For My Father: WWII Bomber Pilot

There's a Quonset hut in Heaven
where all bomber pilots go.
It sits on the edge of the tarmac
in the pre-dawn indigo.

Inside the doors the chairs are filled
with each re-united crew,
the bonnie lads who saved the world
and gave the devil his due.

The men all spring to attention
when the brass comes through the door.
Not one sound was made,
they were needed once more.

These were the lads who gave their best,
and they'd do it all again,
for love of King and country,
for love of flying a plane.

Group Captain welcomes the men,
Wing Commander then takes over.
He steps up to the shrouded map
and deftly removes the cover.

The world spreads out before them
but no streamers mark their way.
No routed destination,
no bombs to drop today.

No enemy planes will be in the sky,
No ack-ack fire below.
The Wing Commander smiles and says
He doesn't care where you go.

Today the flight is just for you,
the world is yours as well.
You've earned it boys, Group Captain says,
for all your flights into hell.

Today the sky belongs to your crew,
the flight plan yours to make.
Fly till you touch the face of God,
today's mission's a "piece of cake."*

These were the lads who gave their best,
and they'd do it all again,
for love of King and country,
for love of flying a plane.

* "Piece of cake," was a term the lads used for any destination that wasn't Berlin.