Formation

My father explained
how they flew in formation.
You were not to leave the formation
no matter what happened,
he said.

That’s it.

So one time
they’re flying
in formation
over Berlin
or the oil fields of Ploesti
or
I don’t know where,
blasting away rail yards,
ball bearing plants or homes, or
laundromats,
and I don’t think
coming anywhere
close
to laughter,

when something
hits
the plane in front of them
(anti-aircraft fire, I guess)

and the whole thing blows up.

But remember—
you’ve gotta fly in formation.

Or else it’s like murder
sabotage and
suicide
all in one.

So
he stays on and
plows through the explosion.
He said, as they passed through it all,
one tire hit the windshield
as did
the pilot’s seat.

His was one of nineteen planes or so
to return safely from that mission.
The rest got caught.

And when they landed,
the men unfolded him
from
the cockpit
(he’d been up there some
twelve hours
and no hydraulics, remember,
in those planes)
and then a man came by
with a tray
full of whiskey
and he drank one down
right there on the tarmac.

I can see why—

the next day
‘round 3 AM
they’d be awoken, shown a
map
and
sent up again.