Twas the night before track select

  • Published
  • By Staff Sgt. James Bolinger
  • 71st Flying Training Wing Public Affairs
VANCE AIR FORCE BASE, Okla. --  
Twas the night before track select, when all throughout Vance
Not a student was stirring, not taking a chance.
Their dreams of high flying hung frozen in air,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

Their boyfriends and girlfriends hoping to leave
Vance forever, they just couldn't sleep.
And IPs at home not stressing one bit.
Why be worried? They're already pilots.

When out on the flight line there arose such a clatter,
I sprang up from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the drapes and threw up the sash.

The air field lighting illuminating the snow,
Gave an orangey luster to the objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature fighter towed by tiny reindeer.

He was a crusty old pilot with his hands on the stick,
We knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than Warthogs his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On Cupid! On Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash Away! Dash Away all!

Then with tires skidding and reverse thrusters a blast,
I heard the old pilot land on my roof with a crash
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed as a bluesuitor with his wings all agleam,
His real leather shoes hand shined to a sheen.
His ribbons climbed over his shoulder, and onto his back
Many of which he earned refueling fighters over Iraq.

He was crusty and hard with a laugh that meant business
And I laughed when I saw him, and with God as my witness,
He looked straight at me with fire in his eye,
And said, "Hello trainee, I hear you want to fly."

I knew he was here to tell me the news,
About the countries I'd see from a pilot's unique view.
Would I get bombers or fighters or a plane that can spy,
Or stay here at Vance and teach others to fly.

Then he spoke in a whisper only I could hear,
Relaying a story about my Air Force career.
I smiled and shouted and saluted his Bird.
Then he smirked and he left without saying a word.

He sprang to his jet, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew with the thrust of a missile.
But I heard him exclaim 'ere he zoomed out of sight,
"Happy holidays to all, and to all a good-night!"

(Editor's note: With much appreciation to Clement Clarke Moore for his poem, "A Visit from St. Nicholas," originally published in 1823.)