Just take a minute, it’s all we ask
We rose as one, fulfilled our task
Remember what we did and why
No need to mourn, feel guilt or cry
No need to seek revenge, or hate
Just take one minute, we can wait
Just one minute,
It’s all we ask
Paul Hock is an author, songwriter, and storyteller from Ontario, Canada. See more at paulhockpublishing.com.
Editor: Posted with my apologies for missing November 11 by a week and a half.
Sadly, War Veteran Terry Smith (no fixed abode) died last Friday.
Terry was a treasured personality, singing for a dollar outside the Town Hall as he begged for “Bread and Broth.”
Locals will be pleased to hear $20,000 has been allocated from council funds for a statue in his honour.
Jo Withers writes poetry, flash and the occasional novel from her home in South Australia.
It’s all left hand turns. Flaps. Slats. Landing gear. Hook. All down. As you make the last turn, you acquire the lights.
Make your corrections. Roll wings level.
Eyeball the third wire.
Wheels slam into the deck. Throttles slammed to the limits.
The hook holds.
Okay. Ease back the throttles.
Jim Purdy is a retired engineering manager who lives in Oregon and spends his day with his faithful dog who never gives him disparagement. She wags her tail as he reads her whatever he has just written.
Editor’s Note – some context from the author:
While I doubt many people know an arrested carrier landing is actually called a trap (and every trap is graded by the LSOs, with a perfect third-wire trap getting a grade notation of simply “OK” in the logbook), most folks will get the idea behind a 50 -word description of what it’s like to stick a thirteen-ton airplane onto a runway shorter than a football field which moves about 60 feet every second (assuming the carrier is making headway at 30 knots). Oh, and the runway is at approximately a 10-degree angle as well, just to keep you on your toes. It’s even more special if it’s pitch-black dark and the sea is roiling in fifteen-foot swells and you’re at the end of a four-hour mission.
Only my son knew my history, he types, hunt and peck. Now he’s gone.
A sigh. Who will bother to read the products of his aged fingers?
Rap, rap. A girl and her mother at the door. School project, she says. “Tell me about the war?”
He will be remembered.
Lest we forget.