Flight of the Forgotten. Mark A. Vance
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Montana
As I stood on the observation deck watching the site in front of me, I was in absolute awe. With my mother holding my hand tightly, I peered ahead through the heavy metal-railing and stared in speechless reverence as dozens of sleek jet fighters thundered out of the heavens. When their wheels eventually touched the runway, each fighter suddenly produced the most brilliantly colored drag chute imaginable and roared to a howling stop. The entire scene was like a holy event. There were orange ones, purple ones, red ones; every color of the rainbow was represented. It was the most incredible thing I could imagine at the tender age of six.
All of it had something to do with a far away place called Cuba and the threat of a war that had hung over our house for days. I still remember how the television upset my dad whenever the word “draft” was mentioned and how my dad certainly didn’t want that “draft” happening to him again.
Aside from the threat of a war, I was as happy as could be on the airport observation deck watching Air Force jet fighters returning to earth. Deep inside me, a feeling I didn’t really understand was beginning to stir, as the jets dropped out of the clouds and I heard their engines rumble across the airport. It was magical, mystical, almost holy and yet at the same time strangely familiar. Not the jets of course, they were new to the setting. But the airport itself seemed strangely familiar, like I had known it before and was just now suddenly rediscovering it.
“This is for you when you grow up.” Buster’s voice proclaimed beside me. “Someday you’ll be a jet pilot too.” he insisted as I listened intently. It was all perfectly natural to me by this time. I had grown accustomed to my dead uncle’s spiritual comings and goings.
Minutes later, when my mother managed to pull me away from the railing, I remember turning back repeatedly for a last look at that majestic scene, unable to take my eyes off it and upset at the thought of leaving it behind. Once we were inside the terminal building though, another revelation was about to take place, as I stared ahead again in absolute wonder. There, inside the terminal building, were dozens of men in bright orange flight suits moving purposefully toward the exit as everyone else seemed to fade into the background. They were America’s “knights of the air”, in big black boots, “g” suits, flight helmets and parachutes as my mother dragged me along behind her, mesmerized. Watching those pilots in fascination, I had become dead weight on her arm. I thought of Buster again and his insistence that my destiny was to become a jet pilot. Inside, I could feel a lump rising in my throat as I continued to stare.
What majestic beings they were, larger than life, exuding confidence as they strode through the airport terminal. To me, they represented everything good, everything American, as I realized very quickly that they were the same men controlling the howling machines outside.
If it’s possible in one very brief youthful moment to make a lifetime career decision, I believe I made mine that October day in 1962 at the Billings International Airport. Whatever it took, I was going to be a jet pilot when I grew up. I didn’t really know why I wanted to be one. That didn’t seem to matter at the time. I only knew that those jets held excitement and glamour for me like nothing else on earth.
July, 1964, Washington, Indiana
As I entered the old farmhouse and stared around the room, I remember feeling a little uneasy at just being there. This wasn’t like anything I was used to. It was a real working farm in Indiana, and my great-grandfather had just lectured me very sternly for not properly milking one of his cows. He wanted me to call him “grandpa” like I did my other grandpa, but I soon learned the difference between them that afternoon.
William H. Davis, my great-grandfather, was a man engrossed in the workings of his farm, a man with little patience for children or city-folks, and I happened to be both. He was also a man who’d lost his son Buster in the war and who had lived through unimaginable heartache because of it. None of that was apparent or mattered to me at the time, of course. I was just a bungling child, incapable of performing even the simplest task without his sharp correction. All I wanted to do was go home.
Entering the front room of the farmhouse, seeking reassurance from my mother, I remember stating quite matter-of-factly that I wanted to leave. In response, my great-grandmother intervened, trying to cheer me up as she took me by the hand and began showing me around her home. Her efforts were not immediately successful, but eventually my attention was drawn to a picture on her wall of several young men standing in front of a World War II bomber. The photograph looked a lot like my favorite television show, “12 o’clock high,” and I can still see the twinkle in her eye as she declared, “That’s Buster!” gesturing at the crew photo. There it was ... that name again. The name I’d heard my uncle call himself so many times before when he spoke to me.
“Buster.” I echoed.
“Your uncle.” my mother stated. “Your grandma’s brother.” as I just stared in awe at the crew photograph.
“I know, Buster. Where is he now, Mom?” I then asked innocently. “I can hear him, but I don’t see him.”
“What?” my mother replied with a start, taking me by the hand and leading me away from the picture.
“Where is he now?” I asked again, as my mother tried to ignore the question.
“He’s gone, honey.” my great-grandmother, Buster’s mother, finally answered, as the twinkle in her eye began to fade.
“Gone?” I reeled, sensing something was radically wrong. “But he talks to me all the time.”
“Oh, my!” my great-grandmother exclaimed as she stared at me for a moment in silence and then the twinkle in her eye slowly began to return.
“He’s really interested in airplanes. It’s like ‘12 o’clock high’ to him.” my mother offered nervously, trying to put my great-grandmother at ease. Smiling knowingly in response, my great-grandmother then leaned over and patted me on the head, gazing intently into my eyes.
“He talks to you?” she said cautiously, as I nodded innocently. “Is is he okay?”
“Yes. He says I’m going to be a jet pilot when I grow up.” I announced as my great-grandmother stared at me in wonder.
From that day on, my great-grandmother always treated me like I was someone special. There were even occasional comparisons to Buster himself, as if the two of us were kindred spirits and I somehow reminded her of him. Whenever that happened, I remember it made my great-grandmother smile, and that knowing smile is what I remember most about her.
June 13, 1971, Washington, Indiana
It was a summer I’ll never forget. I was having the time of my life visiting my grandparents in Indiana. Being there allowed me to do things most city-kids could only dream about, and I was also getting to know my grandparents better at the same time. There was plenty of work to do, and I was expected to pull my own weight, but in the evening there was also enough hunting and fishing that for a city-kid, I was in absolute heaven. Occasionally, I would sit on a fence post and stare at the contrails lining the sky above, watching two totally different worlds merge into one. I knew that someday the other one would be my world too, and I would be making those contrails instead of just watching them.
Late that evening at the dinner table, I was staring into space and lost in thought when my grandmother, Buster’s sister, asked outright.
“Were you daydreaming about airplanes again?” eyeing me suspiciously. “Yeah, I guess so …” I said, finding words difficult all of a sudden.
“Where did this airplane business come from? You didn’t get it from anyone in this family.” she charged.
“Oh, it’s always been airplanes with me, Grandma. Don’t you remember?” I replied.
“Well, I remember all the model airplanes you built as a kid and how you used to live for ‘12 o’clock high’, but you aren’t still thinking about becoming a pilot when