1. As Flak Goes By - Author unknown You must remember this That flak don't always miss And one of you may die. The fundamental thing applies As flak goes by--- And When the fighters come You hope you're not the one To tumble from the sky The odds are always too damned high As flak goes by 's and 210's knocking at your gate Come on you jokers, come on kill that rate And should a bomb hang, salvo don't wait The targets passing by--- It's still the same old story A tale that's too damned gory Some brave men have to die The odds are always high As flak goes by.

2. MY BUDDY They say he died in glory, What ever that may be
MY BUDDY They say he died in glory, What ever that may be. If its dying in a burst of flame, Then glory's not for me. In the briefing room this morning, He sat with clear eyes and strong heart, Just one of many airman Determined to do his part. My buddy had the guts alright, He sought not glory nor fame. He knew there was a job to do, My crew all felt the same. But death had the final word, In its log it wrote his name. For my buddy died this afternoon In glory - in a burst of flame.

3. Leon Adams The God of War Thoughts on the Italian Invasion of Ethiopia Mars has again descended from his throne To ravage earth with bloody human strife; To break away the bonds of peace and love And send one nation warring with another, As sparrows combat o'er a trifling crumb; To wash the verdant earth with sickening blood And herald death into a million homes. The fields are strewn with reeking, dying men Filled with the thoughts and hopes of worlds gone mad. The future? Famine! Poverty! And Strife! Wars are made by men who seek to line Their itchy pockets with dishonoured loot. God sighs. Life goes on.

4. Wish Me Luck
She waits  In the late twilight,  Shivering in the wind  That scoops up  Over the lip  Of the chalk cliff.  She waits,  Listening to the  Throb of the  Wimpy’s engines  As the squadron nears  Her look-out post.  She waits  For a glimpse of a  Gauntleted hand  Waving at her eye level,  The hand that caressed  Now ready to trigger the tail guns.   
She waits,  Keeping watch  Ears straining to catch  The returning flight,  Waiting to count the returned  And the missing.  She waits  Past the dawn...  Waits for the missing...  Waits...  And waits...  And waits. 
Clare Stewart

5. DULCE ET DECORUM EST(1) Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,  Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,  Till on the haunting flares(2) we turned our backs  And towards our distant rest(3) began to trudge.  Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots  But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;  Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots(4)   Of tired, outstripped(5) Five-Nines(6) that dropped behind. Gas!(7) Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,  Fitting the clumsy helmets(8) just in time;  But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,  And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime(9) . . .  Dim, through the misty panes(10) and thick green light,  As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.  In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,  He plunges at me, guttering,(11) choking, drowning.  If in some smothering dreams you too could pace  Behind the wagon that we flung him in,  And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,  His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;  If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood  Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,  Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud(12)   Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,  My friend, you would not tell with such high zest(13)   To children ardent(14) for some desperate glory,  The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est  Pro patria mori.(15) Wilfred Owen 8 October March, 1918

6. Flander’s Fields by John McCrae In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.