accross my frozen ears sounding much more like a foreign language, and just as bad to decipher. upon reaching the aircraft i stoop holding my knees and gulp air to gain breath and regain my posture, my legs bend as if made of rubber, but i recover just in time to prevent myself from sinking to the ground. breathing has now become forced and my chest is heavy as if it may cave in at any moment. i struggle to climb onto the wing and into the cockpit, but i manage to close the canopy behind me with a swift action as a voiced chorus with a never ending echo rings around my head. i begin to feel a little sick as dizziness caused by lack of oxygen tries to take over my brain, but i try to think positive. the cold metal stings and sticks to my skin, chilblains rush to my fingertips as i reach for my flying gloves. i rub my hands together and begin to feel a little warmer as the circulation begins to return, which allows me to adjust the parachute and harness as i settle down to start the initial start up checks: 1 undercarriage selector lever down, light on. 2 flaps up, landing lamps up 3 contents of lower fuel tank, thirty seven gallons 4 both fuel cock levers on 5 throttle open half inch 6 mixture control, rich 7 airscrew lever, fully forward 8 radiator shutter open i prime the engine, and switch on the ignition while at the same time pulling out the pump handle to give the engine one more prime. i press the starter button and with a reluctant cough the engine begins to turn over. a couple of more minutes pass while cranking the engine before it begins to fire more evenly. when the final preparations and vital actions are complete i slowly taxi accross the grass to depart. i open the throttle through the gate and hold the lever hard against the quadrant in boost position, three thousand revolutions per minute, boost plus twelve and a half. i am soon rolling and quickly become airborne to leave the still white undulating fields below. three hundred and forty miles per hour, and with a quick half roll i turn to starboard and head south, the aircrafts rivets pulsating to the growl of the merlin as i set course in the early morning sun. my body has now recovered from it's early baptisme of a frozen world, but i keep an ever watchfull eye all around. john c haywood copyright © poetry in action 1667 h.c.u. sandtoft (prangtoft) round and round with the h.o.c. mind that chimney mind that tree, throttle control, don't let it sink, or we'll be floating in the drink circuits and bumps both day and night, will we ever get this flying right, single, twin and now the heavy, it's time for the pub, a wad and a bevy well it's got to be done, and it's got to be right, and flying tomorrow will be all done at height, so an early bed makes an early day and increases by twopence our weekly pay we've got the instructor, on this our last flight, so let's show him we're ready to handle this kite, 'now how about corkscrews' it's sure to impress 'is it rudder left over' or yoke, what a mess we should have been higher to miss all the trees, as we came straight and level we rolled ninty degrees. well i don't think he noticed the engineer said, as he lay in the bomb bay rubbing lumps on his head i think that was good lads, let's head back to base 'what's that tom's just shouted 'he's picked up a trace, 'did he say it was foe like' or just a good friend oh! here comes the runway, thank god it's the end. john c haywood copyright © poetry in action home run woodhall spa rolling mist that covers all, with chorused song begins to call entwine the sun to greet the dawn, returning craft on early morn as times long finger quickens on, this deadly flight has almost gone in depth of blue an open sky, loves triumph lost or passing by clouds aloft so whisper thin, guarding aircrew held within awake the night to close the day, infused with colour from lights last ray. john c haywood copyright © poetry in action the watchtower enter the realm of the watchtower drown in nostalgia here-with so the airmen who gave their lives freely rest with the thoughts that we live soak up the spirit abounding let-all your senses take heed spare a thought if you will for these people who rallied to call and to need remember the scene in this tower leave with a memory that's true and think of the airmen still resting watching the sky from the blue. john c haywood copyright © poetry in action dawn departure metheringham watchtower stands forlorn as hoar frost swirls to break the dawn soon sleepy airmen will appear their thoughts beholding hidden fear who knows what fate there is in store till whence returned from foreign shore all watchful eye's see them inside a metal tomb on deadly ride four-engine start up cuts the day while ground crew struggle 'chocks away' each craft departs with waves good-by to slip it's bond and climb on high as one by one they disapear reluctant ground crew shed a tear for well they know with every flight of aircraft who, just out of sight will not return or reach this base their names are posted 'lost no trace' some crews are back their luck held right as dying day sinks quick to night the talk of missing fills the air as lonely room seeks empty chair new friends are made old friends a

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Creation Date: 2008-09-30T11:41:50Z
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  NS1.LIVEDNS.CO.UK 213.171.192.250

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