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Date Posted: 06:01:02 03/25/01 Sun
Author: David Henry
Subject: Flying in 'Eighteen.

Flying in 'Eighteen.

My father left his regiment early in ‘eighteen.
The desert lost its charm for him so to England’s green
And verdant shores he went; he undertook to train
As a fighter pilot in an aeroplane.

He found the theory very hard, what little that there was,
Although a brilliant horseman, not used to engine’s noise,
Flying made him nervous, and fear, no one enjoys.
Sopwith Tabloid biplanes were not like modern toys.

He hadn’t yet gone solo, still he battled on
With vice-like grip on joystick, sweat upon his palm.
Landing was so difficult - he tried with all his might
As his hours grew swiftly, he never got it right.

One gusty summers evening, a downdraft caught the plane.
He hit the stone wall on field’s edge - he never flew again.
His arm was smashed - Instructor killed - he had concussion too
Armistice was then declared, his flying days were through.

When World War Two was declared, the Old Man head the call.
He joined the Air Force once again, his family appalled.
He did not fly but spent his time instructing guns and drill.
He took young men overseas, their destiny to fill.

When at last I learned to fly many years ago
I pleaded with my father, my skills I had to show.
He never came aloft with me, it gave a little pain.
That ever since that day long past - he never flew again.

David Henry. 26/4/98.

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