Wartime Air Force Poetry
I have two; obviously based on the same theme.
The first from the logbook of George Cliff, a tug-pilot with the No1 Glider Training School, (author unknown). The second is by Vernon Willis of the ATA. Both have a RAF Thame connection.
THE FLYING INSTRUCTORS LAMENT
Woe and alack, misery me, I trundle around in the sky,
And instead of machine – gunning Nazis, I’m teaching young hopefuls to fly.
Thus is my service rewarded, – my years of experience paid,
Never a Hun have I followed right down, nor ever gone out on a raid
They don’t even let us go crazy, – we have to be safe and sedate,
So it’s nix on inverted approaches, they stir up the C.F.I.’s hate.
For it’s Oh, such a naughty example, and what will the A.O.C think?
But we never get posted to fighters – We just get a spell on the Link!
So it’s circuits and bumps from mornin ‘till noon, and instrument flying! till tea,
“Hold her off, give her bank, put your undercart down – you’re skidding, you’re slipping” – that’s me.
And as soon as you’ve finished with one course, like a flash, up another one bobs,
And there’s four more to show round the cockpit and four more to try out the knobs.
But sometimes we read in the papers, of the deeds that old pupils have done,
And we’re proud to have seen their beginnings, and shown them the way to the sun.
So if you find the money and turn out the ‘planes we’ll give all we know to the men,
‘Til they cluster the sky with their triumphs, and burn out the beast from his den.
ODD ODE, An instructors lament.
Those of us who were at Thame,
A grass airfield of Harvard fame.
From dawn to dusk, seven days a week,
As instructors worked – no ‘gongs’ to seek.
Training our pupils for fighters fast.
Sighs of relief …. ‘first hurdle’s past!’
The school boss, Derek Pickup,
Saw things through without a hiccup.
His crew I state with modest pride;
ETTMPFG , the drill applied.
Let’s name a few who did their best
To pass their pupils with zeal and zest’.
‘Nobby’ Pearmund, Willis, ‘Fitz: and Coutts.
‘Popsy’ Leonard, Lambert – no line shoots!
So spare a thought for instructors flying
Rewarding work, ‘though sometimes trying.
Their names won’t be in the Hall of Fame
But they don’t care; They played the game!
Go back to Thame all these years on.
Pupils, aircraft, all have gone,
Now no Harvards can be found
But wait, there, on the breeze, a sound
An airscrew, set to ‘Pitch Full Fine;
Ghosts of school kites on the line.
Now long grass and weeds abound
This wartime, flying training ground.
So think awhile of days long gone.
Youth flees, but memories live on.
The poem above was sent to me by Derek Pearmund, son of ‘Nobby’.
Vernon Willis passed away in 2004 before we found out he had written this.
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