Warbirds or Skylarks?

By Elizabeth Brooke-Carr in All Sorts

The Warbirds over Wanaka airshow was held at Easter, but where is peace to be found?

Warbirds or Skylarks?

At Easter my Wingless One took himself off to join the tens of thousands of people who flocked to the three-day Warbirds over Wanaka airshow. There, with his head in the clouds, breathing in a fug of aviation fuel, and giddy from staring at the sky, he risked deafness to watch a Mustang aircraft thunder past. The distinctive sound of the Rolls-Royce Merlin engine was enough to send him into a rapturous state. Then into the heady mix came Spitfires, Vampires, Tigermoths, Kittyhawks, and Hornets, buzzing the skies and swooping over the heads of the assembled devotees, to further enhance his euphoria. He punched the air and shouted, 'Yes!'

And then there was the Wing Walker. As far as I can tell from my Wingless One's description, she was a hybrid being, part human-dare-devil and part angel-on-wings, intent on pushing the boundaries between life on earth and a similar condition in heaven. To add to the spirit of things mock battles and ground pyrotechnics were played out above and on the airfield, creating a sort of mini Armageddon overlaid with elements of Dantes Inferno.

Not for me all that drama, din and speed. Nor am I fully evolved enough to appreciate the technical details of aircraft engines, and the intricate construction of their body dynamics. But I understand my Wingless One's awe in the presence of the Warbirds, and the respect he has for their crews and the missions they carried out. His father was an NZRAF bomber pilot during the Second World War and in this role he was required to perform duties that go far beyond what my pacifist heart can easily contemplate. The legacy of my late father-in-law's stories, not told until he was in his declining years, now lives on in my Wingless One's passion for the Warbirds. But my father-in-law could tell these stories only because he was one of the lucky airmen who came home safely after his perilous sorties. Others were not so fortunate.

An eloquent poem written by a nineteen-year-old American fighter pilot on the back of a letter to his parents is especially poignant. His poem delights in the freedom of space and the sheer beauty of the skies - elements to which I can relate. In the opening line of High Flight, John Gillespie Magee makes only a passing mention of what is happening in the war zones on the ground below. The poem is focused on his joy of flirting with the clouds and, finally, coming face to face with God.

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace,
Where never lark, or even eagle, flew;
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

There is nothing dark in the poem to suggest he had any sense of his impending fate. But shortly afterwards the poet was killed on active service in England.

I thought of that young man again, as I walked the track from Bannockburn to Cromwell, at Easter, while my Wingless One was fraternising with the Warbirds at Wanaka. As I scrunched steadily along the graveled walkway beside Lake Dunstan I remembered John Gillespie Magee, and many others like him, whose lives have been cut short because of war. And my head buzzed with random thoughts about the utter futility of war.

Above me skylarks twittered and flitted about - fragile, feathered creatures. The wind got up a bit. Wafts of autumn-dry Central Otago thyme and the scent of crushed pine needles rose from somewhere near my feet. The hills stood at ease in their dun-coloured uniforms, staunch but relaxed under a vast flag of blue sky that surrendered to infinity. The sense of peace was palpable.

I put out my hand and, yep! I touched the face of God. It can happen even with your feet on the ground.

-- Elizabeth Brooke-Carr

This article was first printed as a Connections article in the Parish weekly bulletin, April 18, 2010.