From Plymouth Hoe through the ash snow
the red glow can be seen;
places where buildings once have been.
The heat mops the place like a veil,
firemen step back just to inhale.
Danger hanging, borne in the air,
sparks reddened-raw in the fire-driven wind;
residents wracked by fear and despair.
Everyone scared but nothing said
as aircraft drone overhead.
Small town firemen fight big city fires
which pierce the sky like cathedral spires.
Bombs whistle, the hairs on the neck bristle,
mouths sucked dry, there is no spittle.
Continuing into the morning light,
relentless, there is no respite.
Later parked up in a field
to their exhaustion and emotion men yield;
self-absorbed by what they have done.
Out of the morning mist and rising sun
an aircraft coming in low
looking for the after-raid glow-show.
Shells pound the ground,
the firemen stutter at the sound.
They fall to the ground and pray,
every other one the shells slay.
Of six crew only three stand up,
only three that evening will sup.