(Poem and thoughts published here with permission of the author-NWM)
*Old B-17G*
A battle bird she - -
Silver, scarred, old:
Yet, standing there deserted,
She seemed somehow new and young
Majestic, beautiful - -
Step next to her and glide
Away to spinning heights,
Hemmed in by Hurricanes,
Roaring Thunderbolts, and Spitfires
Headed for fear, heroism,
Terror, and tragedy - -
Touch her and soar
With Valkyrie Mustangs
Through countless billowing miles
Past oceans, islands, and coastlines - -
Over fields, factories, and bursting shells - -
Close your eyes and see,
Cradled within her - - Men - -
Young and valiant - - sons and fathers - -
With sweaty brows and flaming guns,
Battling 'gainst freezing cold,
Snarling Messerschmitts,
And flashing Folk-Wulfs at 20,000 feet - -
Lean against her and feel
The throbbing, pulsing rumble
As she lumbers back in the darkness,
Shuddering - - nursing an engine - -
Straining with the labor - -
Of bringing home - - her wounded - -
Then open your eyes
And look up at the sun
As it shines sparkling - -
From her smooth skin, her turrets,
Her gleaming windscreens,
The gentle lines
Of her curving wings - -
And you'll fight back tears
As I did, my friend - -
Raymond Scott Ormond, Cpt. UtANG (Ret.)
(comments by the author-ed.)
Dear War Bird Folk:
Back in 1984, I took my 4 young boys (the youngest is now 35) to Salt Lake Airport #2 to see an air show put on by the CAF, to give them some clue of the type of planes their grandfather had trained and flown in during a distant piece of history called "World War II." Dad had been dead for 3 years, but I was still missing him, despite our many disputes. He had trained as crew chief on B-25s, B-17s, B-24s, and B-29s. He also ended up as crew chief over five P-51Ds with the 47th Fighter Squadron, going in to Iwo Jima in the first week of April 1945. He helped get damaged B-29s back into the air, loaded P-51Ds with bullets and bombs for Tokyo and survived Banzai attacks screaming down in the dark from Mt. Suribachi - -
Cutting to the chase, as we entered the crowded airfield, huge groups of people were gathered around several vintage and restored aircraft, but almost ignored, sitting out by the taxiway was a B-17G, silhouetted like your picture. A chill ran through me despite the fact it was a very hot May day. It was as if Dad were there by me. I took my wife and four sons towards it. The pilot, co-pilot, crew chief were there - - middle aged guys. "My dad trained in one of these," I said. I think they already sensed it. They let us look around as they prepped for takeoff - -
Anyway, when I got home, I wrote this poem. I've done time in the Army and Air Force both (22 years), so my imagination is well charged from a combination of Dad's stories, infatuation with WW II literature and film, and personal experience. The poem was for the kids. They've gone their ways. Two eventually went in the Air Force. Being able to touch that plane that day meant a lot to me - - rso ... See more
