LeRoi ‘Ace’ Evans
Jeff Streeby
War Poetry Contest 2006 (view all the winners)
Honorable Mention
LEROI "ACE" EVANS
(1894-1920)
Dawn drew us,
that bloodthirsty bitch
and the gory goddess Glory, her sister-witch,
and like moths, flame-fascinated, which,
forgetful of self and life and breath,
fly into beauty, that place of fiery death,
we flew on.
Her rose flush
sobered and roused us
and in the first fiery golden glare and gush of sunrise
our fair machines housed us light as gods.
Heaven espoused us
And on twin sun-spangled wings, we rose up wary and wise,
hunting the clatter and rough crush of battle,
forgetful of self and life and breath,
into the bright blue place of death.
Day after day I touched the Vickers trigger of my SE 5A,
year after year let fly the flashing lethal fountain of lead spray from the Lewis gun,
did what had to be done,
the work of war,
won what had to be won,
and gained glory by it, duty's glittering whore.
Staring savage and grim-eyed over my gunsights,
I saw my foemen,
their faces frantic in flames,
faces furious and afraid,
framed between planes of blazing canvas;
fliers falling, falling in fire
like moths falling maimed and immolated,
falling beautiful as stars through that long sad arc down,
as beautiful as Lucifer's lost host must have looked, falling from grace,
falling, falling into darkness from the high, bright place of sunlight and death,
all hopelessness and anger there
in the last ghastly glare of dying eyes
and flame and pain and smoke in the last breath.
And each and each and each imperfect infant Phoenix failed to rise
immortal and golden from the ashes to soar the skies again.
Then Peace.
An Ace, I, at the Armistice—
twelve Albatross D II's,
five balloons,
eighteen Fokker D VII's,
eight Hannovers,
seven LVG C's,
four Pfalz D III's,
four SSD's,
Fifty-nine victories of several sorts,
one an Austro-Hungarian Ace in a Hansa-Brandenburg DI
outpaced in the dive, a Baron, wounded,
forced down behind our lines and captured alive.
At the end, I owned war honors and renown—
the MM,
the MC with two bars,
the DSO with bar,
the DFC
and the Victoria Cross.
It was a long way to Tipperary.
As soon as the war started,
I had quit the ranch and rode up to Alberta
to join the Canadian Mounted Rifles.
Eventually, though I had no FAI ticket,
I was seconded to the suicide club in 1916
and transferred into the Royal Flying Corps a Captain.
After the War, I came back to the States,
bought a surplus Jenny for $200
and barnstormed the country.
I came home to Sunday Creek for a visit at last
to show off my medals and my skills
and to see who else had got out of it alive.
Giving rides to home town folks for $1.00 apiece,
I went down in flames when a fuel line burst.
My passenger, my uncle Billy Wade the ranchman, did not survive.
I am Icarus.
I have seen dawn,
that deadly siren out of whom the day springs.
I know the sky's labyrinthine ways.
These wings I wear were not my father's wings.
These are silk, they are not wax, they came to me from kings,
and they name me "Hero" until the end of days.
