Candle Light-Blues Copyright © Richard Whiting 2010

The Eagle Public House, one of the oldest Inns in Cambridge, has a room named the ‘R.A.F. Bar’. On the ceiling of this bar are messages written by members of the Royal Air Force and U.S. Eighth Army Air Force during World War Two. The messages were written in lipstick, or burnt onto the ceiling using cigarette lighters or the flame of a candle. Mission Mistress crashed on take-off from Bury St Edmunds, January 6th 1945, killing five of the ten men on board.

The air is thick and blue
With tobacco smoke and
Bawdy jokes, laughter
From naïve rookies,
Disillusioned, terrified
Old hands,
Guys going home,
The Lucky Bastard Club
Thirty Mission Men
(The drinks are on them.)

Nicholas Urda, waist-gunner
Mounts the table.
Cheers ring out.
Etched by flame,
And by heart
Into the ceiling,
He writes;

410 Squadron,
94th Bomb Group.

These Authors of our future freedoms,
Too young for Yale,
Learnèd beyond their years,
Write nothing of home,
Gals, of love, Baseball,
But squadrons, numbers;
Surrogate families,
Brothers forever bonded,
Playing poker with death.

When he clung to life;
Hung between nightmare
And the rhythm of tortured breath;
Did he scream the name of
Their Fortress, flaring
Like a dying comet
In the sky?
Or did he dream
Of those nights at the Eagle
Singing, smiling, joking
Like every Closing Time
Could be the last?

Again he climbs the table;
Hands down his cap,
Burns his letters wide and slow
Wax falling, burning his hands;
But he barely perceives these wounds;
His, the deeper scars
That outlive any war.

His words are written;
The Mission Mistress
Their old, dead bird.

The failing flame lights
His youthful, agèd face;

The candle flickers,
Shines on a crystal tear,
Gutters
And is gone.