"Dear Shipmates -- Naval Air Group 15:"
October 2000 54th Reunion St. Louis, MO
- These are selections from a book of poems, "THEN ... IT"S VERSE," to be published, hopefully soon.
Poetry became an avocation when I retired from the practice of medicine in 1994.
- These pieces are based on experiences in the Central Pacific phase of the naval air war with Japan in 1944 when our group was based in the U.S.S. ESSEX (CV-9). During that period I served as a dive-bomber pilot in Bombing Squadron 15, and later as flight surgeon in the Korean War.
Fleet carrier air groups in these days consisted of about a hundred aircraft of which approximately half were fighters.
The caricatures of aircraft on the front cover represent the types of planes in A.G. 15:
The Grumman F6F HELLCAT fighter, The Curtiss SB2C HELLDIVER scout-bomber and The Grumman TBF AVENGER torpedo-bomber.
- In the days of sails and wooden ships the gun-decks were made of teakwood, reparable after battle damage, but at once a very resilient structural material.
The practice was carried over to the flight decks of earlier carriers.
With the advent of Essex-class ships steel replaced teakwood, but those of us who flew from flat-tops before this advent ever thought of ourselves as flying from teakwood.
Thus, license had been exercised for this presentation.
As ever was, John D. Bridgers, M.D. (CDR, MC, USNR - Retired) Woodbridge, CT
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"Prologue"
You know you're reading poetry if the writer says "it's" verse.
It may be long and epic or it may be taunt and terse.
Its lines may be quite structured on blank and close to prose.
A poem may be varied, may be one or more of those.
Yet, if the writer says it's poetry then it's verse, you may suppose.
The poems often found today in books and magazines
Are not the works that some will take to be what poetry means.
Sometimes there's very little rhyme and meter but with feeble time;
Image one can scarcely ken, that often may seem bad or worse,
But if the writer says it's poetry then one can know it's verse.
You know you're reading poetry if it stands up off the page,
If it's language that is sculpted, erect as on a stage --
If the lines run high and low, aren't words just set into a row --
But are graven there in bold relief, and a shapely flow rehearse --
There if the writer says it's poetry one can know it's verse.
So what is here may seem inane, mere doggerel at most;
With more the shades of Ogden Nash and less of Whitman's ghost.
If you most like your poetry blank then this may seem both rude and rank;
So mutter quietly, if you must, and remember ere you swear and curse --
If the writer says it's poetry then one can know it's verse.
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"Airborne"
What think you when hear a plane -- hear a propeller's tortured whine?
Like thunder curled upon itself -- the sound of power, pure and plain.
What think you when you see it there -- a giant afloat upon the wind?
Wind it makes beneath its wing to hold and move it in the air.
What think you see its grace, sleek and silvered, swimming there?
Like levitation floating in the sea -- the master of its place in space.
What think you of flight -- configured height -- wondrous sight?
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"The Ballad of a Known Pegasus"
We were bound on a grim and grievous work deemed right in light of war.
Surging up the Philippines with a daily raid or more
Most we coursed from south to north, at times we filled the sky,
But this day our guest was to the west to the Island of Panay.
The archipelago lay below, made grand by tropic hand;
Green island masses -- large and least -- suspended in the sea, this land.
Borne by powered turbulence we had nigh climbed three miles high;
And now we rolled across our goal, the Island of Panay.
No mystery that one deed that day but would scant history weave,
And the making of a memory be the main thing we'd achieve.
So circling there in high thin air we dared our foes defy,
And planned our play to have our way with the Island of Panay.
Our's was a minor show of force, the garrison was small.
Our task was simply to harass their only port of call;
To cripple any shipping and break lines of supply --
And so to Ilo Ilo, the harbor of Panay.
We bombers formed like migrant birds, our fighters overhead.
As the fighter wove we bombers dove -- fanned into deadly spread.
We plummeted like flight or kytes -- straight down did we fly;
To better loose our missiles on the moorings at Panay.
The Ilo Ilo layout was modest in its way,
Where a long and slender warehouse crowned a slim and lengthy quay.
Eros and red upon its roof a spot close claimed the eye;
So I took the same as point of aim on the warehouse at Panay.
As down we barged the spot grew large and assumed more shape, of course.
I was aghast that 'midst our blasts was "The Sign of the Flying Red Horse."
This well-known image gave me pause -- I was tempted to pull out high,
For it seemed like dropping bombs at home instead of on Panay.
Today when by the road I see "The Sign of the Flying Red Horse"
I remember that logo on Ilo Ilo, and think of my halting remorse.
That was then and now is now -- five decades since gone by --
But still I'm bent on the minutes spent when once we bombed Panay.
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"An Apse at Sea"
It came to me at war at sea, seen from a rolling deck above.
I sat in line awaiting time for the wind to get me borne.
It appeared not then a time of hawks, but instead a day of doves --
'Twas the hour of worship on a salty Sabbath morn.
On launching trek I rose the deck and soared aloft from off the bow;
My mates and I all turned toward Guam fast into the path of harm.
We flew 'neath a lowering layer of cloud 'midst a misty, squally shower --
Came then to light a wondrous sight as we passed beneath the storm.
At noon-day nigh the sun was high -- shone straight down through the clouds,
With silver shafts extending there as stained-glass colors line the sky.
While arches joined their tops it seemed, by hap mere images of mind,
Yet, a vaulted apse did I descry.
Why exactly came then such a scene at high communion time?
A heavenly sight of great delight in war's tumultuous clime.
It was simply chance, will many say -- just mere coincidence,
But in my mind it's still constrained a half-a-century since.
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"The Psalm of the Erne"
With hulls of steel now pushed by steam instead of ships of wood with sails,
We breast'd the crests of a watery world 'mid bounding waves and hollowed swales --
New dimensions this entailed.
Long have men far left the shore and gone to ships to sea,
But in our day, as not before, there above the waves we'd be --
Unbound from decks, wings set us free.
So have we known both sea and sky and from wave-top wandered to the air.
We found our place in the added space that the heavens offered there.
As we soared aloft from floating lair.
Some day this, too, will be passé, but 'twas a way of sailors in our day.
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"A Clash of Colors"
For days the scuttlebutt had drifted -- gauzy rumors filled the air --
That in the sector, around the islands, the Empire's fleet was massing there.
We had, of course, seen no flotilla -- just a few small escorts in Manila.
We cruised through and struck The Philippines -- covered many islands, many scenes,
But beyond the line where sea meets sky, there formed the stormy battle's eye.
There on an afternoon in late October the whispers grew to sturdy fact.
We scrambled from our decks in numbers, prepared to fly to hell and back.
We took off under lowering skies and climbed 'mid mounting cumuli;
O'er lower Luzon we crested west wondering where our foes could be.
Our fighters reached down to the south and found them in the Inland Sea.
Through clouds we worked across these waters, saw wave tops but in fractured views;
There across our track an oily streak traced a path in iridescent hues to a warship beached inside a cove.
Hap prey of planes or submarines this cruiser would no longer rove -- found requiem in The Philippines.
The "Skipper" bade us turn to port while his group to starb'd went.
Arising there above the clouds were bursts of flak, all spent.
To our surprise each burst was colored bright from red as beets to green as mint;
Each ship thus marking where it shot so better could their gunners spot.
Intrigued by bursting shells that flowered we went the way that we were sent.
Beyond the verge of a towering cloud steamed a battleship, most immense.
We hurtled down in darting dives as her main guns trained aside and fired --
Left her shrouded in a cloud of smoke with flames a-flaring deep inside.
Despite the bombs and "fish" we dropped the big ship neither slowed nor stopped.
We were most surprised to later hear that other strikes had sunk her there.
Through straits the ships left lurked by night and entered into Leyte Gulf.
We thought they'd turned and headed home, but, in truth, they hadn't had enough.
The battle went a full-day more and Leyte entered naval lore.
As we fled away from this affray the ship fired 'til 'twas out of sight.
Through tides of war we made it back, save for the "Skipper" who'd taken flak.
He limped home from this frantic scene and "ditched" when back within our screen.
For the airman war's as if one's deaf for he cannot hear the moan and groan --
He cannot hear the whirr and crash above his engine's constant drone;
So the extra things that he senses are just those things in sight -
So went the days at Leyte Gulf and the things we saw in flight --
But the extra color was enough.
I still see pied and tinted puff -- see the cruiser's eely, oily slick --
I see the wagon's shroud of smoke and flame -- these are snap-shots brought to frame when I remember Leyte Gulf.
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"Twilight Rendezvous"
In century now, just starting new, comes yet another rendezvous.
Far up-and-down, across the land once more we group, a merry band.
Some years before -- nigh three score -- we gathered on the western sea;
Warriors resting on the main, we mounted armored, motored wings --
Flew into grim and grievous things.
With shot and bomb our wings were weighed, yet, somehow in the air we stayed.
We ran down narrow, tossing decks and struggled into flight.
Such was our plight -- such was our might --
"Twas our aim to set "The Rising Sun," bring an end to strife we'd not begun --
Far from done seemed the fight.
Storming island forts, ships at sea, we ranged a-weather, ranged a-lee.
Crossed trackless waters, sailed and flew and did the things that warriors do.
In "vee-of-vees" we'd fly as one, nose toward the foe in "high-speed run."
'Midst thickly scattered bursts of flak -- sometimes colored, sometimes black.
Alone we dived, each dropped his bomb with bitter blast in fiery scrum.
Then we'd scatter, thrown askew, to come again to rendezvous.
With those intact and still a wing again we tracked across the sky.
We throttled back, "leaned" our fuel to keep our tanks from running dry.
A rewarding sight came by-and-by. on the sky-line with their wakes a-plume
Suddenly our ships would loom -- a much awaited lift of gloom.
Around the fleet we closely flew to see our mission fully through.
Low and slow we settle smooth into the flat-top's landing groove --
'Took a cut, breathed a sigh, came aboard and "caught a wire."
In what was less than half-a-block, from full-flight stopped by bridled shock.
We from teakwood back to teakwood soared to find our haven back aboard.
May the wind flow smooth across all decks, may the sun shine bright on gentle waves;
May God bless the isle and ocean graves that claimed our shipmates on such treks.
May, too, He bless the course we take 'til we our final landing make.
As we gather now, may we anew circle soon again in rendezvous.
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