Utah Bob
07-27-2011, 10:14
Yesterday afternoon I was in the den on the computer as usual when I heard a faint sound and, like Radar O'Reilly, dashed out the front door, searching the sky. The wife is used to this although it happens less and less these days. I wish I could stop doing it but I can't. Coming out of the southwest about 800 feet above the house was an old familiar sight. A Huey.
An ungainly looking craft it is. Not dashing certainly, Not a glorious image. More of a crow than a falcon. Beautiful only in it's function; and in that, there is perfection.
One day the sound of the Huey's blade beating the air in submission will disappear from the skies. The bop-bop-bop in the distance has mostly given way to the steady roar of the Blackhawks now. I think I know how the old horse cavalrymen felt when they saw the line of tanks on the field. The field that no longer echoed to the hoof beats of bygone days.
Like the throaty growl of the Spad, the thunderous roar of the B-17, and the scream of the Merlin engine in the Mustang and Spitfire, an age passes. No longer will these old eyes search the clouds for an incoming chariot. A chariot bringing letters from home, or desperately needed supplies, or to take you away from a bad place, maybe only to take you to another one.
I will no longer be transported to another place in time as memories swirl like the water vapor off the tips of the rotor blade. I'll not see a door gunner wave as the bird departs, his eyes saying "So long you poor bastards", as the co-pilot flashes a peace sign out his window. The afternoon will not be interrupted by thoughts of my youth. Thoughts of friends who's youth will never fade. Thoughts of dark nights scarcely cooler than the day, the smell of burning diesel, the distant boom of outgoing shells and the scream of incoming. The sound of the radio crackling as airstrikes are called in. The laughter of barefoot children when they catch the candy bars thrown to them as the convoy rumbles up the road in a choking cloud of red dust.
All these memories will fade as the sound of the Huey passes into history. At a parade, when a flyover of the old war bird occurs, younger men will not notice a tear from an old eye ... or if they do notice, will not understand. And as the landscape no longer vibrates with the thunder of an approaching platoon, time and memories will move on. As they should.
Farewell you ugly, beautiful, smelly, wonderful old thing. Thanks for the memories, damn you.
An ungainly looking craft it is. Not dashing certainly, Not a glorious image. More of a crow than a falcon. Beautiful only in it's function; and in that, there is perfection.
One day the sound of the Huey's blade beating the air in submission will disappear from the skies. The bop-bop-bop in the distance has mostly given way to the steady roar of the Blackhawks now. I think I know how the old horse cavalrymen felt when they saw the line of tanks on the field. The field that no longer echoed to the hoof beats of bygone days.
Like the throaty growl of the Spad, the thunderous roar of the B-17, and the scream of the Merlin engine in the Mustang and Spitfire, an age passes. No longer will these old eyes search the clouds for an incoming chariot. A chariot bringing letters from home, or desperately needed supplies, or to take you away from a bad place, maybe only to take you to another one.
I will no longer be transported to another place in time as memories swirl like the water vapor off the tips of the rotor blade. I'll not see a door gunner wave as the bird departs, his eyes saying "So long you poor bastards", as the co-pilot flashes a peace sign out his window. The afternoon will not be interrupted by thoughts of my youth. Thoughts of friends who's youth will never fade. Thoughts of dark nights scarcely cooler than the day, the smell of burning diesel, the distant boom of outgoing shells and the scream of incoming. The sound of the radio crackling as airstrikes are called in. The laughter of barefoot children when they catch the candy bars thrown to them as the convoy rumbles up the road in a choking cloud of red dust.
All these memories will fade as the sound of the Huey passes into history. At a parade, when a flyover of the old war bird occurs, younger men will not notice a tear from an old eye ... or if they do notice, will not understand. And as the landscape no longer vibrates with the thunder of an approaching platoon, time and memories will move on. As they should.
Farewell you ugly, beautiful, smelly, wonderful old thing. Thanks for the memories, damn you.