War Poet.ca - A CFAP Project by Suzanne Steele

fly boys

I don’t know why, but I think of them very, very often. the flight crew who flew me into and out of KAF. I chatted with them in the cockpit flying over the blue, blue mountains. and with the load specialists at the back keeping an eye on the air space. our Herc accompanied by a couple of F18s (oh that made me feel really relaxed).

gum chewing. good looking. all of them. “ya, the air force”, the infantry roll their eyes, and visa versa, the air force say, “we like to sleep in beds at night, not in the mud. we’re not stupid”. always, always the rivalries. some good natured, some real.

and one of the guys, tall really handsome, I mean really, really good looking fly boy handsome, used to be a parachutist. broke his back. I’ve met quite a few mil. pers. who’ve broken or screwed up their backs. there was something different about him. almost as if he was not what he was. flight crew.

it’s weird but I keep remembering him as if he was a Charon. ferrying the living into the land of the dead. and back again. and maybe it’s because I was in the Herc with the belly full of next-of-kin (oh that was harrowing to witness, 14 putting on their frags, helmets, flying into the country that killed their sons, husbands, brothers), but I keep flashing back in my memory to him. quietly delivering the boys to the front, taking them home again. sometimes in a box.


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The page you're reading contains a single diary entry entitled fly boys. It was posted here on June 25, 2010.

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