Sunny Side Up Nov. 6, 2002 �2002, Kathleen Gibson Death�the constant in peace and war It�s the appointment we don�t write in our daybooks. Death. It happened in the sixties, during my family�s annual expedition to the Abbotsford Airshow. Two restored World War II Spitfires�one red, one green�pointed their noses skyward, climbed high, cut their motors, and began a direct downward spiral. A scant few feet above earth one of the planes resumed power and pulled steeply skyward. The nose of the other ploughed up nine feet of rich Abbotsford dirt, ending the young pilot�s life abruptly and changing forever a child�s view of its permanence. I stood only meters away. The experience returns to me in brittle sound-bytes; in frozen images surrounded by question marks. A moment of baffled silence after the impact. A shower of dirt. A frenzied rush to escape the searing heat. The acrid smell of burning fuel and wreckage. The keening lament of sirens. Finally, the precisely clipped words of PierreTrudeau. He had opened the Airshow minutes before. Now he offered consolation to the pilot�s family. I often think about that day. I wonder about the pilot�s name. I wonder if someone he loved hugged him before he strapped on his helmet. I wonder when he realized this was his last dive. And I wonder if he was ready to meet God. I�ve tried to find out all those things. With the help of computer search engines and archived news files, I�ve tried to fill in the missing pieces. Strangely, there seems to be no record of the crash and, except for my family�s witness, I begin to wonder if I imagined the whole thing. But I found something else in my research. During World War II, a nineteen-year-old literature student, John Gillespie Magee Jr., enlisted in the RCAF. During advanced pilot�s training, in one of his first flights in a Spitfire, he wrote this poem on the back of an envelope. High Flight Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth, And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds�and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of�wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there, I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air. Up, up the long delirious, burning blue I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace Where never lark, or even eagle flew And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod The high untrespassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand, and touched the face of God. On a misty day in December of 1941, while performing flight exercises, Magee collided in midair with his trainer. A single farmer watched as he bailed. His parachute never opened. One in war, one in peace. When those two young Spitfire pilots slipped the surly bonds of earth for the last time, I hope with all my heart that God�s face truly was within reach of both. Of you, too. If this column inspired thoughts of your own, email them to [email protected] |
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