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High Flight

• by John Gillespie Magee, Jr.

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In early March 1972, near the end of my
Undergraduate Pilot Training at Moody Air Force
Base near Valdosta, Georgia, I flew a four-ship
formation training sortie, one of my last in the
T-38. I sacrificed an irreplaceable opportunity
to fly the airplane myself during that mission to
take pictures instead. Capt Ace Carlson, sitting
behind me in the aircraft, flew the plane
perfectly for this picture-taking mission. What
follows is the best of those pictures. All Air
Force pilots are exposed early in their flying
careers to the moving poem High Flight, by John
Gillespie Magee, Jr. In fact, we heard and saw it
so often that we became desensitized to its
beauty and meaning. But now, reflecting back on
the 35 years since I took these pictures, and
knowing that Ill never fly like this again, that
poem regains its special meaning once more. It
actually moves me to tears thinking about the
experiences Ive had in the sky that I wish I
could do againjust once more. Bill
Dettmer, 2007
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Moody Tower, Talon Zebra, flight of four, ready
for takeoff
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Roger, Talon Zebra, Moody Tower. Winds calm,
altimeter two-niner-niner-eight. Contact
departure control two-six-niner-point-eight.
Cleared for takeoff
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Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
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Fingertip formation
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings
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Starting the wing-over maneuver
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling
mirth
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Of sun-split clouds
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Ninety degrees of bank at 28,000 feet Keep the
wingtip in the star!
and done a hundred thingsYou have not dreamed
of
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Echelon turn
wheeled and soared and swungHigh in the sunlit
silence.
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Hov'ring there, I've chased the shouting wind
along
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and flung my eager craft through footless halls
of air.
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Up, up the long, delirious, burning blueI've
topped the wind-swept heights with easy
grace Where never lark, or even eagle flew
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And, while with silent lifting mind I've trodThe
high untrespassed sanctity of space
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Sunset over the South Pacific at 31,000 feet
between Guam and Vietnam
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
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Starting the pitchout for landing
Of course, after about an hour and twenty minutes
of slipping the surly bonds, the tanks start
running low on dinosaurs, and we have to return
to reality again
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The End