Salute To The Grumman

Few today have heard of it.

Even fewer have ever seen.
Even less have listened to,
that high pierced Rolls Royce scream.

The airplane is massive,
weighs more than most small jets.
Even the cabin door if it hit you,
could cause your instant death.

No screens of magenta adorn this panel.
There is no flight management system.
The copilot is not called “pilot monitoring”.
Not electric, but a big wheel for pitch trim.

It has a garage door inside.
You roll it up just like at home,
Full of old radios and gyros,
the radar is old style monochrome.

The odor inside the cockpit.
It smells of bravery and fear.
It's 55 years of human contact,
of hard work, sweat and tears.

From its huge props to english engines,
every vibration, every sensation is felt.
There are no CAS messages to guide you.
You work with the cards you're dealt.

You understand it more than your wife.
Fly it enough, you become one.
You know if it's happy, know if it's sad,
A smile when the last landing is done.

Not many are left around.
Their place in history is absolute.
Always a hoot to taxi by,

everyone giving you, the G-1 salute.

R. S. Morris