poems from a soldier, in another War

[collwen]

Aunt Glady told Ed and I to go into her house and take some things, jewelry for me, including a locket that her parents had given her, and she gave my brother our Uncle's Purple Heart. When looking at the stuff in the box with the medal in it, we found two poems that he had written. I have some of the other poems he wrote, but they're at home.

PFC Edward J Cady 1917 - 1945
Awarded the Purple Heart Sept. 30, 1945 for wounds received on July 29, 1944 in France.

The poems aren't dated. And it looks like there is some truth to the saying "there are no athiests in fox holes." And the editor for LJ kind of sucks... or I'm just used to using Semagic so much that trying to cut this was a pain in the rear.

Poem 1- Untitled
Look, Lord, I have never spoken to you
But, now I want to say How do you do?
You see, God, they told me you didn't exist,
And like a fool, I believed all this.

Last night from a shell-hole, I saw your sky.
I figured right then they had tole me a lie.
Had taken the time to see things you made,
I'd have known they weren't calling a spade a spade,

I wonder, God, if you'd shake my hand.
Somehow, I feel that you will understand.
Funny, I had come to this hellish place
Before I had time to see your face.

Will, I guess there isn't much more to say
But I'm sure glad, God, I met you today.
I guess the "Zero Hour" will soon be here,
But I'm not afraid since I know you're near.

The signal, will God, I'll have to go.
I like you lots, this I want you to know.
Look now, this will be a horrible fight,
Who knows, I may come to your house tonight.

Though I wasn't friendly to you before,
I wonder God, if you'd wait at your door?
Look, I'm crying. Me! Shedding tears,
I wish I'd known you these many years.

Poem 2- 'Final Flight'
When the last long flight is over
And the happy landing's past
And my alimeter tells me
That the crack-up's come at last
I'll point her nose for the celling
And I'll give crate (?) the gun

I'll open her up and let her zoom for the airport of the sun
Then the great God of flying men
Will look at me sort o' slow
As I stow my plane in the hanger
On the field where flyers go.

Then I'll look upon his face
The Almighty Flying Boss
Whose wing spread fills the hangar
From Orion to the cross.

Comments

[whildbill.livejournal.com]

Nice poems...


And I'll give crate (?) the gun Your question mark, or his?

[collwen.livejournal.com]

mine... I can't quite figure out the word or the context.

[whildbill.livejournal.com]

The poem is written in flying/aviator terms... In the 30's, 40's and 50's, the word 'crate' was a slang term for plane, especially (I think) one that's well used or beat up.

I think there's a "the" missing in there (the crate), but essentially, those two lines, he's "saying point the nose of the plane up and floor it".

[collwen.livejournal.com]

so:

I'll point her nose for the celling
And I'll give the crate the gun

?

[whildbill.livejournal.com]

Yes.

[whildbill.livejournal.com]

Was he a flyer in WW II?

[collwen.livejournal.com]

He was Army, but I don't know if he was a flyer or not. Then again, since the Air Force was not offically formed untili 1947, it's possible. I'll have to ask.

[whildbill.livejournal.com]

Yeah... In WW II, the air operations were under the Army (Army Air Forces(?)). That's why I asked...

[collwen.livejournal.com]

According to Mom, he was infantry, but we'll have to check with Aunt Glady (this uncle is on my Dad's side, Glady is his sister).

[whildbill.livejournal.com]

Ok.