STUKA

 

Take off is early at dawn; twilight covers our planes in gold sunlight.

We climb so slowly for the sun and its protection on our dangerous flight

to England.

Our deadly load is our bombs, we’ll kill those Tommies just like our

Fuerher says. But are we so bad?

All we do is follow our orders and do our terrible mission.

We reach our target in the morning sun, our bombs destroy it as our orders

told us to, total war in this uncivil age.

Then the Spitfires arrive, we are hit. Oh God, don’t let me die!

Oil pressure zero, wing’s on fire, my gunner dead – oh, why me?

I don’t want to die, I have so much to live for.

Is this what our leader meant when he said our glorious way to heaven?

Victorious Spitfire is flying off my wing. I look at him, so close

in his sleek English killing machine.

Does he fight for a cause or for his country, like me?

Bang! The wing spar burns through, the wing folds up over the cockpit.

Into the sea the Stuka flies. In a second another of Germany’s young

warriors has died. Will his kind ever learn their harsh lesson?

War is costly and what is the point? Young men die.