The poet of simply describing it as it is. One of my favourite writers.

x

WORLD WAR 11

x

It was over Target Berlin the flak shot up our plane

just as we were dumping bombs on the already smoking city

on signal from the lead bomber in the squadron.

The plane jumped again and again as the shells burst under us,

sending jagged pieces of steel rattling through our fuselage.

It was pure chance

that none of us got ripped by those fragments.

x

Then, being hit, we had to drop out of formation right away,

losing speed and altitude,

and when I figured out our course with trembling hands on the instruments

(I was navigator)

we set out on the long trip home to England

alone, with two of our four engines gone

and gas streaming out of holes in the wing tanks.

That morning at briefing

we had been warned not to go to nearby Poland,

partly liberated then by the Russians,

although later we learned that another crew in trouble

had landed there anyway,

and patching up their plane somehow,

returned gradually to England

roundabout by way of Turkey and North Africa.

But we chose England, and luckily

the Germans had no fighters to send up after us then,

for this was just before they developed their jet.

To lighten our load we threw out

guns and ammunition, my navigation books, all the junk,

and made it over Holland with a few good-bye fireworks from the shore guns.

x

Over the North Sea the third engine gave out

And we dropped low over the water.

The gas gauge read empty, but by keeping the nose down

a little gas at the bottom of the tank sloshed forward

and kept our single engine going.

High overhead, the squadrons were flying home in formation

– the raids had gone on for hours after us.

Did they see us down there in our trouble?

We radioed our final position for help to come

but had no idea if anyone

happened to be tuned in and heard us,

and we crouched together on the floor,

knees drawn up and head down

in regulation position for ditching,

listened as the engine stopped, a terrible silence,

and we went down into the sea with a crash,

just like hitting a brick wall,

jarring bones, teeth, eyeballs panicky.

Who would ever think water could be so hard?

You black out, and then come to

with water rushing in like a sinking-ship movie.

x

All ten of us started getting out of there fast:

there was a convenient door in the roof to climb out by,

one at a time. We stood in line,

water up to our thighs and rising.

The plane was supposed to float for twenty minutes,

but with all those flak holes

who could say how long it really would?

The two life rafts popped out of the sides into the water,

but one of them only half inflated,

and the other couldn’t hold everyone,

although they all piled into it, except the pilot,

who got into the limp raft that just floated.

The radio operator and I, out last,

(Did that mean we were least aggressive, least likely to survive?)

we stood on the wing watching the two rafts

being swept off by waves in different directions.

We had to swim for it.

x

Later they said the cords holding rafts to plane

broke by themselves, but I wouldn’t have blamed them

for cutting them loose, for fear

that by waiting the plane would go down

and drag them with it.

x

I headed for the overcrowded good raft

and after a clumsy swim in soaked heavy flying clothes

got there and hung onto the side.

The radio operator went for the half-inflated raft

where the pilot lay with water sloshing over him,

but he couldn’t swim, even with his life vest on.

Being from the Great Plains,

his strong farmer’s body didn’t know

how to wallow through the water properly,

and a wild current seemed to sweep him farther off.

One minute we saw him on top of a swell

and perhaps we glanced away for a minute

but when we looked again he was gone

just as the plane went down sometime around then

when nobody was looking.

x

It was midwinter and the waves were mountains

and the water ice water.

You could live in it twenty-five minutes,

the Ditching Survival Manual said.

Since most of the crew were squeezed on my raft

I had to stay in the water hanging on.

My raft? It was their raft—they got there first so they would live.

Twenty-five minutes I had.

Live, live, I said to myself.

You’ve got to live.

There looked like plenty of room on the raft

from where I was and I said so, but they said no.

x

When I figured the twenty-five minutes were about up

and I was getting numb,

I said I couldn’t hold on anymore,

and a little rat-faced boy from Alabama, one of the gunners,

got into the icy water in my place,

and I got on the raft in his.

He insisted on taking off his flying clothes,

which was a fatal mistake because even wet clothes are protection,

and then worked hard, kicking with his legs, and we all paddled,

to get to the other raft,

and we tied them together.

The gunner got in the raft with the pilot

and lay in the wet.

Shortly after, the pilot started gurgling green foam from his mouth-

maybe he was injured in the crash against the instruments—

and by the time we were rescued, he and the little gunner were both dead.

x

That boy who took my place in the water,

who died instead of me,

I don’t remember his name even.

It was like those who survived the death camps

by letting others go into the ovens in their place.

It was him or me, and I made up my mind to live.

I’m a good swimmer,

but I didn’t swim off in that scary sea

looking for the radio operator when he was washed away.

I suppose, then, once and for all,

I chose to live rather than be a hero, as I still do today,

although at that time I believed in being heroic, in saving the world,

even if, when opportunity knocked,

I instinctively chose survival.

x

As evening fell the waves calmed down

and we spotted a boat, far off, and signaled with a flare gun,

hoping it was English not German.

The only two who cried on being found

were me and a gunner, the other gay member of the crew.

The rest kept straight faces.

x

It was a British air-sea rescue boat:

they hoisted us up on deck,

dried off the living and gave us whiskey and put us to bed,

and rolled the dead up in blankets,

arid delivered us all to a hospital on shore

for treatment or disposal.

x

This was a minor accident of war:

two weeks in a rest camp at Southport on the Irish Sea

and we were back at Grafton-Underwood, our base,

ready for combat again,

the dead crewmen replaced by living ones,

and went on hauling bombs over the continent of Europe,

destroying the Germans and their cities.

x

Edward Field, from AFTER THE FALL, poems old and new, University of Pittsburgh Press, 2007

x

CELEBRATING HIS ASS

x

they try to block your dick

with their little pills

for blood pressure, prostate, heart

x

they figure you’re an old guy

so what’s the difference

x

and just to stay alive

you go along with it, take the goddam pills

x

but how lucky I am

to live with an antidote to their poison

x

whatever the depredations of age

he still has one goddam beautiful ass

x

and just looking at it

I can’t stop pulling on my dick 

x

I follow him around like a dog

drooling over the ballet of his movements

and can’t stop pulling on my dick 

x

actually, anything he does

goes to my dick

and he’s walking around naked all the time

x

I get to watch him putting on his clothes

watch the way he fills his underwear

and even better when he takes it off

x

and when he does the dishes naked

each cheek as he moves

here and there at the sink

altering its shape, its roundness

x

and I can’t stop pulling on my dick

x

and when he bends over

I ‘m riveted by the beautiful

crack of his ass,  and can’t stop

pulling on my dick

x

and when he does his daily exercises

I’m breathless, I’m breathing hard

I’m sipping the nectar of the gods

x

oh lord, let me die looking at that ass

with my hand still pulling on my dick

x

****

Field was born in Brooklyn, New York City, United States, to a family of Ashkenazi Jewish immigrants. He grew up in Lynbrook, New York, and, being Jewish, he and his family faced antisemitism and discrimination. He played cello in the “Field Family Trio”, which had a weekly radio program on WGBB in Freeport.

Field served in World War II with the Eighth Air Force in England and France as a navigator in heavy bombers, flying 25 missions over Germany. In February 1945, he took part in a raid on Berlin. His B-17 was crippled by flak and crash-landed in the North Sea. All ten crew members reached the life rafts, but only seven survived until rescued by a British air-sea vessel hours later.

In 1959, Field met Neil Derrick. As Field later recalled: “I was working in the typing pool of an advertising agency, and the supervisor assigned the typewriter next to me to a new temp, a terrific-looking young man from California named Neil Derrick. It was a case of immediate attraction between WASP and Jew.” In 1972, the couple moved to the nonprofit artists’ housing Westbeth Artists Community in New York City’s West Village. Derrick died on January 5, 2018. Field continued to reside at Westbeth and was regarded as one of the complex’s notable residents. Field died on September 6, 2026, at the age of 102.