(AA) Canto 22: Battle of Britain
Home Guard
We got a tank-trap too, y’know,
though I cain’t tell ‘e where t’ go
T’zee arr zecret, long an’ wooden
Beau Parke
The Battle for France is truly over,
The Battle of Britain has now begun,
The Royal Air Force versus Luftwaffe,
Her nine hundred outnumber’d three to one;
Vague Sky-lines drawn,
Cautious, star-cross’d fencers,
A first few flights are flown, nose-probing weaknesses.
Sarge hands out two rounds for practice,
“That’s all the top brass could spare;
Lads, aim yer rifles straight at this
Scrawny scarecrow with straw hair…”
As man-to-man his misfits miss,
“Ya bleedin shower, there
Won’t be a second chance wi’ them Germans!”
This time that scarecrow cut into ribbons.
As Sarge shouts, “March!” off they all sail
Into the nearest pub,
Pints of real ale, a Great War tayle,
Plus Mrs Braithwaite’s grub,
Not looking like Britain’s front line, more like a rambling club.
Scarborough
August 1st
1940
Alderangriffe
The mountain trembles to the echoing sound
Of falling rocks, that from her sides rebound.
Each day all respite, all repose denied
Nizami Ganjavi
Black Bentley slinks thro’ Royal Tunbridge Wells,
Crunching begravell’d roads to Calverly,
At Four A.M, punctual as hotels,
Into dark morning’s ill-lit mystery
Out steps Dowding,
Man at the Air Force helm,
Appointment by the King, ‘Defender of the Realm.’
‘Sir,’ was chauffer’d to the centre
Of his Operations room,
“Morning girls, what news the weather?”
“Clear from Deal to Ilfracoombe!”
Cathode BLIPS were growing louder
Bulbs scarletting the gloom,
Models traverse imaginary air,
The stick-work of a master croupier.
“…forty… sixty… eighty… & more
Bandits fast approaching
The Southern shore…” with clammy claw
Pluck’d thistle struck Dowding,
“Send five squadrons to intercept,” his ties unloosening.
Biggin Hill
August 13th
1940
Royal Air Force
I had one faithful comrade
‘Ere we heard the trumpet’s call,
And we pledged our hearts forever
Johann Ludwig Uhland
Crackling speakers announce men to their fate,
The summonstir to scramble & to fly!
“Queen to Bishop seven… that’s check & mate!”
Squeals Ginger up to Squadron-Leader Bligh,
From “Tally ho!”
To cruising thro’ blue skies,
With bold “Bandits below!” they swoop to scoop a prize.
“…in the field of human conflict
Have so many owed so much
To so few!” O how hearts were prick’d
By Churchill’s Tyrtaean touch,
“You know, Nigel, we shan’t be lick’d!”
Both of their spirits such
They crave the day, & that day’s victory,
As if they wait for Spain off Tilbury.
Bligh conducts a daisy-cutter,
Keen to renew the fray,
No time to dine, a swift woodbine,
“A wizard show today!”
The ground crew shout, “She’s ready Nige!” to cockpit, “Chocks away!”
RAF Kenley
August 15th
1940
Spycraft
Mighty the Son who caused our wound –
Him our pursuit can never reach
even were we to raise a host
Mor MacFayden
Beneath the radar screen lone dornier
Ploughs thro’ clouds… from it, leaping overboard,
Danish agents of the Nazi Abwehr
Drift across starlight… on yanking rip-cord;
“What beautiful,”
They thought, “English contree,”
They land… an ankle’s break… “Go, go on without me!”
Hans Schmidt, National Socialist,
Alfred’s fabl’d vales,
Taking photos like a tourist,
Til a shady guy from Wales
Subfluvials a secret list
Of safehouses… avails
Him to… “remain cautious.. avoid the ports,“
Firm handshake & a wad of five pound notes.
By spire & streets, & all around
SNAP-SNAP went camera,
When gone to ground the secret sound
Of his small transmitter,
Hamburg informs of troop manoeuvres thro’ the area.
Salisbury
August 20th
1940
Bombing the Reich
From among us we have sent out
Into the enervating dusk
One little whining beast
Mina Loy
They watch’d the wonder of the Milky Way,
Where Phaeton’s crashing chariot did scorch,
A splash of stars awash with Hera’s spray,
Like glitter in the trail of Luna’s torch;
As mondenschein
Silvers the cloudy seas,
Wings steel’d & aquiline float on propeller breeze.
Chic Xaver basks in revelrie,
Infesting the late night bars,
Vesta’s disturb’d tranquility
As whine-sirens sound for Mars,
Flak throws up flash’d hostility
Where searchlights sweep the stars…
“O what disgraceful form of War to wage!”
Shout sleep-robb’d storm’d round shelters in a rage.
She crawls outside to count the cost,
Picks up the sky-pamphlet,
“The War is lost while you are boss’d
By Hitler’s cabinet…”
“Now they have started something!” “Der Fuhrer shall finish it!”
Berlin
August 28th
1940
The Blitz
In fight for life found class distinction fades,
dying never showed a discriminating face:
serge or barathea alike to Hun or death
Peter Fahy
The scales are tilting from Fighter Command,
Empty steel seats at meal-times ev’ry day,
How terrible the strain upon that band,
When here they come again, the cross & grey!
Twelve hundred planes
In eight-square miles of sky,
Bringing the burning rains to churn the old Thames dry.
At an expos’d heart of Empire
Has the world curtail’d all sense?
Sirens squeal & children cry a
Lament for lost innocence,
Mason’ry crumbles into fire
As Andersson’s defence
Lies mangl’d in a corrugated heap,
Beside which crumpl’d infants charr’d asleep.
The half-lights shine beneath the ground
On tunnels & platforms,
Tho’ songs abound sleep passes round
These snoozy, fidget dorms
Of whiskey, fags, soft sneaky shags & hopes for lonely homes.
Kings Cross
September 3rd
1940
Flirting & Danger
Is it the leaving of life,
Knight, or the yearning to die,
Darkens that notable brow?
Ricarda Huch
Yes, give them trivial frivolities,
Transient pleasuring, inbetween flights,
If by day they dare death, send them jolities
Scented treasures of Arabian nights;
From mortal drunk
Unto utter terror,
Young flyboys practice punk, ’til a fatal error.
As Nelson held the windward line
& Collingwood the lee,
To them, most votive & divine,
More than gasoline, was tea,
& sex, of course, when arches spine
In writhing ecstasy,
Such as the time young siren, Anna Tweed,
Lay fertiliz’d by Nigel’s siring seed.
They waited for them at the base,
Whenever planes did drop
Right out of space, her anxious face
Full fretful ’til the flop,
When she espied her sweetheart’s plane who’d this day dodg’d the chop.
RAF Kenley
September 8th
1940
Inferno
starlings flying in formation,
sudden sharp turns, steep ascents,
swarm on delightful swarm
Jesper Svenbro
Paladin Goering hurls his armada,
English airmen currying twards demise,
Another Phlegra, another Zama,
Unfurling upon frail, blue meadow skies;
“Now is the time!”
Ring-fingers fist a THWACK!
From Cherbourg to Trondheim the Luftflotten attack.
Nigh on ev’ry plane was scrambl’d
As the bloody crux was fed,
What battle royale entangl’d
Thro’ the smoky swirl-skies spread,
When the fate of Britain dangl’d
On such a slender thread?
Unless such loss of pilots sooner staunch’d,
Tomorrow would see the invasion launch’d.
Christ-blood streams from a crucifix,
Rains onto streets aflame,
Firedrake antics like sixty-six,
But this time Lady Dame
Shone brilliant defiance as wave after wan wave came.
London
September 15th
1940
Bligh’s Capture
It’s been a terrible trip;
you should be happy you have survived it
Statistics prove that not many do
Naomi Lazard
There is a heat at the heart of battle
Which only the heroical may bare,
Molder’s aim unlooses brutish rattle,
Sends Ginger smithereening into air;
Life-scything cry
Peals from that pilot’s end,
Poor Squadron-Leader Bligh has lost his perfect friend;
So fell upon the Major’s tail
The bleak, red mist descending,
Lets off such lethal eight-gun hail,
It seem’d t’were never-ending,
Such rages yet condemned to fail
Via skilful wending…
For in pursuit of vengeance being blind
His shores of native safety left behind.
Some sharp-eyed coastal battery
Hath clipp’d the wings off Bligh,
His chute free, proclivity
Drifts slowly thro’ the sky,
At muzzles in a field emits a bitter-season’d sigh.
France
September 19th
1940
Mumble Words 