The airfield


Long tarmac runways stretch into the distance, built to allow heavy bombers to take off and land back when a strong defense and deterrent were an essential part of a nations status. Maintained now for private flyers, small single and twin engine prop planes, dwarfed by the scale of the hangers, the tower. Taxiing out to the strip, the tint single engine Cessna is barely noticeable, yet for the pilot the small craft may as well be a Lancaster, a Blenheim, a Wellington, even a Victor or Vulcan of the nuclear age.

Those evocative names of bygone glory, the pilots of those behemoths of the sky carrying munitions enough to level a city, young men in the main, barely old enough to comprehend the destruction they could, and did unleash on civilians, towns, factories….the enemy.

No clear enemy now, no cities to destroy, no airfields and factories to knock out, but the runway remains, memories of the dead flyers locked in its tarmac and concrete surface forever…

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