by Voicu Mihnea Simandan
“What is finer than flying?”
(J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit)
When I was young I used to spend a lot of time in my grandparents’ apartment, while my parents were at work, or they were taking care of my older brother. I liked to stay with my grandparents because there were many things I could do in their apartment. Most of these things gravitated around airplanes. Together with my grandfather, I made model planes and I read about them in a large book about the history of aviation. I had a big folder filled with drawings and paintings of my own. They were all scenes of airplane battles or sketches of fantasy aircrafts that I made up by combining elements of the different planes I had seen in the large book.
We also made kites that were so popular among the children in the neighbourhood. Every time the weather was favourable, we would take our latest kite in the schoolyard and fly it high in the sky. Soon after that, scores of children came by and begged me to let them hold the line for a while. Sometimes I would let them, but quite often, I would be selfish and protective of my kite. In such cases, my grandpa would persuade me to let the other children play with me, reminding me that one day in the future I’ll have to come into the schoolyard all by myself, and play with these kids alone. I didn’t understand what he was saying. I couldn’t imagine him not being there with me.
At night, no matter if I was sleeping at my parents’ or my grandparents’, I would fall asleep thinking of the time when I would fly my own plane. And then, I was again in front of my block of flats, getting ready for take off. With just my goggles on, I started running, with my arms spread, along the path flanked by trees and bushes. When I reached the end of the runway, my feet were off the ground. In no time I was above all the building of my neighbourhood, inspecting the playground, the school, the little creek, the garden, and the trees. I was flying. I was happy. I was free.
“Control tower, come in,” he said. “This is 325 reconnaissance flight, come in.”
“325 reconnaissance flight, copy,” a man’s harsh voice came through the radio. “What is your status and position?”
“My left engine is down,” the aviator shouted. “I’m ten kilometers away from the airfield.”
“325, copy,” acknowledged the voice. “Can you make it?”
“I think I can. But, you’d better be prepared for an emergency landing,” replied the aviator.
“Copy that, 325. Bring her home!”
When Romania allied with Germany and went to war against USSR, on June 22, 1941, the Romanian Military Aviation had 621 airplanes. Of these, 253 fighters bombing and reconnaissance airplanes operated on the Eastern Front Combat Air Group. They accomplished hundreds of missions, contributing to the liberation of North Bucovina and Basarabia from the Soviet troops, who had initially occupied them in July 1940. My grandfather was one of the aviators who was part of the Intelligence Fleet, flying reconnaissance missions onboard an IAR-39.
The aviator barely reached the airfield but survived the landing. He lived to fly many more missions, he lived to start a family, and he lived to see his grandchildren play in the sandpit. During that flight, he lost his hearing in his left ear. He passed away four days after his 81st birthday. I was twenty-four years old.
(August 2006)
Originally published in Tribute to the Stars,
edited by Chris Bartholomew, Static Movement, 2011, p. 197-198
