The pilot poet Jeffrey Day

Even if most of the poems written by the soldier poets of the Great War deal with the fighting in the trenches of northern France, it must not be forgotten that this conflict also witnessed the use of aircraft for the first time in history. The missions of the pilots were mostly limited to observing or bombing enemy lines, but a few poems can be found which describe the excitement of flying and of dogfighting enemy airplanes.

The most famous poet in the British air force during World War 1 (known at that time as the Royal Naval Air Service) was Jeffrey Day. His poems are often a eulogy on the joys of being in the air, to the extent that the war itself often fades into the background. His poem, « On the Wings of the Morning », for example, contains vivid descriptions of the beauty of nature and the tranquility in the air.

The verse opens in a flurry of noise and speed as the writer describes the feeling of taking off. There is a “roar” and a “mighty rushing sound” as the ground drops away to a “blur”. Then, abruptly, such noises give way to “Quiet and calm” as the hurly-burly of life below is left behind, and this is further enhanced by Day’s subsequent use of such descriptive terms as “graceful”, “serenely”, and “gently”. As the hills and valleys grow ever smaller, a mist comes up to obscure the view below, until all of a sudden the landscape is revealed again in all its glory: “all the world is silver, blue, and gold”.

The emphasis is also made that the air is so much clearer and more sparkling so that, “compared with this, wine is a turgid brew”. Such is his feeling of contentment that the pilot sits “half sleeping, half awake”, and “dreaming a happy dream of golden days”, until at last it is time to return back to earth, towards a “lower, less enchanted place”. As he descends, there is once more a sense of noise, signalling his passing from the ethereal to the terrestrial,

as I hurtle from the choking cloud

it swells into a scream, high-pitched, and loud.

Flying also gives a sensation of vagueness down below, of colours and shapes that run into each other. But as the airplane descends, what had once been “scattered hues and shades of green and brown” slowly fashion themselves into recognisable landmarks until, at last, contact is made with the earth and,

I glide with slackening speed across the ground,

and come to rest with lightly grating sound.

No less evocative is another poem by Day, “The Call of the Air”, in which he again sings the praises of flying, before declaring that,

.. you know you are in heaven, close to God.

Jeffrey Day was killed in air combat against 6 German planes in February 1918.