|Ode To A Wingman by JD Wetterling|
ODE TO A WINGMAN
We both were gung-ho, two young fighter jocks.
Our blight was psychotic—a love affair.
Belov’d was inert, ferocious and fast.
She looked mach one as she sat in the chocks.
The Super Sabre, but we called her “hun.”
A sweptwing killer and seraphic fly’r,
We fondled her switches and lit her fire
Then mated on takeoff—became as one.
My wingman and I liked night sorties best.
The trucks all southbound on Ho Chi Minh’s Trail
Made lovely explosions when we prevailed.
The dark made it hard, but we ace’d the test.
Once as we ravaged a truck motorcade,
Big triple-A guns tried to spoil our fun.
I pulled off the trucks and dove on a gun.
High noon at midnight—a bold (?) escapade.
The big guns went silent. Were they all dead?
Can’t know for sure on an inky dark night.
My wingman then asked where to take the fight.
“Just drop another round right on their head.”
For a lifetime now those words I regret.
More guns belched fire as he dove in the night.
Two huge explosions said both lost the fight.
MIA is the term—he and his jet.
The term haunts the soul so much more than “dead.”
The God who made both of us worked His plan,
And eons from now we’ll both understand:
His blessing was greater: he went ahead.
“Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13).