Fighter Pilot (Nickle on the Grass)

Flying West

I hope there's a place, way up in the sky,
Where pilots can go, when they have to die.
A place where a guy can buy a cold beer
For a friend and a comrade, whose memory is dear;

A place where no doctor or lawyer can tread ,
Nor a management type would ere be caught dead;
Just a quaint little place, kind of dark, full of smoke,
Where they like to sing loud, and love a good joke;
The kind of a place where a lady could go
And feel safe and protected, by the men she would know.

There must be a place where old pilots go,
When their paining is finished, and their airspeed gets low,
Where the whiskey is old, and the women are young,
And songs about flying and dying are sung,
Where you'd see all the fellows who'd flown west before,
And they'd call out your name, as you came through the door.
Who would buy you a drink, if your thirst should be bad,
And relate to the others, "He was quite a good lad!"

And then through the mist, you'd spot an old guy
You had not seen in years, though he taught you to fly.
He'd nod his old head, and grin ear to ear;
And say, "Welcome, my son, I'm pleased that you're here."
"For this is the place where true flyers come,"
"When their journey is over, and the war has been won."
"They've come here at last to be safe and alone"
"From the government clerks and the management clone,"
"Politicians and lawyers, the Feds and the noise,"
"Where all hours are happy, and these good ole boys"
"Can relax with a cool one, and a well deserved rest;"
"This is heaven, my son......You've passed your last test!"

TWA Captain Michael J. Larkin
1991

High Flight

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And have danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds -- and done a hundred things
Your have not dreamed of -- wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew.
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

By Pilot Officer John Gillespie Magee Junior
No 412 Squadron R.C.A.F.
Killed December 11th 1941

This `n That
ODE TO THE 45TH FIGHTER & SIDI SLIMANJE

The 86 flies o'er the field and says I'm on the break,
My fuel is down to minimum, the strip I might not make.
The tower says to 47s, "Please stand by, you see,
For any time those bastards land it's an emergency!"

A Tiger is a little man who tools a Sabre-Jet
His scarf is long, his gas is short, and he's not grown up yet.
He flies around as fast as sound and makes a lot of noise,
But so does Junior in his crib when playing with his toys.

We've been your guests for 6 long weeks and loved your BOQ
Your steaks are thick, so are the flies, we say "Marci Bo Koo.
The days are hot, the nights are cold, your pilots are the same,
How long can SAC stay over here and play this awful game?

Now please don't get the wrong idea, we like the Tigers fine,
We knew that when the whistle blows, you boys will hold the line.
If you can do as well as we and keep our strip intact,
We'll buy a drink when we get home and slap you on the back.

We hate to leave your sacred base you think so much about,
But yle will part without a tear but not without a shout.
We've had our fill of desert sands and fighter pilots guff,
Our plea to Uncle Curt Lemay is we have had enough.

For we're the boys of 2nd Wing you've heard so much about,
The mothers take their daughters in whenever we go out.
We're always full of whiskey and we're full of booze,
For we're the boys of 2nd Wing, now who the hell are youse?

author unknown

(Sabre Jet Classics Volume 17 Number 1)

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