An Airfield Remembered

We were hungry, tired and dirty, From our shoulders rifles hung, Our clothes were torn, our faces bronzed By long hours in the sun. Here was to be our station, For the war was not yet won, When we came to Little Snoring That fateful June had just begun. Living here among you. We would join you at your play, And, in the quiet of your church We knelt with you to pray. We filled your lanes and byways With laughter and with song. We shared each others sorrows As through life we journeyed on. Here both men and maidens tended To the harsh and warlike needs Of men, who through the dark hours Flew their man-made steeds. The sky at night their hunting ground In which they sought their prey, Returning only when the night Gave way to breaking day. At time when hope was fading They would patient vigil keep, Rejoicing if their crew returned, But often they would weep. They wept for those who ‘ere the sun Had warmed the fresh-turned clod, Had fought their last battle And were at peace with God. I returning to Snoring airfield, The way was hard to find, For over paths and taxiways Nature had thrown a blind Of grass and twisted bramble, Willow herb and clinging vine, No longer there the Nissen huts In which men slept and dined. Forsaken, then the hangars stood, Empty, broken, gaunt and grey, Only wheeling birds were there To welcome me that day. And when some silent mystic hand Rolled back the fleeting years, I saw this dead place filled with life, And my eyes were wet with tears. For one vibrant moment This vast airfield was reborn, Through musty eyes, I saw it rise From amid the standing corn. Men and buildings filled the skyline, At dispersals stood the planes, Then like a wraith all sank to rest Beneath a quilt of grain. I trod the winding path, Unlatched the old oak door, And found there in the house of God That men had kept the score Of all the kills the Squadron made, The honours men had won, A humbled man I closed the door, My visit almost done. I tried to find the work of him Who, when released from duties, Took pain and brush and from his hand There grew a thing of beauty. His gallery was the airmen’s mess, His canvas bare brick wall, All we who served at Snoring His pictures can recall. The ploughshares men shall beat their swords, To pruning hooks their spears, For us the artist there portrayed Our hopes for future years. I knew him well the artist Who did those colours blend, I knew what had inspired him For you see he was my friend. From my full well of memories I drew long and deep that day, Recalled the bitterness of war And the price we had to pay That we might live in freedom, To worship without fear, Is that not what we fought for And why were we stationed here?