K-Car
To the memory of the Rhodesian Helicopter Pilots and
the 20mm cannon Gunner.Two men one helicopter;
known as K-car…..Killer-car.
A formidable force in the Rhodesian Bush War.
RHODESIAN K-CAR
‘Chopper’ pilot calmness,
Cannon gunner’s skill,
Two minds in perfect harmony,
Flew in now for the kill,
Ten comrades in arms,
Pinned down by enemy fire,
Ambushed and compromised,
Their backs now to the wire.
One pilot and one gunner,
Men who knew no fear,
S.O.S. came through to them,
Urgent… but so clear,
“K-car, Call sign Bravo, ”
“Contact, contact, contact”!
Pilot with nerves of steel,
And veraciously exact,
“We have you visual, four o’clock”,
Crackled in the pilot’s ear
He responded calmly “Roger
Call sign Bravo… illuminate a flare”
Flare lit up and in they flew,
Oblivious of the danger;
Twas deaths turn to roll the dice,
With life their coin of wager.
Two hands upon the cannon grips,
One finger on the trigger,
Gunner’s eye took a site,
Through peep site to the jigger;
Bullets ripped into the cockpit,
Of that killer-car machine,
Barely two year out of school,
K-car gunner… aged nineteen
Fire Force airborne pilot,
Turned cannon to the smoke,
Gunner pressed the trigger,
And the dragon now awoke;
Twenty millimeter cannon,
Boomed forth volcanic life
Spewing deadly rounds,
Of instant death and strife.
No place for enemy to hide,
From this matchless opponent;
Terrorists now in full flight,
Were gunned down in a moment.
The Kill-car hovered overhead,
Just six foot off the ground,
Two enemy lay screaming,
But from thirty dead…no sound.
Most men of war, whom I knew then,
Have turned now to the Lord,
They have turned into plow shears,
Their weapons and their sword.
Lord please teach us here in Africa,
Love for one another;
Take xenophobic intolerance from us,
Teach us to love our brother.
poem by Alf Hutchison
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Related quotes
A Military Incident
Dawn heralded the coming sun
Fort Douglas was computing
The minutes-and the sunrise gun
Was manned for his saluting.
The gunner at that firearm stood,
The which he slowly loaded,
When, bang!-I know not how it could,
But sure the charge exploded!
Yes, to that veteran's surprise
The gun went off sublimely,
And both his busy arms likewise
Went off with it, untimely.
Then said that gunner to his mate
(He was from Ballyshannon):
'Bedad, the sun's a minute late,
Accardin' to this cannon!'
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Alone Tonight
Here I am
I’m waiting for you
And I got nothing
Left to loose
Take my hand
I need to show
Who I am
And I‘ve got nothing left
To prove
Oooh
Your not gunner be alone
Tonight
And if it feels right
Then we just might, just might
Your not gunner be alone
Tonight
Let’s forget the fights
There you are
Sitting in the dark
Wish I could mend
Your broken heart
You look at the
Stars
And wish you could
Go that far
Away
From this place
Oooh
Your not gunner be alone
Tonight
And if it feels right
Then we just might, just might
Your not gunner be alone
Tonight
Let’s forget the fights
Your not gunna be alone tonight X 2
poem by Ashton Curtis
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The Sunset Gun
Off Santa Cruz the western wave
Was crimson as with blood:
The sun was sinking to his grave
Beneath that angry flood.
Sir Walter Turnbull, brave and stout,
Then shouted, 'Ho! lads; run-
The powder and the ball bring out
To fire the sunset gun.
'That punctual orb did ne'er omit
To keep, by land or sea,
Its every engagement; it
Shall never wait for me.'
Behold the black-mouthed cannon stand,
Ready with charge and prime,
The lanyard in the gunner's hand.
Sir Walter waits the time.
The glowing orb sinks in the sea,
And clouds of steam aspire,
Then fade, and the horizon's free.
Sir Walter thunders: 'Fire!'
The gunner pulls-the lanyard parts
And not a sound ensues.
The beating of ten thousand hearts
Was heard at Santa Cruz!
Off Santa Cruz the western wave
Was crimson as with blood;
The sun, with visage stern and grave,
Came back from out the flood.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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What Have the Cavalry Done?
What have the cavalry done?
Cantered and trotted about,
Routin' the enemy out,
Causin' the beggars to run!
And we tramped along in the blazin' heat,
Over the veldt on our weary feet.
Tramp, tramp, tramp
Under the blazin' sun,
With never the sight of a bloomin' Boer,
'Cause they'd hunted 'em long before --
That's what the cavalry done!
What have the gunners done
Battlin' every day,
Battlin' any way.
Boers outranged 'em, but what cared they?
"Shoot and be damned," said the R.H.A.!
See! when the fight grows hot,
Under the rifles or not,
Always the order runs,
"Fetch up the bloomin' guns!"
And you'd see them great gun horses spring
To the "action front" -- and around they'd swing.
Find the range with some queer machine
"At four thousand with fuse fourteen.
Ready! Fire number one!"
Handled the battery neat and quick!
Stick to it, too! How did they stick!
Never a gunner was seen to run!
Never a gunner would leave his gun!
Not though his mates dropped all around!
Always a gunner would stand his ground.
Take the army -- the infantry,
Mounted rifles, and cavalry,
Twice the numbers I'd give away,
And I'd fight the lot with the R.H.A.,
For they showed us how a corps should be run,
That's what the gunners done!
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Gunner Joe
I'll tell you a seafaring story,
Of a lad who won honour and fame
Wi' Nelson at Battle 'Trafalgar,
Joe Moggeridge, that were his name.
He were one of the crew of the Victory,
His job when a battle begun
Was to take cannon balls out o' basket
And shove 'em down front end o' gun.
One day him and Nelson were boxing,
The compass, like sailor lads do.
When 'Ardy comes up wi' a spyglass,
And pointing, says "'Ere, take a screw!"
They looked to were 'Ardy were pointing,
And saw lots o' ships in a row.
Joe says abrupt like but respectful,
"'Oratio lad, yon's the foe."
'What say we attack 'em?' says Nelson,
Says Joe 'Nay lad, not today.'
And 'Ardy says, 'Aye, well let's toss up.'
'Oratio answers 'Okay.'
They tossed... it were heads for attacking,
And tails for t'other way 'bout.
Joe lent them his two-headed penny,
So the answer was never in doubt.
When penny came down 'ead side uppards,
They was in for a do it were plain,
And Joe murmered 'Shiver me timbers.'
And Nelson kissed 'Ardy again.
And then, taking flags out o' locker,
'E strung out a message on high.
'T were all about England and duty,
Crew thought they was 'ung out to dry.
They got the guns ready for action,
And that gave 'em trouble enough.
They 'adn't been fired all the summer,
And touch-holes were bunged up wi' fluff.
Joe's cannon, it weren't 'alf a corker,
The cannon balls went three foot round.
They wasn't no toy balloons either,
They weighed close on sixty-five pound.
Joe, selecting two of the largest,
Was going to load double for luck.
When a hot shot came in thro' the porthole,
And a gunpowder barrel got struck.
By gum! there weren't 'alf an explosion,
The gun crew were filled with alarm.
As out of the porthole went Joseph,
Wi' a cannon ball under each arm.
At that moment up came the 'Boat-swine'
He says 'Where's Joe?' Gunner replied...
'E's taken two cannon balls with 'im,
And gone for a breather outside.'
'Do y' think he'll be long?' said the 'Boat-swine'
The gunner replied, 'If as 'ow,
'E comes back as quick as 'e left us,
'E should be 'ere any time now.
And all this time Joe, treading water,
Was trying 'is 'ardest to float.
'E shouted thro' turmoil of battle,
'Tell someone to lower a boat.'
'E'd come to the top for assistance,
Then down to the bottom he'd go;
This up and down kind of existence,
Made everyone laugh... except Joe.
At last 'e could stand it no longer,
And next time 'e came to the top.
'E said 'If you don't come and save me,
I'll let these 'ere cannon balls drop.'
'T were Nelson at finish who saved him,
And 'e said Joe deserved the V.C.
But finding 'e 'adn't one 'andy,
'E gave Joe an egg for 'is tea.
And after the battle was over,
And vessel was safely in dock.
The sailors all saved up their coupons,
And bought Joe a nice marble clock.
poem by Marriott Edgar
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The Science of Freedom
For Joseph Beuys,1921-1986
The coordinates of history are the masters of fate:
Where and when we are born determine paths of destiny.
You were fascinated by art but worked as a circus acrobat.
You enrolled to study medicine but Hitler’s war came
And you volunteered to fly in the Luftwaffe.
Diving almost vertically from the skies
You were a rear gunner on a JU 87 Stuka bomber.
Plunging downward with accelerating speed,
The sirens on the wheels screaming terrifyingly in the wind,
Your plane descended on its targets, bringing devastation
And horror to distant lands and nations.
And then,
On a deadly mission in 1943,
Russian fire hit your plane
And you crashed in the Crimea,
The co-pilot killed.
You were severely injured
and say Tatars rescued you,
Covered your body with fat and wrapped it in felt
To keep you warm and so they saved your life.
You created a personal myth out of your wounds
A resurrection and the longing for warmth,
The yearning for caring human contact.
After the war, when you were released
From the British prisoner camp,
You went to study art in Düsseldorf.
You became a professor of sculpture fond of performance.
Once in 1965 walking in a gallery, your face covered
With honey and gold leaf, you held a dead hare
In your arms and explained to it the pictures.
For you, art was the science of freedom
A healing force capable of saving the planet.
In the last years of your life your hands planted
Seven thousand oaks in Kassel.
poem by Paul Hartal
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The Mosquito's Bite
To tell a story I wield my pen,
Of a poacher who waited outside a den,
He cocked his gun and took his aim,
To shoot an animal he knew was lame.
The pug marks on the mud,
Revealed that it hobbled,
And instantly the poacher knew
That many a time it had stumbled.
Time flew by, the jungle became darker,
The night grew older, the huntsman became wearier.
From inside the den, he heard a soft growl,
And hoped that the tiger would soon be on the prowl.
Out of its home, the predator was on his way,
But little did he know that now he was the prey.
The gunner fired with deadly precision,
At the tiger in his sight,
But at that instant, from a mosquito,
His trigger finger took a bite.
The shot awakened the entire jungle,
But it did not hit its mark,
The bullet zipped past its target,
And slammed into a tree's bark.
The Hunter cried out in pain,
All his efforts had gone in vain!
The tiger turned around and fled,
Into the undergrowth, across a grassy bed.
A miracle saved this tiger but many others are not so lucky!
poem by Shashwat Chaterji
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Lord Roberts
1914
He passed in the very battle-smoke
Of the war that he had descried.
Three hundred mile of cannon spoke
When the Master-Gunner died.
He passed to the very sound of the guns;
But, before his eye grew dim,
He had seen the faces of the sons
Whose sires had served with him,
He had touched their sword-hilts and greeted
With the old sure word of praise;
And there was virtue in touch and speech
As it had been in old days.
So he dismissed them and took his rest,
And the steadfast spirit went forth
Between the adoring East and West
And the tireless guns of the North.
Clean, simple, valiant, well-beloved,
Flawless in faith and fame,
Whom neither ease nor honours moved
An hair's-breadth from his aim.
Never again the war-wise face,
The weighed and urgent word
That pleaded in the market-place-
Pleaded and was not heard!
Yet from his life a new life springs
Through all the hosts to come,
And Glory is the least of things
That follow this man home.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Costs crores
Costs crores
To train a pilot.
No body can fly
Without pilot.
You are my only pilot
I cost nothing
It is you to take my flight
Without any hazard.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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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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The Devil Dogs
Through grain fields with bayonets fixed,
from Belleau Woods the Germans came.
The sixth Marines in shallow pits
unleashed a deadly metal rain.
The French collapsed upon the left
Their flank exposed by craven fear
The Marines held fast when urged to flee:
'Retreat? , Hell we just got here.'
By June the sixth, it fell to them
to take a Hill to save the French.
A German company with machine guns
waited for them well entrenched.
With tactics from another war
Audacious yes, but not too clever
'Come on, you bastards' Dan Daly roared,
'Do you really want to live forever'
With casualties high, so many dead
The Marine Corps held the hill by night.
Counter attacks were fended off
some times with fists and K bar knife.
Now the cannon of both sides
rained steel where the combatants stood:
A once beautiful preserve of princes
was turned into a shattered wood.
Through mustard gas and cannon fire
The Marines advanced into the Wood.
Silenced machine guns and cut bared wire
Till the enemy fled, this time for good.
Before the flag at Iwo flew,
Before the Canal's jungle squalor
Marines were nicknamed 'Devil Dogs'
by the Germans who admired valor.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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That Terrifying Enemy
Two weeks after I graduated from high school,
I was in the Air Force.
Patriotic and eighteen.
Scared as hell during basic training...
But ready to kick plenty of ass!
And working hard during the week,
To receive a weekend pass!
Time seemed less urgent then!
We knew we would accomplish things!
And certain we were we would win!
Fourty-three years ago...
I wanted it known I wished to save souls then.
I wanted to be a pilot and fly,
But I became a poet with a pen!
And times have changed since then as well!
Now it is not clear,
Who is fighting for what and 'why' it should matter?
We have consciously let our treasured ideals...
Lose it's appeal to keep falsities,
In minds scattered!
And those with barely any military experience at all...
Have taken my home,
And given it away.
For a price we all now pay!
Greed has been that terrifying enemy,
That has brought upon us a failure.
Greed has been that terrifying enemy,
That has brought to us this grief!
Greed has been that terrifying enemy,
That brings us no relief...
To cease and/or free us!
Greed has been that terrifying enemy,
That has been camouflaging peace!
And the awareness of this has increased!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Craven
Over the turret, shut in his iron-clad tower,
Craven was conning his ship through smoke and flame;
Gun to gun he had battered the fort for an hour,
Now was the time for a charge to end the game.
There lay the narrowing channel, smooth and grim,
A hundred deaths beneath it, and never a sign;
There lay the enemy's ships, and sink or swim
The flag was flying, and he was head of the line.
The fleet behind was jamming; the monitor hung
Beating the stream; the roar for a moment hushed,
Craven spoke to the pilot; slow she swung;
Again he spoke, and right for the foe she rushed.
Into the narrowing channel, between the shore
And the sunk torpedoes lying in treacherous rank;
She turned but a yard too short; a muffled roar,
A mountainous wave, and she rolled, righted, and sank.
Over the manhole, up in the iron-clad tower,
Pilot and Captain met as they turned to fly:
The hundredth part of a moment seemed an hour,
For one could pass to be saved, and one must die.
They stood like men in a dream: Craven spoke,
Spoke as he lived and fought, with a Captain's pride,
'After you, Pilot.' The pilot woke,
Down the ladder he went, and Craven died.
All men praise the deed and the manner, but we—
We set it apart from the pride that stoops to the proud,
The strength that is supple to serve the strong and free,
The grace of the empty hands and promises loud:
Sidney thirsting, a humbler need to slake,
Nelson waiting his turn for the surgeon's hand,
Lucas crushed with chains for a comrade's sake,
Outram coveting right before command:
These were paladins, these were Craven's peers,
These with him shall be crowned in story and song,
Crowned with the glitter of steel and the glimmer of tears,
Princes of courtesy, merciful, proud, and strong.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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Report from a commander of a Ratel armoured car (cavatina)
(after Randall Jarrell)
From my mere childhood I was called-up
to the army,
found myself in walls of armoured steel;
the enemy
roared in with Russian battle tanks,
never free
from projectiles that were exploding,
life was a very rude awakening.
[Reference: "The death of the Ball Turret Gunner" by Randall Jarrell.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Hawke
In seventeen hundred and fifty-nine,
When Hawke came swooping from the West,
The French King's Admiral with twenty of the line,
Was sailing forth to sack us, out of Brest.
The ports of France were crowded, the quays of France a-hum
With thirty thousand soldiers marching to the drum,
For bragging time was over and fighting time was come
When Hawke came swooping from the West.
'Twas long past noon of a wild November day
When Hawke came swooping from the West;
He heard the breakers thundering in Quiberon Bay,
But he flew the flag for battle, line abreast.
Down upon the quicksands roaring out of sight
Fiercely beat the storm-wind, darkly fell the night,
But they took the foe for pilot and the cannon's glare for light
When Hawke came swooping from the West.
The Frenchmen turned like a covey down the wind
When Hawke came swooping from the West;
One he sank with all hands, one he caught and pinned,
And the shallows and the storm took the rest.
The guns that should have conquered us they rusted on the shore,
The men that would have mastered us they drummed and marched no more,
For England was England, and a mighty brood she bore
When Hawke came swooping from the West.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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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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When a test pilot comes off a flight, there is typically another pilot who is going to take it up, and he believes in the debriefing. You don't keep something to yourself.
quote by Wally Schirra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My lord, I will tell you what the case was. I was coming up within a league of the Dutchman, and some of my men were making a mutiny about taking her, and my gunner told the people he could put the captain in a way to take the ship, and be safe.
quote by William Kidd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Yes, I am a pilot. I am a flight instructor and a commercial pilot.
quote by Treat Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Blind Bid to Boston
The pilot left his seat.
Some stood upon their feet.
They looked in disbelief.
But none of them could fly,
Or dared to even try.
The pilot munched on snacks.
And then he took a nap.
No one knew what to do.
No one there before had flew!
And then someone yelled,
'Hey, let's play 'Bid Whist'?
It's the best when there's tension.
Hey...let's all play Bid Whist.
Someone might get a Boston or two! '
As turbulence rocked the plane,
Someone bid a five 'no'...
Downtown without any fear.
Another nixed that,
By declaring a six low.
In 'diamonds' they said very clear.
And everyone there in the air,
Forgot their cares.
No one dared to mention their plight.
They were all in the game of 'Bid Whist'
And one aboard made a blind bid,
To Boston that night!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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