Printed in the Times of London, October 31st, 1943.

Fighter Pilot.

I think that it will come, somewhen, somewhere
In shattering crash, or roaring sheet of flame;
In the green-blanket sea, choking for air,
Amid the bubbles transient as my name.

Sometimes a second's throw decides the game,
Winner takes all, and there is no re-play,
Indifferent earth and sky breathe on the same,
I scatter my last chips, and go my way.

The years I might have had I throw away;
They only lead to winter's barren pain.
Their loss must bring no tears from those who stay,
For Spring, however spent, comes not again.

When peace descends once more like gentle rain,
Mention my name in passing, if you must,
As one who knew the terms - slay or be slain,
And thought the bargain was both good and just.