I WANTED WINGS

In the popular imagination over the past 80 years, what’s been called “The Greatest Generation” has been held out as heroes of a special order, that we - their descendants - cannot hope to achieve.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

At the end of July 1944, Air Group 15's chronicler Ted Graham recorded the lyrics of a ditty that was making its way through the fleet, a song that now had some real meaning to young men who had spent a month in combat:

I WANTED WINGS

I wanted wings 'till I got the God-damned things,

Now I don't want 'em anymore!

They taught me how to fly,

Then they brought me here to die

I've had my belly full of war!

You can save all those Zeros

For the God-damned heroes,

Cause Distinguished Flying Crosses

Don't compensate for losses.

I wanted wings 'till I got the God-damned things,

Now I don't want them anymore!

I'll take the dames while the rest go down in flames,

I've no desire to be burned!

Air combat's no romance

It made me wet my pants,

I'm just an asphalt Arab I have learned.

You can save the Mitsubishis

For the crazy sons of bitches.

I'd rather have a woman,

Than get shot up in a Grumman.

I wanted wings 'till I got the God-damned things,

Now I don't want 'em anymore!

I'm too young to die

Even in a PBY

That's for the eager, not for me!

I wouldn't trust my luck

To be picked up in a Duck

After I'd crashed into the sea.

I'd rather be a bar sop,

Than a flier on a flat-top,

With my hands around a bottle,

Rather than around a throttle.

I wanted wings 'till I got the God-damned things,

Now I don't want 'em anymore!

There is no promotion

On this side of the ocean,

And the guys at home don't really care!

At my bit I'm not a chafin'

For the joy of doin' strafin'

I hate the violent use of tail and rudder!

As for livin' like Flash Gordon,

I'll take boating on the Jordan,

I'm a simple soul and all for home and mudder.

You can have your shoulder holster,

I'll take resting on a bolster,

And I'll trade my long "pig sticker"

For a tall cool drink of likker.

I wanted wings 'till I got the God-damned things,

Now I don't want 'em anymore!

Hey waiter - bring another round!

The average age of a pilot in Air Group 15 in 1944 was 21. Their crews who flew with them were 19-20. Most of the pilots cast their first vote as citizens (and for too many, their last) in November 1944, voting for the only president they’d ever known, Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

The men who sang this somng have have been portrayed in the official history of their war as steely-eyed warriors to which no task was too difficult.

This song demonstrates otherwise.

In fact, they didn’t want to be where they were, tasked with doing what they had to do, and t hey were afraid of the assignment.

They knew they weren’t “heroes.”

And yet, they sang songs like this, acknowledging their fears, and went out and manned their planes and liberated the planet, 80 years ago.

We are their heirs. Their children and grandchildren. Their blood flows in our veins.

Most of them are not here now to give personal guidance. But their memory, their example, is here.

Can we do less in the face of a crisis more existential than what they faced?

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