The unmistakable gutteral roar of propeller driven airplane engines
Grew louder, as these workhorses flew closer.
Not a movie, nor a dream, the sound, the roar is part of America’s DNA.
Cloudy, overcast, a replication of the long ago skies of Northern Europe.
Hidden, protected, the planes approach – somewhere above the cloud bank..
Clouds cast a grey blanket, then open for a few moments.
We can hear them, but where are they? Who goes there?
Who breaks the silence of rural America?
The clouds answer the query and part for a few moments.
Majestic and proud, these gladiators of the sky trundle on
carrying the memories of daring young heroes who would give the ultimate sacrifice.
Seven decades and counting – how the pages of history inexorably turn.
We stand in the yard remembering the leather head coverings, the A on the jacket,
and watch humble with crooked neck and searching eyes in silence . Whence they fly?
Our fathers generation flew in these cockpits over Dresden with flack left and right.
They helped make the Furher hide in this death bunker.
The flyboys who risked it all.. and made their country proud.
As Tom Brokaw named them “ The Greatest Generation”.
Humbled, respectful we are as these patriotic air travelers cross overhead.
A seamless transition from air borne machines to living reminders of victory
sacrifice, and the saviors of western civilization.
One more time – “ God Bless America”.
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