The Flyboy
Originally published in Goose River Anthology 2021
There were old pilots
and there were bold pilots.
But no old, bold pilots, until…
“It’s a T-6,” a voice behind him said suddenly. “A trainer first used in World War II. You ever seen one before?”
The old man turned to face him and said, “Yeah, I have. Learned to fly in one, back in ’49.” He studied the man carefully, calculated he was no older than 50; maybe younger.
The old man stuck out a paw, introduced himself. Then added: “My buddies back in the day used to call me ‘Motormouth.’ Buddies in my squadron. Back then.”
The younger man replied without emotion. “I own this plane. Bought it a couple years ago. Fly it when I have time, usually two or three times a month.”
“When I flew it,” the old man said, “we flew two or three times a day.” He laughed as he said it, looked away, let his glance linger on the sturdy-looking monoplane, leaning back to rest on its tail wheel.
The two talked enough for the old man to learn that most of the time the T-6 just sat there at the airport, occasionally drawing wondering attention from passersby.
“I was about to go on a short hop about the area,” the younger man said. “Want to ride along?”
The old man felt his heart leap. “Sure would. Been a long time since I flew this kinda bird. Any kind. Would feel mighty fine.”
He climbed into the back seat on instructions from the owner, who said he’d
The sky overhead was suddenly crowded with piston-powered airplanes, old ones, a few nearly a century old. Their roar filled the senses.
It puzzled the old man, standing on the grass outside his suburban Dallas home. He looked quizzically at his neighbor, a younger man, maybe 75 or so, standing not far away on his own lawn.
“Commemorative Air Force,” the neighbor said. “A bunch of old veterans flying around to celebrate Memorial Day.”
The old man nodded, then said: “I used to fly, you know. Korean War.” He pointed to a tight formation, four planes growling low over the subdivision. “Flew one of those. T-6. First plane I ever flew. First plane I was ever in. I’ll never forget that old T-6….”
But the neighbor had turned away and gone inside. He had war stories of his own but never told them. He’d spent his entire army service in El Paso.
In the newspaper the old man learned that the flock of old planes had come from far and wide, gathering together nearby at the airport in Addison from which their pilots launched their tribute. A few days later he drove his 20-year-old Chevy over to see if any T-6s remained. To his delight, one did.
The old man strolled over to the T-6, walked all the way around it twice, then caressed the bright yellow-orange fuselage with his calloused hands, stepped back a few strides to continue admiring it.