I am a pilot, a fighter,
Six fly-outs per day.
Now hear of a Messerschmit’s fire,
Of two Focke-Wulfs that were diving...
Sure, it all can wait.

Right now there’s a squadron preparing: nine bombers
Take off to fly through the night.
Well, let me start in a logical order,
Why get ahead all the time? 

Today our Brest was recaptured.
But yesterday we flew there to bomb.
I can tell a lie from true stories
For me it’s obligatory,
But Brest is my house and my mom.

We flew with nine planes from a heavy bomb squadron;
Depressing: our planes bomb our land!
You see, I can’t follow the logical order
Again, I get ahead of the end.

I’m losing my nerve not so often:
An ace, but it’s our Brest not theirs!
When bombers began to deliver,
I almost pressed on a trigger,
When one of them passed in crosshairs. 

Eventually, bombing was done by our heavies.
Below all looked proper as well.
And everything went as it should, and the landing,
Again, I get ahead of myself.

I am a pilot, a fighter,
But what an unpleasant affair:
I flew tonight to provide cover;
Please send me to fly yet another,
But only don’t tell me where.