Well, hell. I've been on a hiatus from the Internet for numerous reasons lately, and now I come back to this. My next-door neighbor from later childhood recently passed away as well, a B-17 pilot in command who flew his assigned allotment of missions over Germany, and only lost a tail gunner. From a modern aviator to the memory of Dean Sterling and Ron Marron, I present another man's work.
"Flying West"
I hope there's a place, way up in the sky, where pilots can go, when they have to die.
A place where a guy can buy a cold beer for a friend and a comrade, whose memory is dear.
A place where no doctor or lawyer can tread, nor management type would ere be caught dead;
Just a quaint little place, kinda dark and full of smoke, where they like to sing loud, and love a good joke.
The kind of place where a lady could go, and feel safe and protected by the men she would know.
There must be a place where old pilots go, when their wings become heavy, and their airspeed gets low.
Where the whiskey is old, and the women are young, and the songs about flying and dying are sung.
Where you'd see all the fellows who'd flown west before, and they'd call out your name, as you came through the door.
Who would buy you a drink if your thirst should be bad, and relate to the others, "He was quite a good lad!"
And then through the mist, you'd spot an old guy you had not seen in years, though he taught you to fly.
He'd nod his old head, and grin ear to ear, and say "Welcome, my son, I'm glad that you're here."
"For this is the place where true flyers come, when the journey is over, and the war has been won."
"They've come here at last to be safe and alone from the government clerk and the management drone,
"Politicians and lawyers, the Feds and the noise, where the hours are happy, and these good ol' boys
"Can relax with a cold one, and a well-deserved rest. This is Heaven, my son. You've passed your last test!"
-Capt. Michael J. Larkin