  This poem written a few days before Lieutenant Ely’s death was dedicated by him “To My Comrades of the French Escadrille, the Fighting Eagles of France; How They Fought and How They Died.” Day breaks with sun on the bosom of spring. Motors are humming, the pilot shall fly today. Mists clear and find him regarding his bird of prey. With crashing roar and whirr, three airmen mount the sky. Cael, tall, and gaunt, eyes of hawk, seeing far; Parcontal, thrice an ace, steady aim, deadly fire; Devil Le Claire, quick as light, wheeling like lark at play— Three grow dim, turn to specks, lost in the morning sky. Off in the distant sky white bombs of thunder burst, Signs that the pilot Huns pass bounds that they should fear, Men listen tense in groups to catch the sound of strife, The purr of distant guns, like rustling leaves of death. While minutes pass, everyone waits. Then in their vision sweeps, curving in steep descent, One plane returning. Rushes by close o’erhead, skims like a gull to earth, Races back, comes to rest; those in wait run to meet. Cael, tall and pale, unsteady of step but cool, Dismounts to reaching hands. Eyes of the hawk are dim. Helmet all wet with blood, fur coat all spotted red, Fall into willing hands, showing raw angry wounds To angry eyes that see how balls explosive, rend. And riddled plane reveals how near death spoke and fast. Tells of the cloudy fray that only gods could see; How three, attacking three, put them at once to flight, Till four more by surprise, made odds with the Huns. Then, swift as hornet darts, fire-spitting eagles fought; Wheeling high and sweeping low, hailed lead on foe. “Quick as the light” Le Claire, ere seconds passed, had two, Falling like shrieking crows to death, three miles below. Parcontal, nearly caught, feigning right, wheeled to left; And so met another foe on him descending. His gun spoke balls of fire, flashing true to the mark. One more Hun fell in flames, leaving but smoke. Three were down, four remained; Cael was apart with three, Met and surrounded at each swoop and turn. All but too late for Cael; riddled and wounded sore, he left the fight. The tall, gaunt, frame relaxed, Eagle eyes saw no more. His comrades breathed a curse. “Vengeance for Cael.” Than that, more is known from the survivor, One Hun a prisoner in France descended. How for great distance combat continued Till the last Frenchman fell, vanquished victorious. Vengeance for comrades dead, dearly the Huns shall pay! Mead to the victors gone to drink in Valhalla. 1. Bois de Boulogne. |
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