Poems by Triplane Builder - William (Bill) Woodall
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It is evening time in Memphis and a night flight's in the sky--
What wind there is--- is angled-'oer my barracks they will fly.
They will make their turns to "final" and glide above my head-
Their wing-tip lights a 'flicker-the mat is straight ahead.
When cadets pull their throttles back---"Lycomings" sometimes "bark"-
And blue exhaust will make a flash-'gainst the ever growing dark-
Always in the background is the sound of rushing air-
And softly whistling wires add a sound that's growing rare.
For these airplanes all are biplanes (which are now a dying breed)-
And the dash five--"Stearman (N2S)- the end line of its "seed".
I'm a seaman second "tarmac"-- in a program called V-5--
Someday I hope for "cadet-hood"-if the program stays alive.
But now I lie upon my back and gaze at what's above---
And the visuals and sound effects-I've come to almost love.
Someday I hope to join them-- and what it is they seek to learn-
With pre-flight school behind me then, I'll gladly take my turn.
But the bugle's sounding "tattoo" and "taps" will shortly play,
So it's time to gather up my thoughts and end another day.
Lying in my upper bunk--- with the windows open wide-
Still hear those sighing brace wires as the landing Stearmans' glide.
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