A burning piano (Kat Nickola)

Fighter pilots are a unique bunch. Skilled. Disciplined. Dare I say, elite. But they can also be a bit arrogant as they swagger about thinking of themselves as zipper-suited sun gods (à la “Top Gun”).

Perhaps we can give them that.

Fighter pilots handle extreme, stressful and dangerous scenarios where decision-making and reactiveness can mean life or death for themselves or boots on the ground. Camaraderie is mandatory, and traditions play a big part in galvanizing a community that historically had a high-octane, low-survival rate.

In World War I, the life expectancy of an RAF after 1917 when the number of planes dramatically increased, was roughly three weeks. According to the Imperial War Museum, 51 percent of all aircrew were killed during World War II. In Vietnam, over 3,700 planes were lost.

Is it a wonder that fighter pilots guard themselves with over-confidence and a collection of slightly macabre traditions? When your next flight could be your last, a bit of dark humor may just be necessary.

But burning pianos?

I recently had the privilege of attending a piano burning, one of the more public and somber fighter pilot traditions, often performed to mark the end of a large, special gathering. It is a memorial to those who have gone before.

The evening began with an introduction to the tradition.

Back in World War I (or maybe World War II, there is variation), a British Royal Air Force pilot played the piano in the bar. As the sorties ended for the day, he would memorialize in music the pilots who didn’t return from duty. It was a commemorative and somber reminder of the risks they took in the name of freedom.

Then, one day, the piano didn’t make a sound. The player had not returned from his mission; he was killed in action. And so, the piano was dragged out of the bar and set alight. If he couldn’t play it anymore, no one could.

Piano in flames (Kat Nickola)

The piano burn I attend was held in an empty parking lot. I watched as the old upright, missing a few keys, was doused and set on fire. One pilot played a 1950s-style rock and roll riff until flames were shooting out of the top and he needed to duck to avoid the heat. Drinks were refreshed and we listened to the crackle of the fire and occasional twang of strings breaking in the heat.

The gathering crowd was invited to toast fallen aviators. Names were called and glasses were raised as the group came together to honor pilots who are no longer with us. It lasted more than 10 minutes; a somber reminder that being a fighter pilot continues to come with great risk.

The keyboard caught fire and the piano’s front was engulfed in flames.

Then, the ‘Mayor’ of the evening began to sing: “Dear mom, your son is dead; he bought the farm today…” and the crowd surged along with the song. At the bitter end, the pilots kneeled and sang out the reverential portion of this song about a fighter pilot who didn’t make it home from Vietnam. It was first recorded as “Bronco” (for the OV-10 Bronco airframe flown in the song) by Dick Jonas, an F-4 / F-16 Vietnam-era fighter pilot and military folk musician.

Kneeling for the fallen at the piano burn (Kat Nickola)

By now, the entire piano was in flames and the crowd had gotten lively, joking and chatting. Then, as if in slow motion, the piano leaned forward and lay face-down while still very much alight. Everyone cheered.

Eventually, the crowd petered out, except for the pilots who stayed to the bitter end as the piano lit their evening like a vigil. Some younger pilot must have been tasked with cleanup because in the morning there was nothing but a charred spot left on the pavement.

Fallen burning piano (Kat Nickola)