Saturday, May 19, 2007

Snowbirds of Prey

Just imagine:

4pm on a Friday afternoon, you’re driving through Montana and you stop on the side of the interstate to watch an airplane stunt show.

The planes are flying in circles and divots in what are dubbed “routine maneuvers”.

Suddenly the one plane’s wing folds over, caught by wind. It dangles like a piece of tinfoil and the sky seems to crumple. The whole plane plummets to the earth, making a thud, just before exploding into flames.

It leaves behind its black cloud and stench of jet fuel, through which unfallen comrades fly.

The young pilot was “Unfortunately…my son” said Ken McCaughey, someone for which his team will have to take an extra “operational pause”….a pause to remember what perhaps we forgot. Repeated histories prompted, prompted too regularly, too routinely.

Will he be remembered only as our Prime Minister acknowledged him? As "a positive role model and goodwill ambassador who truly personified the professionalism and dedication of all the women and men who make up our Canadian Forces."?

A faceless pilot who fought no war.

This smacks and jars the senses of men and women.

He never had time to self-eject.

To think: he was to be married next month in Montreal.

He'll never live through this weekend.

Click here for Globe and Mail article related to this piece.

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Anonymous Anonymous said...

I didn't get what you meant with that last sentence. He was dead already, right?

3:14 a.m.  
Blogger sirbarrett said...

Yes exactly.

10:10 a.m.  
Blogger Chloe said...

somehow, in the back of your mind, this possibility exists, when you fly especially. but i can't imagine the moment when you realize it is not a remote possibility but a certainty.

4:52 p.m.  

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