Sugaree
May 22nd, 2010, 11:13 PM
There was a Golden Age, once.
Where we would scream through the Heavens like Valkyries.
Wings gleaming in the pristine sun,
our approach heralded by the howling wind and the fire of our weapons.
We were the greatest of warriors - entering our battles
knowing we would either return victorious...
or not return at all.
It was a simpler place than the world below.
In the air, there was no room for ambivalence, no room for diplomacy.
In the air, it was just enemies and allies.
It didn't take a painting on our wings to know which was which.
You trusted your friends with your life.
If you served the Great War, it was as much their credit as yours.
Of course, we did survive.
We returned to our homes amidst cheers and more awards.
More than we could possible pin to our vests.
But all of that was terrestrial...mundane.
We shared something that transcended mortal experience, flying together.
Something that tied us stringer than our love for our nation.
Back then, I was certain it was something that neither time nor distance could fade.
As each of us, individually, fought our way back into the culture of a world that moved on.
A world that no longer needed pilots (at least not the kind that could work a biplane).
We clung to those memories as the only things that made us real.
But eventually, after enough years, and enough distance,
letters that were once weekly turned monthly.
Friends who would once have died for each other became photographers and stories.
Not that anyone forgot, mind you, but most of us eventually realized
that our time had passed. And though secretly we all hoped for it to return, for another conflict to call us back to our planes, a pilot was nothing if not a realist.
We had a good enough job the first time...some of us couldn't bear a second war.
Where we would scream through the Heavens like Valkyries.
Wings gleaming in the pristine sun,
our approach heralded by the howling wind and the fire of our weapons.
We were the greatest of warriors - entering our battles
knowing we would either return victorious...
or not return at all.
It was a simpler place than the world below.
In the air, there was no room for ambivalence, no room for diplomacy.
In the air, it was just enemies and allies.
It didn't take a painting on our wings to know which was which.
You trusted your friends with your life.
If you served the Great War, it was as much their credit as yours.
Of course, we did survive.
We returned to our homes amidst cheers and more awards.
More than we could possible pin to our vests.
But all of that was terrestrial...mundane.
We shared something that transcended mortal experience, flying together.
Something that tied us stringer than our love for our nation.
Back then, I was certain it was something that neither time nor distance could fade.
As each of us, individually, fought our way back into the culture of a world that moved on.
A world that no longer needed pilots (at least not the kind that could work a biplane).
We clung to those memories as the only things that made us real.
But eventually, after enough years, and enough distance,
letters that were once weekly turned monthly.
Friends who would once have died for each other became photographers and stories.
Not that anyone forgot, mind you, but most of us eventually realized
that our time had passed. And though secretly we all hoped for it to return, for another conflict to call us back to our planes, a pilot was nothing if not a realist.
We had a good enough job the first time...some of us couldn't bear a second war.