I think I've known a million lads,
Who say they love the sky;
Who'd all be aviators,
And not afraid to fly!
For Duty, Honor, Country,
Their courage I admire!
But it takes more than courage, son,
To get to be a flyer.
When you are only twelve years old
Of course you want to fly!
And tho' you know not what is Death;
You're not afraid to die.
But of the million, more or less,
All must have perfect eyes;
So only half a million now,
Can dream of future skies.
Then comes high school, science, math;
Some choose the easy way:
Football, cars, and dating girls;
Teen pleasures hold their sway.
And of the quarter million left,
One half go on to schools;
The other half will dream and drift,
And never learn the rules.
Now comes the day of testing,
Eight hours of Stanine Hell;
On every subject known to man,
Four- fifths will not do well.
The one in five who pass this test
Apply for flying schools,
The Application Boards will now
Eliminate the fools.
Then comes two days of nakedness,
Flight Surgeons poke and prod;
To pass this Flying Physical
One needs to be a God!
And now, five hundred lucky souls
Will start their Pre-Flight days;
Endure demerits, hunger, cold,
As upperclassmen haze.
One- half survive this mental game,
And go to Primary schools,
But only half will hack the course,
Move on to Basic rules.
Two hundred fifty now will try
To pass those Basic tests;
Formation flight soon separates,
The "tiger" from the rest.
One hundred twenty five will then
Pin on those pilot wings;
The best become hot fighter jocks;
The rest fly other things.
Some will die while learning those
Essential combat skills;
Some will die in combat,
Some will score their "kills".
But they have learned a lesson,
Sometimes lost on you and me;
We must always fight for Freedom,
Because Freedom's never free!
He's a knight in shining armor,
That the cruel tyrants fear;
He's that deadly drop of venom
On the tip of Freedom's spear.
Engaging him in battle is a course
That only fools would choose;
He's the world's fiercest warrior,
For he has the most to lose.
So when you see that fighter pilot,
Standing at the bar;
Taking out the garbage,
Or tuning up his car.
You'd best walk up and offer him
Your thanks, extend your hand;
He's that rare "one in a million" who
Protects this sacred land.
This poem is dedicated to the memory of Major General Donald H. Ross, USAF,
Commander of Bartow AFB, Florida, 1960,and Williams AFB, Arizona, 1961-1964,
Air Training Command.
He served in the 8th Air Force in Europe during WW II, flying 72 missions in P-47's and P-51's,
prior to bailing out and taken prisoner by the Luftwaffe. In 1953 he was a member of the Fourth
Fighter Wing flying F-86's in Korea, Commander of the 336th Fighter Squadron .
(Note: The author was the recipient of a Commander's Award from Colonel Ross on
27 May 1960. He flew with me twice while in Primary Pilot training. I cannot attest
to his flying skills, as I was blacked out most of the time he had the stick!)
He thought I would make a fine airline pilot!
He was a "tiger"!
This poem is dedicated to Boeing 747-100, N93108, born at Boeing Field, Seattle, Washington,
1968, retired as the last Boeing 747 to fly for TWA, 1998. She was the only 747 attired in
the new livery. She had 100,000 hours on her airframe.
Back to Poetry Index
