"Witnesses"
by Rebecca Glover
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—for Brent Renaud They called him Ojo then, The Eye of God. At beer call they joked he picked Which crewmates would live, And which would die Each time Ojo knelt over the Norden, Calmly pickling bombs from the jinking bomber Over factories and submarine pens Blooming red below While men died around him. Ojo, the Eye of God, Eighth Air Force bombardier, The twenty-two year old who bombed From stricken planes yet somehow outlived The Bloody One Hundredth. Ojo, my godfather, died thirty-six years ago. To the end, his hands trembled From the kick of guns Long since junked with Torchy and Ol’ Dan Boone. Before Ojo died, he told this to his son Who told it to my father Who told it to me, And now I will tell it to you: Late in the war, their plane out of fuel, Ojo’s B-17 landed near Poltava in Ukraine, Two German mine fields short of the runway. Russian soldiers rattled up in a Ford truck, Politely told the Americans to stay with their plane— The Soviet Army would get them to the airfield, not to worry. The Russians disappeared with the truck But came back later, The bed filled with Ukrainian women, girls And babushkas in paltoks and embroidered skirts. The Russians lined the women up, Pointed their Kalashnikovs, and forced them across the fields. At each bang Red, white, and blue pieces of cloth Fluttered down like confetti. Some of the women’s torn stomachs Revealed the little dolls nested inside Matryoshka. The soldiers cleared the mines, Dragged the B-17 to the runway, fueled her, Sent her back to Operation Frantic. Ojo, the pilot, the co-pilot, the navigator, the engineer, The radio operator, and all the gunners reported What they had seen with their own eyes But were ordered never to tell— The Soviets were our allies. Everything Ojo saw is gone: The women are gone, the soldiers are gone, The pilots are gone, the bombardiers are gone, The bombers and the bombed are gone, Yet in some superstitious way, I believe They will always live As long as there is someone Who remembers. |