Sunny's Hangar Tales

A true story from Sunny’s Hangar Tales

 

The Sound Over the Fields

When I was a little boy, summer felt infinite. Our fields seemed to stretch forever, with grass taller than me and woods that felt deep and mysterious. Even the old tractor looked like a house on wheels. On most days, the farm had its own quiet rhythm: wind rustling the leaves, crickets chirping in the brush, and the steady, rhythmic rattle of the tractor across the dirt.  But every once in a while, a different sound arrived.

​

At first, it was just a faint, distant rumble. Then it grew. Four engines. Then eight. Then more. I would stop everything to listen.  Whether I was helping in the field, playing near the house, or climbing on the old machinery, that sound commanded my attention.  I didn't know much about where those airplanes originated. I only knew they often flew over after weekends at the air base, and that the men inside had been to a faraway place called Vietnam.

 

To a young boy, Vietnam was just a word adults used.  What captured my heart were the airplanes themselves.  Sometimes there was only one, but often there were four. They would appear one after another in a long, climbing line against the blue. The first plane was always the lowest, with the next a little higher, then another, and another. To my young eyes, it looked like a staircase stretching all the way into the clouds. 

 

I would be out by the old tractor when I heard that telltale hum. I’d immediately shut everything down. The tractor would go silent as I scrambled down into the grass to scan the horizon. Then, they would appear. Four massive green airplanes with spinning propellers, flying so low it felt as though they were brushing the treetops of our farm.The first one would roar directly over the field, followed quickly by the rest. Each one seemed even larger than the last. The sound rolled across the grass and literally shook the ground beneath my boots. It felt like the entire sky had come alive.

 

Sometimes, the lead pilot would rock the wings in a friendly wave. Sometimes, all four followed suit.To a child, that was pure magic. It felt like they could see me standing there, a tiny figure beside a tractor. Out of all the roads, woods, and farms below, they chose to see me. I would wave back with every bit of strength I had. For a few brief seconds, it felt like the entire sky was waving back.Then, as quickly as they arrived, they were gone. They followed the road and the old rail line, shrinking into tiny dots before vanishing. The roar would fade into a hum, then silence, and the field would become still again.

 

But I would stay there for a long time, staring at the empty space they left behind.  I think a part of me never left that field. I am still that boy, looking up and waiting for the sound of those four engines.  Now, fifty years later, I can sit beside that same old tractor and wish for them to pass over one more time. Perhaps that is why I still crave the company of airplanes and why standing on the wing of a C-130 at the museum still makes my heart race.  Others might see a piece of history or a large metal wing. I see the little boy in the field. I see the child who imagined what it felt like to be inside that roar. And for a moment, standing there high above the ground with the wind on my face, it feels like I finally made it into the sky.