At just nineteen he took possession of a mighty B-17,
The Army Air Corp’s durable workhorse
Continental Europe’s liberating air force
The bomber known as The Flying Fortress,
He signed his name on the dotted line, to pilot this war-machine.
No longer a boy in forty-three, he took to the skies in battle,
On December 5 to Paris and back
Then Kiel, Ludwigshafen and Osnabruck
Ringing in the New Year over Cognac,
Five missions into a long campaign, he’s a man not easily rattled.
A man of silent sacrifice
Of the special ones who fly
Young men who defend us
War eagles of the sky.
A modest spiral notebook logs the record of his tour,
In columns, names and dates and years
No embellishments or fanfare
Thirty missions in European air,
A marathon of horror that most men could not endure.
The logbook doesn’t tell the tale of the courage, fear and loss,
Friends like brothers gone too soon
Flak and Messerschmitts at noon
In dense fog the barrage balloons,
Nor does it mention his receiving the Distinguished Flying Cross.
A man of silent sacrifice
Of the special ones who fly
Humble warriors who protect us
Liberators of the skies.
His was the lead position, throughout life as in the war,
Husband, father, grandpapa
Honor, duty, fidelity
Service was his earthly call,
Giving all on every mission, and leaving nothing more.
Upon his final flight from earth, the stars bright in the sky,
The moon casting the fields aglow
Cultivated row upon row
Stars above and stripes below,
Our nation’s banner, as God’s creation, enfolds him in its glory.
A man of silent sacrifice
Of the special ones who die
Our fathers who watch over us
The sentinels of the sky.
~FS
