In Loving Memory...

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HIGH FLIGHT
John Gillespie, Magee, Jr.

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'ing 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 windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew.
And, while the silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

 

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Above courtesy of Frank's daughter, Katherine.

 

 

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Taps...

Franklin D. Bryant

Frank Bryant

Photo courtesy of Terry Shulze

Terry writes:

"I am sending a picture of Capt. Bryant standing in front of a very damaged Cobra that went down in the Rung Sat with an engine failure. Bryant was the front seater, I remember him telling me that he was concerned on the way down about the main rotor, ...but the mud of the Rung Sat looks like it finally found a purpose, cushioning a helicopter's impact."

Frank, Silver Spur 3, served with us in our Gun platoon and as Operations Officer from 2 Nov'69 to 31 Oct 70. His daughter, Katherine, writes:

"...I know my father, Major Franklin D. Bryant, who served from November, 1969 to November 1970 had been in touch with you a few times. Unfortunately we lost him (unexpectedly and quickly) due to lung cancer last October. He had a very nice full military burial and we all miss him very much."

The Spurs extend our sincere condolences to Frank's entire family and we pray Frank rests in peace... A Hand Salute to our fallen brother...

In honor of Frank we respectfully submit:

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 a management type would ere be caught dead;

Just a quaint little place, kind of dark, full of smoke,
Where they like to sing loud, and love a good joke;

The kind of a 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 paining is finished, and their airspeed gets low,

Where the whiskey is old, and the women are young,
And 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 pleased that you're here."

"For this is the place where true flyers come,"
"When their journey is over, and the war has been won."

"They've come here at last to be safe and alone"
"From the government clerks and the management clone,"

"Politicians and lawyers, the Feds and the noise,"
"Where all hours are happy, and these good ole boys"

"Can relax with a cool one, and a well deserved rest;"
"This is heaven, my son......You've passed your last test!"

Author unknown. Submitted by Bill Reynolds