Single-seater airplane, going down
BY HSIEN MIN TOH
There is everything to do, there is nothing to do.
Cut the fuel lines to extinguish the engine fire,
scour the horizon for clear ground—none—and
continue to work the airplane, with little change:
ailerons, elevator, rudder functioning as normal.
Grip the handlebars, lift the nose of the airplane
to the angle of best glide speed, and maintain
this controlled descent, as altitude means time,
and time is the currency of options. Estimate
the time and range left, and circle it on the map.
Note that more time than was expected means
nothing if everything is outside the circle. Swap
altitude for airspeed, else airspeed for altitude,
to develop options—none—now the earth feels
in a hurry to enfold the airplane in its embrace.
At 500 ft engage the flaps to generate lift while
slowing down the airplane, slow to as low as
forty-five knots, then only watch the crowns
of the trees inching closer, waving fresh limbs.
Out of the Sun
BY HSIEN MIN TOH
A late friend’s grandfather used to tell stories
of being tailgunner on a B-17 flying missions
over Dresden or Cologne, before the disease
clouded his mind. He told of being crammed
into a tiny closet at the arse-end of the plane,
where pins and needles were companions, but
at least he wasn’t Cecil the top turret gunner,
who every so often had to glance into the sun
to try to have the earliest possible warning of
a Messerschmitt or Focke-Wulf seeking to rip
a talon of bullets into the fuselage. One time
Cecil certainly saved the crew by opening fire
on a suspicious sunspot at the precise moment
a first volley like rain splattered on the wings,
and maybe he got lucky but the Focke-Wulf
banked away and fled with a grey silk thread
issuing from its engine. But his friend Cecil,
despite standard issue sunshades, messed up
his vision. He saw spots even in the barracks,
and never made the squadron’s softball team
even with the ever-changing pool of players.
Eventually, he went blind at the age of eighty,
and said the only thing he could still see was
an image of the sun and occasional shadows
weaving for position around it. I don’t visit
my late friend’s grandfather these days, and
Cecil has now passed on, but I think of them
and wonder how much of that focus we apply
injures us in ways we cannot see until we do,
the raptor swooping out of the sun to strike.
