An Airfield Remembered Poem by Anonymous British

We were hungry, tired and dirty,
From our shoulders rifles hung,
Our clothes were torn, our faces bronzed
By long hours in the sun.
Here was to be our station,
For the war was not yet won,
When we came to Little Snoring
That fateful June had just begun.

Living here among you.
We would join you at your play,
And, in the quiet of your church
We knelt with you to pray.
We filled your lanes and byways
With laughter and with song.
We shared each others sorrows
As through life we journeyed on.

Here both men and maidens tended
To the harsh and warlike needs
Of men, who through the dark hours
Flew their man-made steeds.
The sky at night their hunting ground
In which they sought their prey,
Returning only when the night
Gave way to breaking day.

At time when hope was fading
They would patient vigil keep,
Rejoicing if their crew returned,
But often they would weep.
They wept for those who ‘ere the sun
Had warmed the fresh-turned clod,
Had fought their last battle
And were at peace with God.

I returned to Snoring airfield,
The way was hard to find,
For over paths and taxiways
Nature had thrown a blind
Of grass and twisted bramble,
Willow herb and clinging vine,
No longer there the Nissen huts
In which men slept and dined.

Forsaken, then the hangars stood,
Empty, broken, gaunt and grey,
Only wheeling birds were there
To welcome me that day.
And when some silent mystic hand
Rolled back the fleeting years,
I saw this dead place filled with life,
And my eyes were wet with tears.

For one vibrant moment
This vast airfield was reborn,
Through musty eyes, I saw it rise
From amid the standing corn.
Men and buildings filled the skyline,
At dispersal stood the planes,
Then like a wraith all sank to rest
Beneath a quilt of grain.

I trod the winding path,
Unlatched the old oak door,
And found there in the house of God
That men had kept the score
Of all the kills the Squadron made,
The honours men had won,
A humbled man I closed the door,
My visit almost done.

I tried to find the work of him
Who, when released from duties,
Took pain and brush and from his hand
There grew a thing of beauty.
His gallery was the airmen's mess,
His canvas bare brick wall,
All we who served at Snoring
His pictures can recall.

The ploughshares men shall beat their swords,
To pruning hooks their spears,
For us the artist there portrayed
Our hopes for future years.
I knew him well the artist
Who did those colours blend,
I knew what had inspired him
For you see he was my friend.

From my full well of memories
I drew long and deep that day,
Recalled the bitterness of war
And the price we had to pay
That we might live in freedom,
To worship without fear,
Is that not what we fought for
And why were we stationed here?