The flames licked round the twisted kite
and there stood Bingo Mearman,
he’d fought the fire with all his might
to save a single airman,
and as he gazed into the blaze,
sweat running down his brow,
his mind it wandered far away,
not if, not who, but how?

He threw his goggles to the ground
and zipped his jacket high,
prepared to make the sacrifice
for brothers from the sky,
dipped his shoulders, ducked his head,
and lead with one blind arm,
entered the burning fuselage
with disregard for harm.

The hot air took his breath away.
The heat it dried his eyes.
He stumbled through the wreckage as
he headed to their cries,
his inner self spoke reason
and comforted his fear,
probables were held at bay,
we find a hero here.

An inferno now raged within
him and the stricken plane,
flicked images of loved ones who
he may never see again,
but programmed now he soldiered on,
a blanket wrapped around
his reasoning and terror;
death’s cries the only sound.

So fierce was the furnace now,
that as the crew were sighted,
poor Bingo he was unaware
his hair had since ignited.
Just as he reached a grasping hand
and saw a melting face
he felt the pain deep in his brain;
the terror of this place.

Outside he heard calls of his name,
whilst inside no voice broke,
his lungs were scorched and shrinking now,
his throat burned to a choke.
Futility washed over him
and fuelled up the firestorm,
his soles had melted to the spot,
the flames were now a swarm.

He stumbled as he made his way,
fell to his hands and knees,
the molten aluminium
removed his skin with ease.
Spontaneously his tunic
unified with this hellhole,
he retreated to unconsciousness
to join the valour scroll.

Somehow some lads from 442
retrieved his charred remains,
but didn’t gain acknowledgement
for the courage of their pains.
They didn’t seek, and none required,
honours, awards, returns,
instead they carried memories
scarred deep within their burns.