The flames licked round the twisted kite

and there stood Bingo Mearman,

he'd fought the fire with all his might

to save a single airman,

and as he gazed into the blaze,

sweat running down his brow,

his mind it wandered far away,

not if, not who, but how?

 

 

He threw his goggles to the ground

and zipped his jacket high,

prepared to make the sacrifice

for brothers from the sky,

dipped his shoulders, ducked his head,

and lead with one blind arm,

entered the burning fuselage

with disregard for harm.

 

 

The hot air took his breath away.

The heat it dried his eyes.

He stumbled through the wreckage as

he headed to their cries,

his inner self spoke reason

and comforted his fear,

probables were held at bay,

we find a hero here.

 

 

An inferno now raged within

him and the stricken plane,

flicked images of loved ones who

he may never see again,

but programmed now he soldiered on,

a blanket wrapped around

his reasoning and terror;

death's cries the only sound.

 

 

So fierce was the furnace now,

that as the crew were sighted,

poor Bingo he was unaware

his hair had since ignited.

Just as he reached a grasping hand

and saw a melting face

he felt the pain deep in his brain;

the terror of this place.

 

 

Outside he heard calls of his name,

whilst inside no voice broke,

his lungs were scorched and shrinking now,

his throat burned to a choke.

Futility washed over him

and fuelled up the firestorm,

his soles had melted to the spot,

the flames were now a swarm.

 

 

 

He stumbled as he made his way,

fell to his hands and knees,

the molten aluminium

removed his skin with ease.

Spontaneously his tunic

unified with this hellhole,

he retreated to unconsciousness

to join the valour scroll.

 

 

Somehow some lads from 442

retrieved his charred remains,

but didn't gain acknowledgement

for the courage of their pains.

They didn't seek, and none required,

honours, awards, returns,

instead they carried memories

scarred deep within their burns.