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But they were always men, and you could know them. Not now, as you saw and felt the flights go over, And watched the first plane wheel and poise and scream On its long, tense, tightening release; And you strained and shuddered at the climax, and felt A little guilty. And there were banks of fighters, loitering, Their very casualness intense and fierce. And the bombs were dropping in a pattern, you knew. And the short black iron throats behind that ridge Were carving graceful arcs to the ridge beyond.

But it was nothing in itself to fight for, No more than were the slogans we'd all heard. But we were fighting for something unexpressed, Too deep in us for thought or word, too deep For more than feeling. On the deck, the gray Closing about us, we felt in his deed The expression of the unexpressed. We felt, And our souls touched, but we did not understand. We wondered if he understood it now. III. THE ENEMY See! There! How beautifully he flies! This is no ordinary airman. Look. We know the practiced breed, skilled in killing.

And part of you was free, More free than you had ever been before. And there was nothing left to do but fly Out of your world of struggle and decision. And you were warm inside, thinking of the ship And the men: and not of any one, but all. And there was nothing left to do but die, To follow after those whom you had led. You had watched them drop one at a time Into the sea, their motors quieted — They would follow but they would not kill. Not yet. But even they, grim patient creatures, Would lose all hope as the moon revealed no ship 25 And the motors throbbed, drawing the fuel through In steady swallows you could almost feel.