In 1967, the Israeli airforce took the Egyptian airforce by complete surprise, practically concluding the war before it even started. Superiority in the sky, we were taught, is everything. I certainly was not an accredited military strategist when I was young, nor am I today. But at the age of fifteen, I knew I wanted to be one. They were young, handsome, in great shape, and they enjoyed the admiration of the men, and the hearts of the women. In addition, it seemed like a good combination of profession and hobby. I decided to join the “air scouts”. A youth movement sponsored by the air force, which used the love of aviation and the building of model airplanes to lure kids into signing up. I spent a couple of years learning aerodynamics, avionics, and building model airplanes from pieces of balsa trees, rice paper, and glue. It was a lot of fun, and I remember those days fondly.
I didn’t become a pilot, although many years later, when I was close to forty, I did take flying lessons only to realize that after all, I was going to leave the business of flight to the professionals. I decided to love airplanes and traveling, and hate self aviation… My six years old boy, like many his age, love airplanes. He is fascinated with the idea of flying machines. A few months back, as we were driving back from Eilat and through Beer Sheba, we saw signs for the Israeli Air force Museum. Last Friday I kept my word. We picked my parents up in Tel Aviv, and headed south to the Israeli Air Force Museum.
We were walking around along the long lines of old airplanes. Turboprops, jets, double winged, cargo, reconnaissance aircraft. They were all there, motionless, weathered. Many have seen combat. Some took part in defending the skies of this small country. One, nicknamed Downs Champion, downed thirteen enemy airplanes… So much history, so much activity, such a shameful end. I was standing there, looking at Spitfires, Messerschmidts, Sikorskies, Belles, Phantoms (F4E), Skyhawks, F-15, F-16, and I could easily imagine the roar of their engines, see the smoke coming out of the exhaust pipes, the pilots signing the victory signs. I could almost smell the fumes of the jet fuel. Seeing them standing in line, some with little or no air in the tires, their flags and signs faded away, I felt mainly respect. Respect to the old and experienced. Respect to the ones who gave their share, maybe more, and were let go when the time came.
Then, as I was taking off on the wings of my imagination, the roar of a fighter jet was heard, and then another one. Two fighter planes engaged in a dog fight. One was obviously trying evasive maneuvers to escape the attacker. They were flying low and hard. They were flying fast. But then, when they flew over the museum, I thought I saw them wave their wings in recognition and respect of the old.
Three generations of men were present. My seventy four year old father, myself, and my six years old son. I have plenty of respect for my father, I can only hope that my son has the same respect for me. Three generations: old glories, present routines, and future hopes. We each had our own memories and thoughts triggered by seeing the old flying machines.
The Israeli Air Force Museum. I strongly recommend.
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