Across The Mediterranean

During WWII my father flew fighter planes that also carried bombs. His unit experienced 180% casualties. If new pilots survived after a couple of weeks their odds of survival went way up and veteran pilots would finally make an effort to get to know their names. The saying then was; "There are old pilots and bold pilots but no old bold pilots".

Dad crash landed five planes. One time his plane belly landed on the make shift air strip, skidded to the end of the runway which ended at a cliff, and then went over the cliff. He said he remembered climbing up the embankment, yelling "I'm OK, I'm OK" and then waking up on his cot with no idea how he got there.

The poem below is based on a story he wrote for The Catholic Digest. It tells the story of a mission that took him from his base in North Africa, crossing the Mediterranean Sea, to Italy. This ended up being the end of the war for him.


Across The Mediterranean 

How did it feel in that brisk chilly air
above rough and deep hazy seas
on way to a coast where enemy camped
between autumn's late season trees

Head on a swivel for incoming dots
a sharpened knife strapped to your side
thoughts of the service you're missing right now
to deliver bombs for a ride

Were senses composed when load was released
then heightened while turning to leave
as flack signed it's name and an oil line ceased
did you sense life leaving your steed

When altitude dropped to four hundred feet
with cockpit jammed open to fly
your chute took one swing fore hitting the waves
were worries this was sweet goodbye

Nylon entangled then dragged down below
quick slashing each strand with your blade
inflated Mae West to battle the deep
were you wake when rescue was made

They said your fingers were glued to a pole
twenty minutes to pry away
were prayers or keen steel or new wedded life
which carried your hopes through the day

In ravages war many stories told
brave people that traveled the sky
who wondered like Dad why hate had to rise
still left for his son to ask why