The radar room
They wondered sometimes why he talked so much,
the Nazi pilot; if he had fair hair.
He was a charmer; he knew they were there
tracking his plane. Voice like the gentle touch
of your best lover’s fingers on your breast.
They joked about him, teased the newest girl
that it was her he loved. Then in a whirl
of scrawling things on charts, hours without rest,
they’d do their job, sending the fighters out,
fingering all the German planes that died.
He claimed to love them all, they knew he lied,
remembered what the war was all about.
They’d all lost friends when bombers smashed their town.
They listened to his screams the whole way down.