Eric Paeplow

The Scramble - Poem by Eric Paeplow

The air raid siren blares, warning of the coming attack
Running to Spits, in the cockpit, engines running, chalks away
Down the runway we go, getting airborne, before it's too late
Wheels up, engines roaring, we fly to meet our destiny

Having scrambled the wing, now, each of us alone flying
Up to altitude at last, we brace for the coming attack
No time for dreaming, no time, to worry about dying
Next comes the sound of the guns, exploding flak and ack ack

Moving in, we slip into the mainstream, a few sharp bursts, then roll away
Rolling, spinning and pulling G's, fighting to stay in close, we strain
Moving back into the bombers blindsides, to fire at them yet again
The fur-ball a 3D maze, with chutes and burning ships and guns ablaze

Bandits high, moving in behind, from out of the sun they dive
Breaking right, we turn our Spits to face them diving down
Closing now, aiming straight for the lead plane, to pump in some rounds
Another one goes down, on fire, blazing headlong towards the ground

How many more times must we scramble, how many more must die
How many more sorties, before we at last, kill their urge to fight

In honor of great uncle Ronald Boffey, RAF, killed in action, in WWII...

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, October 9, 2012

Poem Edited: Wednesday, October 10, 2012

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