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Array
(
[sid] => 82978
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Jimmy Clancy
[time] => 2005-02-04 14:49:22
[hometext] => There was a Civil War in Spain from 1936-39. It was the first (failed) resistance against fascism. France and Britain stood by nervously, not wanting to get involved. Some people showed up to help. Most didn't.
[bodytext] => In Spain they laughed at me when I arrived after a dreadful drive in my V-8 Lancia, across those bloody mountains with the steering, annoyingly, pulling to the left. Soda, the dog, (I had left his sister Whiskey behind), barked joyously,and, from that moment, captured the hearts of our ill-shaven army. Hola! I said Hola, they said, plus a rapid waterfall of language; their Spanish was pretty good, why not? It was their country. My Spanish was non-existent, I was a grinning stumbling fool. It was their country. I had a jumble of ideas, beliefs, somewhat silly now, no longer fiercely fine and pure, standing on this scrubby ground far from the bars and sexual promise of wine-sodden Paris. Yo soy pilota, I said, arms like wings, shoot down Fascisti, OK? They looked at me, looked at the dog, nervous and polite, awaiting translation. Three steps forward, Two steps back; Forward, comrades, Ready for attack. Useless war, have to tell you; these bloody Germans, Italians, don't want to fight: we are desperate for victories in the air; on the ground, goddam, we are losing Lost it. Wee pudgy Franco rolled over us, pushed our people across the mountains into nervy, jittery France. But the next one is coming, you can feel it. Britain, 1939: What can I do for you, Paddy? Sign me up in your feckin airforce. I say, keen are we? Hullo, hullo, seems You're a PAF, old boy. Premature Anti-Fascist. Three steps forward, Two steps back; Forward, comrades, Ready for attack. In the air we are all the same, Poles, Irish, French. None of us give a damn for the King of England but we pounce like demons in a murderous frenzy on the ME 109s. Operations, booze and operations, day after day, oops, there goes Johnny, there goes Phil; Poor buggers: I say, I say, Who's going to pay for the bloody taxi? Battle of Britain, Malta, North Africa, running cover for the bombers. everybody so young, no friends left over; Twenty-five kills, medals out me arse: who cares? Three steps forward, Two steps back; Forward, comrades, Ready for attack. May 45, the war is over. Time to go home. I have no home. Time to get a job. I have no job. The only thing I can do is shoot airplanes out of the sky. [comments] => 0 [counter] => 180 [topic] => 57 [informant] => dedalus [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => war )
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