Railway Tales

from the pages of 'TEE EMM' the 'classified' Aircrew Training publication This is the tale of P.O. Prune, Now in hospital in Frome Who, though industrious and keen, The type who keeps his buttons clean Earned for himself a bitter fate, Because he could not concentrate. Although he always tried his best To be efficient (like the rest) He simply hadn't got the skill To concentrate on COCKPIT DRILL. He tried mnemonics, used to sit, For ages memorising it. But once inside the aeroplane, He just forgot it all again The inter-com, the airscrew pitch, The warning indicator switch The flaps, the elevator trim, Were one and all alike to him. He happened, then, in course of time To muddle up this pantomime Whilst coming in to land one day, In (what he thought) the usual way He accidently pulled the catch, That jettisons the exit hatch It quite surprised him when he saw His gunner vanish throught the floor Then hurtle downwards through the air, To burst inside the signal square. Poor P.O. Prune in pensive mood, Forgot to check his altitude And at a hundred miles per hour He cannoned off the water tower Mowed down an Orderly Parade, Then hit the deck and ricochetted Right through the Mess, wherein a bunch Of Officers were taking lunch. Imagine then the screams and groans, The crunching sound of splintered bones The shattered glass, the ruptured seams, The tangled mass of twisted beams The debris scattered everywhere. It was a terrible affair. When all was clear they took the dead And heaped them in the tractor shed They counted them and found at length That fully half the ration strength Were incapacitated, or Revolting messes on the floor. From 'midst the havoc he had wrought They dug Prune from his Juggernaut The doctor hastily arrived - And found, alas, he had survived. Next day Group Captain Cholmondly-Pym Severely reprimanded him A punishment both wise and just For pilots in the Service must (Lest they should share P.O. Prune's fate) Be capable and CONCENTRATE.
The end