PILOTS

PILOTS

You see them at airport terminals around the world. You see them in the
morning early, sometimes at night. They come neatly uniformed and
hatted, sleeves striped; they show up looking fresh. There's a brisk,
young-old look of efficiency about them.

They arrive fresh from home, from hotels, carrying suitcases, battered
briefcases, bulging, with a wealth of technical information, data,
filled with regulations, rules.

They know the new, harsh sheen of Chicago's O'Hare. They know the
cluttered approaches to Newark; they know the tricky shuttle that is
Rio; they know, but do not relish, threading the needle into Hong Kong.

They respect foggy San Francisco. They know the up-and-down walk to the
gates at Dallas, the Texas sparseness of Abilene, the Berlin Corridor,
New Orleans' sparking terminal, the milling crowds at Washington. They
know Butte, Boston, and Beirut. They appreciate Miami's perfect
weather, they recognize the danger of an ice-slick runway at JFK.


They understand about short runways, antiquated fire equipment,
inadequate approach lighting, but there is one thing they will never
comprehend: Complacency.

They remember the workhorse efficiency of the DC-3's, the reliability
of the DC- 4's and DC 6's, the trouble with theDC-7's. They discuss the
beauty of an old gal named Connie. They recognize the high shrill whine
of a Viscount, the rumbling thrust of a DC-8 or 707. And a Convair.

They speak a language unknown to Webster. They discuss ALPA, EPR's,
fans, mach and bogie swivels. And, strangely, such things as bugs,
thumpers, crickets, and CATs, but they are inclined to change the
subject when the uninitiated approaches.

They have tasted the characteristic loneliness of the sky, and
occasionally the adrenaline of danger. They respect the unseen thing
called turbulence; they know what it means to fight for self-control,
to discipline one's senses.

They buy life insurance-but make no concession to the possibility of
complete disaster, for they have uncommon faith in themselves and what
they are doing.

They concede that the glamour is gone from flying. They deny that a man
is through at sixty. They know that tomorrow, or the following night,
something will come along that they have never met before; they know
that flying requires perseverance. They know that they must practice,
lest they retrograde.

They realize why some wit once quipped: "Flying is year after year of
monotony punctuated by seconds of stark terror."

As a group, they defy mortality tables, yet approach semi-annual
physical examinations with trepidation. They are individualistic, yet
bonded together. They are family men, yet rated poor marriage bets.
They are reputedly overpaid, yet entrusted with equipment worth millions.
And entrusted with lives, countless lives.

At times they are reverent: They have watched the Pacific sky turn
purple at dusk. They know the twinkling, jeweled beauty of Los Angeles
at night; they have seen snow up on the Rockies. They remember the vast
unending mat of green Amazon jungle, the twisting silver road that is
the father of Waters, an ice cream cone called Fujiyama. And the hump
of Africa. They have watched a satellite streak across a starry sky, seen
the clear, deep blue of the stratosphere, felt the incalculable force
of the heavens.

They have marveled at sun-streaked evenings, dappled earth, velvet
night; spun silver clouds, sculptured cumulus: God's weather. They have
viewed the Northern Lights, a wilderness of sky, a pilot's halo, a
bomber's moon, horizontal rain, contrails and St Elmo's Fire.

Only a pilot experiences all these. It is their world.

Author unknown


Arthur Kramer
344th BG 494th BS
England, France, Belgium, Holland, Germany
Visit my WW II B-26 website at:
http://www.coastcomp.com/artkramer

"ArtKramr" wrote in message
...
PILOTS

You see them at airport terminals around the world. You see them in the
morning early, sometimes at night. They come neatly uniformed and
hatted, sleeves striped; they show up looking fresh. There's a brisk,
young-old look of efficiency about them.

They arrive fresh from home, from hotels, carrying suitcases, battered
briefcases, bulging, with a wealth of technical information, data,
filled with regulations, rules.

They know the new, harsh sheen of Chicago's O'Hare. They know the
cluttered approaches to Newark; they know the tricky shuttle that is
Rio; they know, but do not relish, threading the needle into Hong Kong.

They respect foggy San Francisco. They know the up-and-down walk to the
gates at Dallas, the Texas sparseness of Abilene, the Berlin Corridor,
New Orleans' sparking terminal, the milling crowds at Washington. They
know Butte, Boston, and Beirut. They appreciate Miami's perfect
weather, they recognize the danger of an ice-slick runway at JFK.


They understand about short runways, antiquated fire equipment,
inadequate approach lighting, but there is one thing they will never
comprehend: Complacency.

They remember the workhorse efficiency of the DC-3's, the reliability
of the DC- 4's and DC 6's, the trouble with theDC-7's. They discuss the
beauty of an old gal named Connie. They recognize the high shrill whine
of a Viscount, the rumbling thrust of a DC-8 or 707. And a Convair.

They speak a language unknown to Webster. They discuss ALPA, EPR's,
fans, mach and bogie swivels. And, strangely, such things as bugs,
thumpers, crickets, and CATs, but they are inclined to change the
subject when the uninitiated approaches.

They have tasted the characteristic loneliness of the sky, and
occasionally the adrenaline of danger. They respect the unseen thing
called turbulence; they know what it means to fight for self-control,
to discipline one's senses.

They buy life insurance-but make no concession to the possibility of
complete disaster, for they have uncommon faith in themselves and what
they are doing.

They concede that the glamour is gone from flying. They deny that a man
is through at sixty. They know that tomorrow, or the following night,
something will come along that they have never met before; they know
that flying requires perseverance. They know that they must practice,
lest they retrograde.

They realize why some wit once quipped: "Flying is year after year of
monotony punctuated by seconds of stark terror."

As a group, they defy mortality tables, yet approach semi-annual
physical examinations with trepidation. They are individualistic, yet
bonded together. They are family men, yet rated poor marriage bets.
They are reputedly overpaid, yet entrusted with equipment worth millions.
And entrusted with lives, countless lives.

At times they are reverent: They have watched the Pacific sky turn
purple at dusk. They know the twinkling, jeweled beauty of Los Angeles
at night; they have seen snow up on the Rockies. They remember the vast
unending mat of green Amazon jungle, the twisting silver road that is
the father of Waters, an ice cream cone called Fujiyama. And the hump
of Africa. They have watched a satellite streak across a starry sky, seen
the clear, deep blue of the stratosphere, felt the incalculable force
of the heavens.

They have marveled at sun-streaked evenings, dappled earth, velvet
night; spun silver clouds, sculptured cumulus: God's weather. They have
viewed the Northern Lights, a wilderness of sky, a pilot's halo, a
bomber's moon, horizontal rain, contrails and St Elmo's Fire.

Only a pilot experiences all these. It is their world.

Author unknown


Arthur Kramer
344th BG 494th BS
England, France, Belgium, Holland, Germany
Visit my WW II B-26 website at:
http://www.coastcomp.com/artkramer

Thanks, For the post Art.

BMC

Subject: PILOTS
From: "Brian Colwell"
Date: 2/10/04 2:16 PM Pacific Standard Time
Message-id: 5LcWb.454460$JQ1.266434@pd7tw1no


"ArtKramr" wrote in message
...
PILOTS

You see them at airport terminals around the world. You see them in the
morning early, sometimes at night. They come neatly uniformed and
hatted, sleeves striped; they show up looking fresh. There's a brisk,
young-old look of efficiency about them.

They arrive fresh from home, from hotels, carrying suitcases, battered
briefcases, bulging, with a wealth of technical information, data,
filled with regulations, rules.

They know the new, harsh sheen of Chicago's O'Hare. They know the
cluttered approaches to Newark; they know the tricky shuttle that is
Rio; they know, but do not relish, threading the needle into Hong Kong.

They respect foggy San Francisco. They know the up-and-down walk to the
gates at Dallas, the Texas sparseness of Abilene, the Berlin Corridor,
New Orleans' sparking terminal, the milling crowds at Washington. They
know Butte, Boston, and Beirut. They appreciate Miami's perfect
weather, they recognize the danger of an ice-slick runway at JFK.


They understand about short runways, antiquated fire equipment,
inadequate approach lighting, but there is one thing they will never
comprehend: Complacency.

They remember the workhorse efficiency of the DC-3's, the reliability
of the DC- 4's and DC 6's, the trouble with theDC-7's. They discuss the
beauty of an old gal named Connie. They recognize the high shrill whine
of a Viscount, the rumbling thrust of a DC-8 or 707. And a Convair.

They speak a language unknown to Webster. They discuss ALPA, EPR's,
fans, mach and bogie swivels. And, strangely, such things as bugs,
thumpers, crickets, and CATs, but they are inclined to change the
subject when the uninitiated approaches.

They have tasted the characteristic loneliness of the sky, and
occasionally the adrenaline of danger. They respect the unseen thing
called turbulence; they know what it means to fight for self-control,
to discipline one's senses.

They buy life insurance-but make no concession to the possibility of
complete disaster, for they have uncommon faith in themselves and what
they are doing.

They concede that the glamour is gone from flying. They deny that a man
is through at sixty. They know that tomorrow, or the following night,
something will come along that they have never met before; they know
that flying requires perseverance. They know that they must practice,
lest they retrograde.

They realize why some wit once quipped: "Flying is year after year of
monotony punctuated by seconds of stark terror."

As a group, they defy mortality tables, yet approach semi-annual
physical examinations with trepidation. They are individualistic, yet
bonded together. They are family men, yet rated poor marriage bets.
They are reputedly overpaid, yet entrusted with equipment worth millions.
And entrusted with lives, countless lives.

At times they are reverent: They have watched the Pacific sky turn
purple at dusk. They know the twinkling, jeweled beauty of Los Angeles
at night; they have seen snow up on the Rockies. They remember the vast
unending mat of green Amazon jungle, the twisting silver road that is
the father of Waters, an ice cream cone called Fujiyama. And the hump
of Africa. They have watched a satellite streak across a starry sky, seen
the clear, deep blue of the stratosphere, felt the incalculable force
of the heavens.

They have marveled at sun-streaked evenings, dappled earth, velvet
night; spun silver clouds, sculptured cumulus: God's weather. They have
viewed the Northern Lights, a wilderness of sky, a pilot's halo, a
bomber's moon, horizontal rain, contrails and St Elmo's Fire.

Only a pilot experiences all these. It is their world.

Author unknown


Arthur Kramer
344th BG 494th BS
England, France, Belgium, Holland, Germany
Visit my WW II B-26 website at:
http://www.coastcomp.com/artkramer

Thanks, For the post Art.

BMC


And I am not even a pilot. (grin)


Arthur Kramer
344th BG 494th BS
England, France, Belgium, Holland, Germany
Visit my WW II B-26 website at:
http://www.coastcomp.com/artkramer