Whenever April comes around, besides remembering the joy of finally getting outdoors with just a light sweater on and pushing the seeder on the lawn and puttering in the garden, I often think of Browning's verse, "O! To be in England, now that Aprils's there..." And when that brief verse spins around in my brain, I also remember springtime in Dunkeswell in 1943 when on a bright clear day Crew 28 was briefed on a mission and off we went, not knowing if we'd see the sun on the morrow. I don't remember where I got this poem, but it says a lot, and whenever I read it, it sends a tsunami of images through the caverns of my mind.
A POEM
Flying along at two-hundred ten
High in the clear cold air
Don't look like much from the ground,
But were you ever there?
I'll tell you what you would feel
Or what your thoughts would be
With just the sky above
And below the roaring sea.
You're looking out your plexy hatch
Watching the props spin through
You think, "What if they konk out now,
Good Lord, what would I do?
You look down at the roaring sea,
The waves are ten feet high;
I hear you say, "This ain't the place
For a guy my age to die."
Just then the plane begins to dive,
Your heart it skips a beat
Your stomach winds up in your throat
Your ass is off your seat.
The plane pulls up just off the sea
You sink right to the deck;
Your legs are made of rubber
And you think you broke your neck.
You're now again at level flight,
You sit relaxed and sigh;
Who was that guy who one time said
"It was a cinch to fly"?
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