The silver mustang was aflame, her pilot young, gallant.
They were spiraling towards the steeple in the village of Les Ventes.
With his last strength, that dying man pulled hard upon the stick
and willed the plane beyond the town out where the woods were thick.
He may well have already died before his plane hit down.
The flames shot high up in the air and scorched the fertile ground.
The villagers all recognized his act had spared their lives.
They honored he who died so that his memory survived.
His name is on a village street and flowers are piled high
Upon the grave where Billy slept when he tumbled from the sky.
His wife of six weeks never knew, til now, how Billy died,
but, ever faithful, she remained, no one else’s bride.
Fair France bears faded wounds of war, wounds she cannot hide.
Les Ventes recalls a hero’s death and warms his love with pride.