Rear Gunner “Tail End Albie” This image is in tribute to “Albie” a life long friend of my father who also served in the RAF. Albie told me many stories about his time in the RAF. Today, Albie would, I’m sure, have been diagnosed with PTSD. His accounts of life in the mess room certainly do not glorify war or conflict. It simply describes the pain and anguish that was endured by crews, who all knew tonight they may not come back. The photograph is from my father’s collection of images taken circa 1943. Although I have an original copy of this image, many other similar images can be found on the internet. I have a photograph with Albie and Alfie together this is definitely Albie. For the sharp eyed, look at the injury on Alfie’s nose, inflicted by a cricket incident, not conflict! This image has been enhanced in Photoshop and placed on a background created by me. Therefore this is totally original and unseen. Albie inspired me to write this poem entitled “Tail End Albie”. The scramble's on, heart pounding, “Goodnight Padre”. Winston knows the drill, drop the ball, no time to play. Mae West on, rumble and roar, skywards, eyes wide piercing, scanning inky blackness. Constant checks, mascot in place, now bitingly cold, shivers and tremors. Suddenly blinded by light, fear as tracer bursts its deadly vomit. Cordite metallic stench, suffocating, throat rasping, Red hot shrapnel rains down like foul snow, Spitting its rancour, cleaving through the fabric trim. Target in sight, payload gone, steep turn, hope and pray. “Shit! Bandit at 2 o'clock”, grip the Browning tighter, squeeze trigger, “Poor bastard”. Homeward bound, “Play Pussy”, long trip, just over Blighty shore. Back on terra firma, boots squelch with piss. Winston bounds, faithful hound, love unconditional. Tea's brewed lads, yet more new faces,”Hello Padre”. ©Charlie Poole In memory of Charles Albert Potiphar, an RAF Lancaster rear gunner. Albert, nickname “Albie”, did many sorties, many over the Bay of Biscay. The tremors and nightmares were with him every night, until the day he died aged 96. Albie said, “Us, the survivors, we weren't heroes we were just the lucky ones.” This poem was written from Albie’s account by Charlie Poole in 2012 © Charlie Poole 2012 Print Ref:- AIR-0005