Being BaldBil

Here is what I presume to be a poem. I wrote this in 1982 while working as a USAF Security Police (now Security Forces) crew chief in the missile field of Montana. We were responsible for 10 Minuteman III ICBM's located under the prairie around the town of Conrad. Working out of a Launch Control Facility (LCF) designated Papa-Zero we would spend three days responding to maintenance calls, exercise alerts and actual alarm activations. Our team at various times included SSgt Bell, Sgt Reed, SrA Sellner, A1C Morales, A1C Greene, Amn Standish, SrA McRae and a few others. I was never comfortable guarding those missiles, the whole concept of MAD (mutually assured destruction bothered me).

DEATH OUR MOTHER

Here we are the boys in green

our aims are high our goals are clean.

The bombs we guard sit in the Earth

to death our Mother will give birth.

We sit and wait for her to come

the clock is slow beats as a drum.

When she does her spirit will sing

of the death we her children can bring.

In the ground the legends sit

the time will come their keys will fit.

At that time from the lair they'll rise

death, her son will dance for your eyes.

Now is the time our hell has come due

our sky has lost it's comforting blue.

The worst is not over now is the time

for the specter of death and its terrible mime.

When it is over will man really learn

that playing with fire will result in a burn?

Will he continue to play the game of the damned

so death can again envelop the land?