Poem

AN “AIRMAN'S SON"

I was just a wee child, when the world went wild,

With warbird, bomb and gun,

Not knowing then, whether or when,

We might see the next rise of the sun,

In this time of great fear, when death seemed so near,

Could we hide or possibly run?

There was nowhere to go, for the place was aglow,

With such chaos, all senses to stun.

I was not quite a lad, when told of my Dad,

And that I was an “Airman’s Son”

He had served with ambition, to fulfil the tradition,

And gave up his life and fun,

With the pride of his Nation, and their brave dedication,

Of Bomber Command, he was one,

Sent to stop the machines, and the ways and means,

Of the foe they called “The Hun”.

However!

Casting ethics aside, High Command did decide,

Area Bombing, would have to be done,

For this task so denied, with convention belied,

“The Whirlwind” was begun,

With his honour all rent, and his valour all spent,

His conscience then twisted and spun,

So he finished it all, yet his way, held no call,

For his memory any to shun.

Many lives and dreams ended, when traditions upended,

In the War that had to be won,

It is a lot of years now, since I found out quite how,

He made that sad final choice,

Yet year upon year, I shed a small tear,

And ponder the thoughts he might voice,

Though he was never quite known, I am ever his own,

And proud to be his “Airman’s Son.”

Dedicated to the memory of my Father,
“SQUADRON LEADER” “MAURICE ROY SKEET.” (39800) “R.A.F. BOMBER COMMAND” (1937-1942)
(Who took his own life on the 26th of June 1942, aged 24)
Michael Anthony Roy Skeet.