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~Memories of an old combat pilot
By: BG Stroup

The Pilot

I was sitting in my chair, under the backyard tree, with the evening sun shining around the shadow of the old tree, and I was thinking of the past. Who knows why old men drift so easily into thoughts of the past? Perhaps it is because the past is so long, and the future is so short.

I remembered my old friend, Hans Dahl, and how in the early days we would 'swagger' in our Luftwaffe uniforms, as we walked the streets and entered the clubs. "Ah Hans, the 'swagger' is over. It's been over for a long long time."

I remembered flying alongside Hans, with the engine smoking on his '109,' and Hans talking into his microphone through bubbles of his blood. His canopy was dotted with the large holes made by .50 caliber bullets. At last, He either died or became unconscious. I saw his Plane impact the side of a little hill, and explode with a brilliant orange white burst. I made one pass, as low and slow as I dared, and I thought I could see wild flowers growing on the Hillside.

"Well, old friend" I murmured, still remembering that day, "You didn't get the best of it, but you sure missed out on the worst of it." I hoped the sun was shining on the side of the Hill where He crashed.

I looked at my right hand; it was pallid and thin, etched with the blue veins of age. Eighty-Six years old. It was not possible, I must be mistaken. Inside my daughter's house, I could hear the radio, and some politician was ranting on with his lies, about what he would do, and what he wouldn't do. Politicians had killed my friends and countrymen. I had trusted and been betrayed, and I hated politics and would never vote, nor had not, in my living memory.

Hans had missed the 'grand finale' when we could put only a few planes in the air. I remembered a certain clear day, when I was the only plane that we had in our sector, and I was looking for an enemy Heavy Bomber, that might have straggled, for one reason or another.

I was at high altitude, and my vapor trail flowed behind me, as the years have done. So swiftly, so silently. Sucking on oxygen, I turned my head from side to side and up and down, in the motions that all combat pilots knew so well. Finally, I saw a heavy bomber far in the distance. I pulled my heavy flight glove off my right hand to flex the fingers, and it was not the pale, skeleton like hand of an old man that I saw on my chair arm. The hand was pink, pulsing with life, and my eyes could see so clearly the blue sky, patterned with a few puffs of clouds, and I could feel the vigor of youth, pumping through my body like an old intoxicant that I had not tasted in many years.

I knew that I could break off this combat now, and no one would be the wiser. We had lost the war, and the Fatherland lay below me in ruins. I hesitated, with that old companion, fear, rising as bitter as gall into my throat. I was in an absolutely abject state of fear. I had been shot down twelve times and wounded four times. Twice I barely escaped with my life. It seemed like I had spent a lifetime right where I was. Time seemed to stop. It seemed for an instant, that I had been in this moment of time forever.

Coming to my senses, I eased the throttle back to collect my thoughts, then I put the glove onto my freezing hand and slid the throttle full forward. The engine responded with a great burst of sound, and the enemy plane started to grow larger in my vision.

My thoughts were broken by the sound of my daughter calling to me. "Papa, you come in here now, it's time for your medicine, and you know what the Doctor said."

"Ah Hans, if they buried you on that sun drenched Hillside, or if they didn't. Should I envy you, or should you envy me?" Neither, I suspect. May God's mercy be with us both."

My Daughter's voice was more strident, "Papa. Get in here. Do you want me to come and help you?'

"No" I called, "I'm coming. I'm coming."

Article Source: http://journal.ilovephilosophy.com

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