WWll poem

Discharging Toggle Annie: Mediterranean Theatre, 25 March 1945
in honor of Horace E. Harwell

by Mary Harwell Sayler

On her last flight (my 7th mission) “Toggle Annie” took off slowly
over small gardens growing and new-green fields of barley, wheat, or rye.
Oxen stood still beside a rock-lined ditch formed well to keep good earth
from washing down the hill and wasting. Along a narrow road, a donkey
pulled a two-wheel cart then disappeared into the same descending blur
that held the floorless tent where our crew slept with no heat, no stove, and
no light but the candle we’d snuffed out before rising, rising with the sun.

Five miles up with my oxygen mask on, I hoped this mission would be a
milk run for “Toggle Annie.” The old ship had seen better days with 100
missions more than me and over 90 sorties, a sort of record for a B-24
Liberator also known as a “Box Car” -- a label that annoys me some.
(Nicknamed, the “Flying Fortress,” the B-17 gets better press.) Oh, well.
It doesn’t matter. All that matters is meeting up, on time, with our fighter
escort and not bailing out. Sometimes, I’ve had my doubts when we’ve
caught flak too close and heavy. Afterwards, I’ve been glad for those two
ounces of regulation whiskey used to regulate our nerves, but now? I don’t
know. Some days I hardly feel a thing but numbness when we’ve flown so
low we see too much to dream.

The children here have such hard faces.

Even in “Toggle Annie,” an oxygen mask can freeze up real quick
if you’re not careful to keep the condensation wiped. One mission
takes two cotton handkerchiefs, and wiping makes me woozy.

I do not ever want my face to get too hard.

On every mission, I think about my girls and how I miss them.
Sure hope “Toggle Annie” doesn’t miss her mark today! Wish I
had those Esso maps from home to pinpoint targets, but thing is,
I’d just as soon my wife not know how much we need them.

The hardest part is walking through a door from one life to another.
Flying’s not so hard, but some things you don’t think about. Like,
coming over on the cargo ship, I couldn’t use my electric razor
since it sent out waves the enemy might detect. Shaving with cold
water carried in a metal helmet doesn’t cut it! I wonder if my girls
will like my new mustache.

It’s hard not knowing if my family is okay.
The $218.80 a month, including flying pay,

won’t go far for them when I’m so far away.
I send all I can but keep a five and two tens
in my escape kit, just in case.

Some do go down. Some missions fail.

Some need money to buy a stranger’s help and food.
Worry does no good. I figure if flak gets close enough
to take me down, I’ll go down then, but not before.

Some do go down. Some freeze with fear. Some faces harden.

Flying this high is hard on everyone. At five miles up and thirty below
zero, a person can work for merely minutes and be exhausted for a while --
sometimes for nothing but frostbite if we’re forced back by too much flak.
One day, I saw a close-by crew go down in silver petals and bright flames.

Some do go down.

I hope this plane outlives its name as Liberator. Meant to carry 30-
caliber guns and nothing more, 50 makes us too tail-heavy. To lift
the weight, we have to bounce then place support beneath before
our tail-gunner’s hand can catch a wrong bounce, down. Timing is
everything. Like now -- we’ll do our job and lay this ship to rest,
one way or another.

We all could use a rest -- three missions in four days, each time on
a different, nameless plane except for good ole “Toggle Annie.”
She’s seen her days of drawing escorts, catching flak, and dropping
bombs, so she’s more than caught her quota of close calls.

I want to fly until I drop -- whatever it takes to stop this dad-burn war.
But hey! We did okay on today’s run -- 650 B-24’s and 17’s striking
airfields and tanks works. Took us eight hours and fifty-five minutes --
not bad for this old barge. A thousand hours logged -- quite a record,
Annie. You did swell. Tonight you’ll rest on solid ground while I’ll
sleep well on a nice firm cot, thanking God I’ve got a sweet-faced
wife and good life back at home. Tonight I’ll dream of daughters.


© 2002, 2015, Mary Harwell Sayler, all rights reserved. Poem originally appeared in the 2002 chapbook, Winning the Wars.

Poetic Power of Dyslexia

Most poets and writers draw on experience, personality, or the power of observation to find something fresh to say in their fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. If you do that in your writing too, great! Keep up the good work. However, the traits you think of as a disadvantage or even a handicap might be the ones that help you to develop your own voice or distinctive style. Take, for instance, dyslexia.

Like many poets and career freelance writers, I began writing as a young child but, in my case, backwards. One way or the other did not matter to me, but this stressed out my teacher so much, she made me stay after class on my very first day of school. For years I thought Mrs. Smith called Mother to come in, too, to see how sloppily I wrote as my left hand smudged the soft pencil across the lined paper in my notebook, but no. I had perfectly copied everything the teacher wrote on the blackboard (which actually was black then), and I had formed each letter of the alphabet correctly. I had just written everything on the blackboard backwards.

For fun, I still like to spell ippississiM in my head, and I must warn you not to even try to beat me at word games like Boggle or Wheel Of Fortune unless, of course, you’re also a bit dyslexic. Most of the time, though, inverting letters and scrambling words or thoughts has gotten me into trouble, especially when I’m tired. If someone happens to spew double-negatives then, I can almost guarantee my brain will not follow.

In writing poetry and poetic manuscripts, however, dyslexia can come in handy. Word scrambles often lead to word play, and scrambled thinking can connect this to that in a previously untried but true way. Such “mistakes” might add a note of humor to fiction or nonfiction too and, in some cases, bring about a fresh idea, insight, or observation.

For example, as a Christian writer I often write nonfiction articles and devotionals. In one short article I wrote for other Christian poets and writers, I talked about the importance of double-checking facts and speaking with a loving voice whenever we write in the name of Jesus. Since Christians pray in Jesus’ name, my point was to encourage that thought also as we write. However, instead of typing “in the name of Jesus,” I wrote, “in the amen of Jesus.” Same letters, you notice, just scrambled. When I finally noticed this myself, I thought, wow! That better said what I wanted to say anyway. i.e., Anything we write (or pray) in Jesus’ name needs Jesus’ amen or affirmation.

I certainly do not pray for my dyslexia to increase or for you to catch it! But I do pray that you use your talents and “flaws” well. I pray you begin to see your “mistakes” or “handicaps” or “shortcomings” or “disadvantages” as a means of making your writing distinctive, inimitable, and one of a kind. Do I hear an name?


©2010, ©2015, Mary Harwell Sayler 


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