An old RAF poem I found.

[veryretiredscribbly]

Wondered if anyone knows the author?


This Afternoon We Burned Our Files (author unknown)


With nods and becks and wreathed smiles,
this afternoon we burned our files.

They told us we could only keep,
what could be carried in a jeep,
but when we've got our bed rolls in,
and packed the old chye swindle tin,
the space that's left is far too small,
to carry any files at all,
and so we took each file we'd got,
and sacrificed the ruddy lot.

It is not often that a clerk,
can leave his desk for such a lark,
but I for one would never tire,
of casting files on the fire.
To stop the papers blowing round,
we dug a deep hole in the ground,
and to be sure that they would catch,
poured petrol on and struck a match.

What joy, what unimagined bliss,
to hear the whole combustion hiss.
What other climax, what elation,
can compare with this cremation?

The greatest moment of our lives,
the arson of admin's archives.
See the stiff red covers wrinkle,
watch the papers catch and crinkle.
Now they've vanished with the flames,
and all their silly pompous names.

Reciepts and issues, Stocks at parks,
Orders for the Duty Clerks,
Battle Orders and locations,
Establishments at Delta Station.
Aircraft--Blenheims and Marauders,
Middle East Accounting orders,
And last of all the fat extraneous,
Correspondence Miscellaneous.

All gone and now we've got a box,
To keep our underclothes and socks.
The filing system's in the grave,
and we no more can be its slave.
Nor will there ever be a stir,
if signals come which cross-refer.
If we don't know what they're about,
we'll never book the blighters out.

And now, we thought, we all stand equal,
but the story has a sequal,
for of course there came one day,
a signal for the AOA,
and written right beside the date,
was Ref, my T.Q 68.

The harrassed duty clerk said *?&? it,
I've no files and I can't flag it,
and unsuspecting took it in,
the AOA turned black as sin and said
in mortfying style: 'I want to see the ruddy file.'

From here of course the story's plain,
We've opened all our files again,
and no longer have we got a box,
to keep our underclothes and socks.

 

[Flybynight]

Brilliant! Very old indeed (the poem I mean) with references to a Jeep (pongos had an updated version called, I think, the Champ when I was in) plus Blenheims and Marauders.

 

[Johned]

An old RAF poem I found.

The Champ did'nt last long flybynight; it was built like a Chinese puzzle, waterproofed and too clever by far but with
no load space. Soon replaced by the ubiquitous Landrover. On the only occasion I drove a Champ, I had to collect a rather crusty Major and deliver him to another unit. A large sign outside the Guardroom indicated drivers were to stop their vehicle and hoot. I recall receiving a summary bollocking from the Major as I was unable to find the horn button (located on the dash not in the centre of the steering wheel). The Martin B24? Marauder was a good medium day bomber but I have read was nicknamed "The Widowmaker" owing to it's high landing speed which caused the demise of quite a few unwary pilots (and their crews) who failed to maintain an adequate speed something to the order of 160 mph I seem to recollect. I were butta lad on the way to school when I used to see them and the Forts going out in the mornings to deal with the dastardly Hun and when leaving school in the afternoon saw them returning some shot up.

 

[insty66]

The poem below was posted in here there's a couple of others too.


Wherever you walk, you will hear people talk,
Of the men who go up in the air.
Of the dare-devil way, they go into the fray;
Facing death without turning a hair.

They'll raise a cheer and buy lots of beer,
For a pilot who's home on leave;
But they don't give a jigger
For a flight mech or rigger
With nothing but 'props on his sleeve.

They just say 'Nice day' and then turn away,
With never a mention or praise.
And the poor bloody erk who does all the work;
Just orders his own beer
And pays!

They've never been told of the hours in the cold
That he spends sealing Germany's fate.
How he works on a kite, till all hours of the night;
And then turns up next morning at eight.

He gets no rake-off for working till take off;
Or helping the aircrew prepare;
But whenever there's trouble, it's 'Quick at the double';
The man on the ground must be there.

Each flying crew could tell it to you;
They know what this man's really worth.
They know he's part of the RAF's heart,
Even though he stays close to earth.

He doesn't want glory, but please tell his story;
Spread a little of his fame around.
He's one of the few so give him his due;
Three cheers for the man on the ground.

Eric Sykes 1942