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THE IMMORTAL TEN THOUSAND

Time was in the early nineteen forties
When half the world was once again at war,
Brave young men flew out on nightly sorties
To hostile lands beyond their native shore.

These were the men the new historian slanders
Who gave their lives to save the land we love,
Not down in the killing fields of Flanders
But in the black, forbidding skies above.

Ten thousand was, at most, their front line strength.
Like ‘The Immortal Ten Thousand’ of yore
New men replaced the fallen ‘till at length
A hundred thousand fell throughout the war.

As they droned their way through the starry night,
Searchlights, the sparkle of exploding shells
And the Night Fighter, that most dreaded sight,
Would, oft-times, alternate with quiet spells.

Then, in a thrice, the darkness was aflame,
A patch of glittering silver on the ground.
A badge of death and ‘Target’ was its name,
With skill and stealth in darkness it was found.

Soon that patch with yellow flames erupted
As every ‘plane let go its lethal load
That was how each crew had been instructed
And nothing, then, their purpose would erode.

And those below, there’s none for them would weep
Or ever think about those ghastly scenes
For those were days when human life was cheap,
The end would always justify the means.

Then, as they turned and set a course for base,
They saw, around them, little floating fires.
Deep in their hearts they knew, in every case,
That what they saw were comrades’ funeral pyres.

As ever in this war-torn world of strife,
The all too familiar tragic story,
They received, in payment for a short life,
Their reward, eternal youth and glory.

Peter Gould
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