There is first of all the "Shocker" - Squadron Leader K. Mackay,
His top lip a hirsute marvel, and a lewd and roving eye,
Ever apt with tales of Malta, and the days before the War,
Witty, able, true to type, a keen supporter of the bar.
"The Shadow" - J. R. Ritchie, Flight Commander Number One,
Svelte of figure, raven tresses, five foot six and soft
of tongue,
He is likewise pre-war vintage, knows his job from "A" to "Y",
Dissipates his youth and temper teaching `boneheads' how to fly.
"Dumbo's" next, "B" Flight Commander, G.B. Reid his rightful name,
Elephantine ears adorn him, those his greatest claim to fame,
Spent his youth midst ships and seamen in the Mercantile Marine,
Now flies ships, pursuit, all-metal (Squadron joke, know what
I mean?)
"Reluctant Dragon" Reeves they call him, though of course, his
name is
Tim,
Deadliest of hardened sinners, little good is said of him,
Pranger keen of WAAFs and others, never does his conscious tough
Shrink from the most appalling evil - but, perhaps, that's quite
enough.
Good E.O.'s are rare as diamonds - that's why Moxey stands apart,
Spits of every type and number, one and all he knows by heart.
And his knowledge of the Service, gained through years in a hard
school
Is a present help in trouble when young pilots play the fool.
"Fluff" McRae, the Squadron Binder, after Moxey takes a bow,
Fluffy hair, a pained expression, always happy in a row,
A Canadian -Aberdonian, arguments his joy of joys,
Spends his days down at dispersal in contention with the boys.
And so to Cy King, tall Canadian from the wilds of Montreal,
Blond and blue eyes, friendly, pleasant, with a most intriguing
drawl,
Has created Squadron record, by getting drunk in record time,
At the "Buchan Arms" in Ellon on mixture vile of rum and lime.
Then Cy's buddy, Johnny Sherlock (mustn't separate them here),
Also Canuck, but much shorter, fond of dames, his pipe and beer,
Claims a niche in fame's bright temple for a deed no poet will
sing,
Oh! - the horror of the act, he pranged a Maggy taxying.
"Dandy" Fopp, that happy warrior, comes next on our growing list,
Came from Australia's sunshine to this Motherland of mist.
Wide experience of flying - sent by Ministry to shoot
Endless "lines" to factory wenches. Did the job, came back with
loot.
David Burges - "Bugs" to you, sir - makes his way into the rhyme,
Keen type (yeh!) and eager pilot, jealous of his flying time.
Connoisseur of wine and women, hobbies - contract bridge
& chess,
An argumentative little devil - still, one of the best.
After "Bugs" comes "Bloody" Russell, swingtime king of 132,
Flies his Spitfire in hot rythm (you should hear him "Choo choo
choo")
Has a blond job down in Berkshire, thinks a deal of her I ween,
All his leaves are spent in consort with the Queen of Cookham
Dene.
Sumpter's next - young "Fumff the fearless" - artist of our motley band,
Reproduces "Tee Emm" drawings on the walls with skillful hands,
But a greater claim than artist can be made on his behalf,
His ability to orate without pause, from dawn to dusk.
Phillipe Beraud, Free French pilot, has his place in this parade,
But of Phillipe, there is little one can mention, I'm afraid,
Charming and a good companion, never slow to take a chance
To prang accommodating maidens - for the honour of La France.
Now, our latest acquistion to complete this little list,
Our good Polish friend, Kowalski, cheeky, cheerful, full of boost,
"Pelican" his service nickname, tricks with cards his favorite
art,
Quite the best of his compatriots - undoubtedly a Pole apart.
The fates are against me, my name will not rhyme,
(It shows passive resistance - like Ghandi).
That a measure - to you - of enjoyment I've brought,
Is the hope of yours faithfully "Sandy".
Written by Sandy Cameron, Intelligence Officer, 132 Squadron RAF,
December 1941