JOANNA ACK-ACK.

Flak, 1 July 1943, Page 28

JOANNA ACK-ACK.

The cry was “ Plane ! ” We heard it throb Joanna spun the time-drum knob, (” Displays keen interest in her job; A girl of the right sort . . .” I quote from her report) The time-drum turned against its mark . . Joanna’s eye was fiercely dark, The eye perhaps of Joan of Arc, Or Dorothy Lamour— I could not quite be sure, The lipstick scars Joanna’s grace Like Hobnails in a holy place, But after all it’s not my face, Red lips, alert, alive, Frame crisply ” Fuze one-five ! ” Joanna stands erect, intent (Minuit Manhattan is her scent) While death moves up the firmament. Seconds (or years?) expire. Joanna orders ” Fire ! ” The salvo fires—fair aim and true,

Like pepper dusted on the blue, Burst specks of black; the plane rides through Joanna, lean, elate, Calls shrilly “ Fuze one-eight ! ” The shells fall low, above, beyond . . . Too bad the Press could not respond, With “ HEINKEL IS DESTROYED BY BLONDE,” And yet we must admit Joanna did her bit. And richly she deserves to class With men, and wear their badge of brass Stamped ” Übique ” (the rest’s “ quo fas Et gloria ducunt ”) Upon her tunic front. Joanna is of seasoned stuff, Hard-shod, steel-hatted, trousered, tough, Yet always with a powder-puff, In that unlawful place— Her respirator-case. ” Punch,” 4/3/42.