The Royal Air Force Hero and the Luftwaffe General
Britain fought for her life.
Hitler’s armies prepared
For an invasion of England.
Savage air battles took place
Over the skies of Albion.
Then a miracle happened:
In the summer and autumn of 1940
The Royal Air Force defeated
The numerically superior Luftwaffe.
This was a turning point in the war.
Lacking adequate air support,
The Fuehrer could not carry out
His invasion plans.
Deeply touched by the heroism
Of the pilots, Winston Churchill said:
“Never in the field of human conflict
Was so much owed by so many
To so few”.
Only three thousand young aviators
Defended the skies of England;
Among them scores of Jewish pilots.
The British ace pilot Robert Stanford Tuck
Was one of the outstanding Jewish heroes
Of World War II. He was born in 1917
And grew up in the Greater London district
Of Catford. In 1935 the 18-year-old Robert
Joined the RAF. During the war
He distinguished himself in the skies
Of Dunkirk and in the Battle of Britain.
A Flight Lieutenant and Wing Commander
With 92 and 257 Squadrons, Tuck became
One of the top ace aviators of the RAF,
Credited with 29 confirmed victories
Of downed enemy airplanes. Flying a Spitfire,
He had first engaged in aerial combat during
The Battle of France and claimed
His first plane kills over Dunkirk.
In September 1940,
As the Battle of Britain
Gathered momentum,
Tuck was promoted
To lead the 257 Squadron
Of Hawker Hurricanes.
He had an exceedingly eventful
Combat experience; was shot down
Four times, collided twice, crash landed,
Got dunked in the English Channel
And was wounded twice.
On an August day of 1940
Tuck was on patrol in his Spitfire
And got into a dogfight
With a Junker 88 over Kent.
His plane was hit by enemy fire.
He managed to bail out
While the aircraft crashed
On a nearby farmland.
Tuck found himself descending
with his parachute towards Plovers
In Horsmonden. He reached ground
On the estate of Lord Cornwallis.
The Lord was curious to see
The unexpected visitor.
He gave a warm welcome
To the vertically arrived guest
From the sky and then invited him
For a cup of tea.
One day in the winter of 1942
Tuck flew over northern France
Outside Boulogne when his airplane
Was hit by enemy flak.
He force landed and was captured
By the same German units
That he strafed just a short time earlier.
The Nazis knew very well
That Tuck was an ace pilot of the RAF.
General Adolf Galland himself came
To interrogate him.
One of the top pilots of Hitler,
The general was a war criminal.
He developed carpet-bombing tactics,
Which he tested during the Spanish Civil War.
He flew with the Condor Legion
Of the Luftwaffe and participated
in the terror bombing of Guernica.
By the way, the 1937 horrors
of that Fascist atrocity moved Picasso
to paint one of the grand cultural icons
of the 20th century, titled “Guernica”.
Now dissatisfied with the performance
Of his air force in the Battle of Britain,
Goering promoted Galland to the rank
Of Inspector General of the Luftwaffe.
When Tuck fell into Nazi hands,
Galland was curious to meet him.
The Luftwaffe general
Treated the British ace pilot with respect
And even provided him with a slap-up meal.
Tuck became a prisoner of war
But in February 1945
He succeeded to escape.
Walking eastwards he reached
The Soviet Red Army lines.
The Russians allowed him to travel
To Moscow where he showed up
At the British Embassy.
He returned to England via Odessa.
After the war, it was Tuck’s turn
To interrogate Galland.
Then a curious thing happened:
The former German Nazi
And the British Jew
Became close friends.
In celebrating the metamorphoses
Of a new era wherein former enemies
Turn into allies, Galland made Tuck
An honorary member
Of his old German flying squadron.
Tuck and Galland struck a lasting friendship
And instead of shooting at each other
They went together for game hunting.
Then the year of 1969 arrived
And they both accepted the role
Of serving as technical advisors
For the film of the Battle of Britain.
The war became a movie.
Robert Stanford Tuck died in May 1987.
A few days after his death an obituary
In The Los Angeles Times said that
Many consider Tuck “as the greatest
Spitfire pilot of all times”.
The article paid homage to the courage
Of the ace pilot who went to combat
Facing death in the eyes with the bravura
Of a guarded levity of the heart
Combining it with excellent technical aptitude
And sterling flying skills.
In 1940 the King personally awarded Tuck
With the Distinguished Flying Cross,
Stressing the aviator’s initiative
And personal example over Dunkirk.
During the war Tuck was also decorated
With the medal of the Distinguished Service Order.
The life of Robert Stanford Tuck affords intriguing
Insights into the strange peculiarities of wars
And the irrational nature of human conflicts.
It poses an array of inquisitive questions
regarding the historical context and futility
of organized violence, the unnecessary sufferings
and avoidable horrors that we humans inflict upon
Each other.
It also reveals some bizarre ironies
Of the Holocaust. After all, a friendship
Between a Nazi Luftwaffe general
And a Jewish ace pilot of the RAF
Stands out as a very odd alliance.
Yet human history offers
Countless bizarre stories.
poem by Paul Hartal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Tuck Your Shirt In
My name is Holly
And I like
I'm so glad that you asked me out tonight
Our conversation over dinner was really nice
But don't forget you still owe me dessert
It's 12 we missed the late show
So let's head over to this joint that I know
Everytime I take someone it's always such a ride
But there's a dress code
You've got to follow
There's no exceptions
And once you're in
If you want TMA
You better need to be
Oh baby
But before you enter
Tuck your shirt in
No way you'll get rid of
Other clothes
If you don't follow this
One moment
Tuck your shirt in
La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la
We're probably gonna need to call a cab
Ten minute walk over there and back
But I think it's best we
Save our energy
Tonight I'm really on the grind
Otherwise I'd normally wait a while
Before I'd ask
Somebody to my party
But there's a dress code
You've got to follow
There's no exceptions
And once you're in
If you want TMA
You better need to be
Oh baby
But before you enter
Tuck your shirt in
No way you'll get rid of
Other clothes
If you don't follow this
One moment
Tuck your shirt in
La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la
But there's a dress code
You've got to follow
There's no exceptions
And once you're in
If you want TMA
You better need to be
Oh baby
But before you enter
Tuck your shirt in
No way you'll get rid of
Other clothes
If you don't follow this
One moment
Tuck your shirt in
TMA
You better need to be
Oh baby
But before you enter
Tuck your shirt in
No way you'll get rid of
Other clothes
If you don't follow this
One moment
Tuck your shirt in
La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la
song performed by by Holly Valance from Footprints
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The White Rose of Stalingrad
Her nickname was Lilya.
In the Great Patriotic War
When Hitler’s armies invaded the Soviet Union
She became a Soviet air ace,
Known as the “White Rose of Stalingrad”.
Lydia Litvak was born
Into a Moscow Jewish family.
In 1935, at the age of 14, she joined a flight club
And a year later she had her first solo flight.
When the Germans attacked Russia,
Lilya joined the Soviet Air Force.
In the summer of 1942 she was assigned
To the 437th Combat Regiment
Fighting over the skies of Stalingrad.
At first the men were reluctant
To take her seriously
But soon it became evident
That she was an excellent pilot.
Lilya was a pensive and beautiful young woman
Who got into trouble because of deviating from
The prescribed dress code of the Soviet Air Force.
Once she cut off the fur lined trim of her boots,
Producing from it a fur collar for her flight suit.
She was jailed for the offense.
Nevertheless, her desire for expressing
Her feminine individuality was irrepressible
And she continued to design
Her own military outfit.
Among other things she bleached her hair.
Military regulations permitted this.
And then she took pieces of parachute silk,
Sewed them together,
Painted them in different colors
And wrapping them around her neck
She created her own air combat fashion.
Lilya flew a Yak-1 fighter plane,
Which she embellished in painting white roses
On its sides. She made her first kills
Of enemy planes on September 13,1942,
Shooting down two Luftwaffe aircrafts,
A Ju-88 and a Bf 109 G-2.
The German flyer of the downed Bf 109
Was Erwin Maier, a decorated combat pilot.
He bailed out and parachuted
In Soviet-held territory. He asked his captors
To see the Russian ace that shot him down.
When the Soviets brought in Lilya,
Maier thought first that they made him the butt
Of a Bolshevik joke. But after Lilya showed him
Her flight maneuvers in the dogfight,
The German pilot’s disbelief turned
To surprised admiration.
Once, during a mission, Lilya was wounded
And she belly-landed in fascist-held territory.
German soldiers were rushing from every direction
On the field to catch her. She could see them
Running towards her with their weapons in hand.
Yet before they could take Lilya captive,
A Soviet aircraft appeared from the clouds
And landed next to her. Its pilot helped her climb
Onto his plane and took off as fast as he could
Under intense enemy fire.
On another occasion, in the course of air combat
Lilya was wounded in her leg but kept engaging
The Nazi aircrafts. She had whirled between
The enemy planes painted with black crosses
On their fuselage and the underside of their wings,
The swastika insignia hectoring on their tails.
She fired at the enemy aircrafts
With high explosive ammunition
From her 20 mm cannon
And 12.7 mm heavy machine gun
And at the end she managed to bring back
Her Yak-1 to base.
Lilya’s daring exploits included the destruction
Of a German observation balloon,
Which the Wehrmacht used
For artillery targeting against Red Army positions.
The hydrogen-filled balloon was protected
By an alignment of anti-aircraft guns that created
A deadly fire wall. The balloon flew high and far,
Out of the range of the Soviet artillery
And no Red Air Force pilot succeeded
To shoot it down.
Lilya volunteered to do the seemingly impossible.
First her commanders did not endorse the sortie
Because they regarded it as a suicide mission.
But Lilya devised a plan
Of approaching the balloon
From an unexpected direction, flying over
Enemy-held territory.
She succeeded to shoot it down.
August 1,1943, was another exhausting
And bloody day of the war.
Lilya already completed three sorties
But was sent again to take off with her squadron
And escort a formation of Ilyushin II-2 planes.
As the Soviets were returning from their mission,
two German Bf-109 fighters dived on Lydia’s Yak-1.
Her plane was hit. Smoke began to pour
From its fuselage.
The German pilots recognized the white roses
Painted on the aircraft and now as many as eight
Messerschmitt Bf-109 fighter planes joined
In pursuing the damaged Yak-1 plane
Of the Soviet ace.
She could not bail out.
Her plane crashed but did not explode.
Lilya was killed of a head wound.
She was twenty one years old.
Lilya shot down 12 enemy air planes in the war
And was the top scoring female fighter pilot
Of the Red Air Force. She and her close friend,
Katya Budanova, were the only two female aces
Of the Second World War.
In 1990 USSR President Mikhail Gorbachev
Posthumously awarded Lydia Litvak
The gold medal of the Hero of the Soviet Union.
poem by Paul Hartal
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Forever Young
What really baffles me?
Is how women of today
Are for ever
Trying to look young
A nip a tuck
A way to smooth out the lines
How can one define?
What God gave to thee?
My mind just boggles
At all the attempts
To look so young
Just to be caught
Behind a false face
Of make believe
I may wear lipstick
Or a foundation at times
But good grief
A nip and tuck
It's too primitive to me
I cringe at the thought
Of a knife wielding its way
To remove my real face
And place one that's a fake
I hold my head high
And damn glad to say
The face that you see
Yes! That's the real me
poem by Kaila George
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Their element is to attack, to track, to hunt, and to destroy the enemy. Only in this way can the eager and skillful fighter pilot display his ability. Tie him to a narrow and confined task, rob him of his initiative, and you take away from him the best and most valuable qualities he posses: aggressive spirit, joy of action, and the passion of the hunter.
Adolf Galland in Luftwaffe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Framed
The lots are a collusion of lawn tools
Rakes bark at sidewalks
Mowers ruminate, roaring in fescue
Pink flamingo statuary and black jockeys
Vie for spritz from rain birds
The straw hat ladies sit on wicker benches
In a garden of sculpted shrubbery
They sip tea from painted dragon china cups
glinting in the summer morning sun
Moving in arcs from laced limbs
The gentry and their servants
The fingers and the cup
Possessing themselves for eternity
“I’m thinking of a tuck”
“ I don’t think a tuck will do you”
“ My God your catty”
laughter erupts from calamity
from an assembly of uncommon alliance
“ I think body replacement would be more like it”
silence warps from light hearted bantering
the pulsing jets of rainbirds
the tinkling of spoons and saucers
“ Your roses are beautiful, just dreamy”
“ I could sit here forever “
poem by George Murdock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Many pilots of the time were the opinion that a fighter pilot in a closed cockpit was an impossible thing, because you should smell the enemy. You could smell them because of the oil they were burning.
quote by Adolf Galland
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Battle Of Britain: Attacking Enemy Aircraft
Life is diced in fatal split seconds agonized flying.
Hurricane's weakness is comparative acceleration
offset by frame design extreme strength ruggedness.
Spitfire Me109 are dueling paired equals between
12,000 and 17,000 feet but above cut 20,000 feet;
Messerschmitt preys supreme out dived opponents;
but required much more skilled physical effort to fly.
Weak narrow undercarriage caused many fatal accidents
in take off especially landings in cramped cockpit but;
over Battle of Britain skies skill fate decides who dies?
Nazi Germany flies fighter aircraft veteran blood bathed legions.
Me109B-C models achieved blooded success in Civil War Spain.
Legion Condor's fighter unit spat swift death in floods of flames.
Lufwaffe's most successful wartime fighter pilots many received
operational blooding in Spain on developing early Me109 models.
August 1940 twenty-three Gruppen are in action on Channel front;
equipped mainly with new improved Me109E-3 which mounted;
death two machine guns in the nose two machine guns in the wings.
Nerves stretch various strengths shortcomings of Nazi Messerschmitt;
against RAF Hurricane RAF Spitfire largely cancelled out in combat.
Radar warns mass attacking enemy aircraft are;
coming in fighters fast scramble climb how far?
Operational heights gunfights haunt shot bar!
Good pilots dance a screaming dive dice death
combat inexperience quickly sliced new deck!
Youth pilots strapped into rotating blades in flight;
powered motors surge at prey target enemy bomber bay.
Rain of steel or bombs away a deadly game to play!
Good pilots trace desperate spins loops sky dives
roulette wheel slots death chanced blacks to reds!
Compasses fuel gauges throttle spinning rip firing burning;
fighting in 'Vic' fives on wing leader dealt death loosing.
Fighting in finger fours meant twos stay together winning?
Life survival paired few fighters survived lamb split alone
experienced Messerschmitt ME109s sought out stray solo sheep!
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Without seeing the mountain, do not tuck up your skirt, without seeing the water, do not take off your boots.
Only in the spirit of attack, born in a brave heart, will bring success to any fighter aircraft, no matter how highly developed it may be.
Adolf Galland in Luftwaffe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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According to Goering and the Luftwaffe High Command, they were supposed to be the fighter elite.
quote by Adolf Galland
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Boy
Stand up straight
Boy
Tuck your shirt
Wipe your face
Nobody likes a crybaby
Boy
Baby boy
Dry your eyes
Welcome to the world
Boy
Stand up straight
Baby boy
Dry your eyes
(Don't hit your sister)
Don't hit your sister
Shut your mouth
Wipe your hands
Don't you cry
Tuck your shirt
Turn off the TV
Don't hit your sister
Get a job
Turn it down
Find a girl
Rule the world
(Do you call that music)
Don't sing high
Boy
Use your sense
(Cut your hair)
Get what you want
Shoot your gun
Cut your hair
(Cut your hair)
Drop your phone
Dance with your hands down
Use your name
Rule the world
(Keep it inside)
It's your right now
Don't hit your sister
(Nobody likes a crybaby)
We like girls who are thinner, baby
(Don't hit your sister)
Nobody likes a crybaby boy
Baby boy
Stake your coin
(Shut your mouth)
Drive your car
(What's is your problem)
Buy a bigger one
(Tuck your shirt in)
(Cat caught in your tongue)
Choose a book
(Don't make me show you)
Shoot your gun
(If I have to find it)
Don't get me angry
Don't sing high
(I have to use it again)
(Don't make me)
Don't get me angry
(I don't have to use it again)
Baby baby
(Shut your mouth)
Baby boy
(Don't hit your sister)
Keep the noise down
Boy
Use your sense
Baby boy
(Nobody likes a crybaby, boy)
Lift some weights
Win the race
Baby boy
Tuck your shirt
Everybody likes a winner, baby
(Don't hit your sister)
Everybody likes a winner, baby
Everybody likes a winner
Everybody likes a sinner, baby
Ace the test
Find a girl
Buy a home
(Clean your plates)
Settle down
(Eat your vegetable)
Keep your feelings deep inside
(Don't be late)
Don't sing high
Don't make me use it
We like girls who are thinner, baby
Better lift some weights
We like girls who are thinner, baby
Feed your dog
(Better lift some weights)
(Shut your mouth)
Shoot your gun
Drop your phone
Drive your car
(Don't make me angry)
It's your right now
Don't sing high now
Find a girl
Clean your room
Baby baby baby baby boy
(If I have to find it you'll be sorry)
We like boys who are trimmer, baby
We like girls who are thinner, baby
Boy
Baby boy
We like girls who are thinner, baby
Baby boy
Don't sing high
Boy
Baby boy
Go to sleep
song performed by by Darren Hayes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gotcha
Winter’s not yet here so they’re still around
We long for the snow that would send them to ground
If your leg was a peg, you’d be half ok
Just hope they want the right one on that day
You know they’ve found you when you hear that buzzing sound
You could be skinny, or fat and round
As they tuck into that blood so rich
You know you’ve been had when it begins to itch.
poem by Brian Roy Skyers
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I think, on a larger note, that filmmakers and studios should start to tuck it in a little bit, because films wouldn't have the pressure they have if the word wasn't out about how expensive they were.
Grandparents
What's it really like?
To have a grandparent
I ask
Do they tell you stories?
Of old about their life
Do they tuck you in bed?
As you turn out your light
Do they hug you with love?
And tell how great you are
Do they love and support you
No matter what your parents say
Do they shower you with gifts?
Just because they love you so
Do you have special memories?
That only you three should know
Wouldn't that be grand?
To know someone like that
To share your life's secrets
From family's strife and woes
So cherish ever moment
Ever story ever told
So with feeling and sadness
I say this with due respect
Just be damn grateful
They touched your life and soul.
Something alas I really never had.
poem by Kaila George
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The clock
Consider not it a meek sound,
This tick tucks tick tuck of the clock,
They, on your precious life,
Are strokes of deadly hammer.
poem by Jahan zaib
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The battle of Majuba Hill
With Major General Sir George Pomeroy in command
the Hussars, Gordon Highlanders,60th rifles
and a contingent of the naval brigade,
climbed Majuba hill
and was in battle forced down
the back again.
At dawn the British army
had taken the steep hill
and the Boer commando’s camp
laid on the plain below
and Major General Sir George Pomeroy,
was just a bit to comfortable
with their position on the summit
and the Boers were at their mercy,
or so they thought.
The Boers saw British soldiers
on top of Majuba hill
waving the Union Jack
and under cover,
they started to climb
the steep slopes.
On a February late summer day
the Boer commando
blended with their farming clothes
into the field, into the hill.
Every rock and crevice,
every redoubt and counterscarp
was a natural hiding place
to lay siege on that Majuba hill.
The British infantry wore red jackets
and blue trousers
and white pith helmets on their heads
and was a fine example,
of an invading Super power’s military might.
They thought what damage could a
citizen force militia in jackets,
trousers and slouch hats
with hunting rifles do,
against a empire’s
well trained soldiers?
What they did forget,
was they were facing
a nation of exceptional men
who fought savage men and cruel beasts
to make a living
and every one a great marksman.
In integrity the Boers prayed
and believing in God,
climbed that hill
in broad daylight.
George Pomeroy was dead
shot thought the head
and accurate shots rang out
while fire and movement tactics
turned that battlefield into a slaughtering
and British soldiers died one by one
and tried to flee
down the rear slope.
All of Great Britain’s victories before
never prepared that empire,
for the treatment that it got
from a bunch of hard-bitten farmers
that believed in the power of God
and brandished modern rifles.
[Reference: The battle of Majuba Hill. Battle between the Transvaal (ZAR) republic and Great Britain on 27 February 1881 in South Africa, which won the first Anglo-Boer war. “Three Boer groups were led by Field Cornet Stephanus Roos, Commandant D.J.K. Malan and Commandant Joachim Ferreira against Major General George Pomeroy.” It consisted of about 400-500 Boer farmers in a citizen force militia against 405 British infantry. On the side of the Boers 1 was dead and 5 wounded and of the British 92 were dead (including their General) ,134 wounded and 59 captured.]
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Some otherwise sane scientists have seriously proposed that we tuck this deadly garbage under the edges of drifting continents but how can they be sure the moving land masses will climb over the waste and not just push it forward?
quote by David R. Brower
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Time to be with myself, this self, this self, this self
I put my hands in the side pocket of my pants
Tuck my polo, gel my hair, smooth and stiff
Put on my shoes, my wristwatch is tight,
Zip my skin to keep both bones and flesh
Follow the narrow path and walk
Without looking back
It is now this time
For myself
To
Where?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What i think about you......
I think your wounderful and even smart, your so romantic thats coming from my heart, your so perfect and kind that i'll always be dreaming that you'll be mine, yoru always caring never swearing, your always loving never running, your so clear that i'll never say what ever, i think you handsome and funny that you'll never go runni, i think your royal and loyal that you'll never spin the oil, your so fantastic and you'll never do gymanstics.
poem by Kimberley Tuck
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Babes In The Bush
Dozens of damp little curls;
One little short upper lip;
Two rows of teeth like diminutive pearls;
Eyes clear and grey as the creek where it swirls
Over the ledges—that's Tip!
With a skip!—
A perfectly hopeless young nip!
Smudge on the tip of his nose;
Mischievous glance of a Puck;
Heart just as big as the rents in his clothes;
Lungs like a locust and cheeks like a rose;—
Total it!—there you have Tuck!
And bad luck
To the man who would question his pluck!
School is all over at last—
School with its pothooks and strokes:
Homeward they toddle, but who could go fast?—
So many wonderful things to be passed—
Froggie, for instance, who croaks
'Neath the oaks
By the creek where the watercress soaks.
Sandpipers dance on the bars;
Swallows, white-throated and fleet,
Dip thirsty beaks in the stream as they pass;
Smooth water-beetles that twinkle like stars
Watch the gay dragon-flies greet.
Hark how sweet
Is the pipe of the tiny pee-weet!
Near, too, the earth is all torn:
Strong, willing workers have thrown
Great heaps of tailings, smooth-polished and worn,
Round the mysterious caverns that yawn—
Stacks of the snowy quartz stone,
Grass-grown
Piles of the Earth's dry bone.
Grasshoppers chirp on the brace;
Briars drop berries blood-red
Into the mouldering void of the race;
Green mosses flourish on cutting and face;
Children speak softly, with dread,
When they tread
In this desolate place of the dead.
‘Tum on!' said Tip, ‘here's a nest!'
Looking behind as he ran.
‘No,' said his brother, expanding his chest,
‘I like to play at pro'pectin' the best'—
Thumping a rusty old pan;
Then began
To wash up a dish like a man.
‘Tum on! here's four little eggs!
Do tum!'—he whimpers his lip:
A-tremble his eyes, wet by tears as he begs,
And sharp briars are scratching his legs.
A branch strikes his face like a whip;
Then a slip—
And a shaft swallows poor little Tip!
Peering and catching his breath,
Tuck felt his little heart swell:
Nothing at all could he see underneath—
P'r'aps poor old Tippy had gone to his death—
Would it hurt him if he fell?
Who could tell
The depth of that horrible well?
‘Tippy! oh, Tip! are you dead?' . . .
Never a sound or a sigh!
Tuck held his breath, his heart heavy as lead:
Then: ‘Tuck! where are you? I've hurted my head!'
Came up the quav'ring reply;
And a cry:
‘Oh, Tuck! don't go 'way, or I'll die!
‘Tuck! it's so dark; I'm afraid!' . . .
He drew down his eyebrows and frowned
Up the creek, down the creek, somewhat dismayed.
Miles to go home; but, again, if he stayed,
How would they ever be found Underground
In that cavern that swallowed all sound?
‘Tuck, I'm all covered with blood!
Sobbed the small voice without cess.
‘Why don't you help me up out of the mud?'
Tuck foraged out a long length of pine wood;
Stripped off his little print dress,
And—just guess!
Rigged a white flag of distress!
Truly the depth was not great—
That, though, the babe did not know;
Lowering himself till the whole of his weight
Hung on the fingers that clutched the blue slate . . .
‘Please God!' . . . he let himself go;
And I trow
That angel hands caught him below.
Never a scratch or a mark!
No, and not even a tear!
Little hands feeling their way through the dark . . .
What if that other should be stiff and stark?
‘Here I am, Tippy! quite near—
Oh, dear!'
Then came the answer: ‘I'm here!'
Crouched in the mouth of a drive,
Tippy sobbed out his delight—
Not so much hurt, after all—quite alive:
Almost convinced that no harm could arrive
Now that Tuck's arms clasped him tight.
Then the light
Died slowly, and lo! it was Night.
Above—the flag blows to the air:
Sad parents seek vainly and weep:
There are lights 'mid the thistles, and cries of despair:
A rifle cracks loudly, and bonfires glare . . .
Below—where the blind creatures creep,
Hidden deep,
Two pretty babes smile in their sleep.
poem by Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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