John Gillespie Magee Jr. was more than just a pilot; he was the author of “High Flight,” one of the most iconic poems associated with aviation. Born in Shanghai, China, in 1922, to missionary parents, Rev. and Mrs. John Gillespie Magee, his early life was steeped in a global perspective. His father was American, and his mother was originally British. This international upbringing shaped a young man who would eventually find himself serving in the Royal Canadian Air Force (RCAF).
Magee’s connection to the United States solidified when he arrived in 1939. His academic promise earned him a scholarship to Yale University. However, the burgeoning conflict in Europe called to him. In September 1940, foregoing his Yale education, John Gillespie Magee Jr. enlisted in the RCAF, driven by a sense of duty and adventure. He successfully completed his pilot training and earned his wings, ready to contribute to the Allied effort. By July 1941, he was stationed in England, engaged in combat duty during the height of World War II.
It was during this period of service, in August or September 1941, that Pilot Officer Magee penned “High Flight.” This poem, a soaring tribute to the experience of flight, captured the awe and spiritual wonder of being airborne. He sent a copy to his parents, unaware of the poem’s future resonance. Tragically, just months later, on December 11, 1941, John Gillespie Magee Jr.’s life was cut short. While flying his Spitfire over England, a collision with another aircraft led to a fatal crash. He was only 19 years old.
Despite his brief life, John Gillespie Magee Jr.’s legacy lives on through “High Flight.” His final resting place is in the churchyard cemetery at Scopwick, Lincolnshire, a peaceful site for a young man who touched the face of God in the skies.
High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew —
And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
– John Gillespie Magee Jr.
