Ace, Ww I Poem by George Hunter

One day when I was a lad
I was patrolling in my Spad
—I was flying over France
—By the seat of my pants
As very little training I'd had.

One day, while having some beers
They asked for a few volunteers.
—Not may raised their hand
—In this cruel foreign land
For most pilots have short careers.

Then I got some training, as such.
It was not so very much,
—Flew some Camels that fall
—Doing takeoffs and all
But it will have to do in a clutch.

So I thought it was fun,
I was a daring son of a gun.
—I was just flying along
—Singing a song
When it came zooming outta the sun.

In a sec it was on my tail
With the tracers raining like hail
—Stitching holes in my wings
—Like giant bee stings
And I thought that I might have to bail.

I pulled back the stick with a moan
And the plane gave a mighty groan
—Did a loop and a dive
—And just did survive
But I was not quite all alone.

Then I got a little bolder
And looked back over my shoulder
—Saw I was in a bad fix
—With the Hun on my six
And my blood turned a little colder.

And then I saw the joker
A red triplane by Fokker
—It was the Red Baron
—Whose duel I was sharin'
I felt like I was hit by a poker.

I did a zig and a zag
And waved the American flag.
—I'll have to say
—He outflew me that day
And I called him a German fag.

He tried to do his worst
As he gave me a final burst
—I finally had to bail
—To live to tell this tale
And I felt like one accursed.

They call it saving face
But I claim it's no disgrace
—To fail the test
—Vying with the best
And be shot down by the Ace.