Last week I was looking through a chest of drawers when I found my jewel case. I lifted the cover and looked over the items which included tie clasps, lapel buttons from "what-has-been", cuff links, and other like items soon to be relics from our time. I noticed a folded piece of paper tucked in a strap in the lid of the case. I unfolded it and it was a verse titled, "The Last of the Bombardiers". I had cut it from The Bombardiers Magazine decades ago....... -RWR- 21 Aug 1997
THE LAST OF THE BOMBARDIERS (author unknown?)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Down a lonely road on a cold black night,
A miserable beggar trudges into sight,
And the people whisper over their beers--
There goes the last of the bombardiers.
What is a bombardier? -- No reply,
But men grow silent and women sigh,
As a deathlike silence fills the place,
With the gaunt grey ghost of a long lost race.
Fugitive glances from ceiling to floor,
Till someone, or somethimg opens the door,
The bravest of hearts turn cold with fear,
For the thing in the door was a bombardier.
His hands were bony and his hair was thin,
His back was curved like an old bent pin,
His eyes were two rings of black,
And he vaguely mumbled - Shack, Shack, Shack!
This ancient relic of the second world war,
Crept across the room and slouched on the bar,
And in hollow tones from his sunken chest,
Demanded a drink and only the best.
The people said nothing but watched in the glass,
As the beggar produced his bombardier's pass,
With the glass to his lips, they heard him say,
Bomb bays open -- Bombs away!
Then speaking a word he slouched thru the door,
And the last of the Bombardiers was seen no more,
But all thru the years that phrase has stuck,
When you say "Bombardier" you add - "Hard luck."
