Fly-in Fiction: "Where's Hampton?" (Part 1)

Any biplane shrinks in comparison to the massive blue Corsair

Fly-in #Fiction: Where's Hampton?

The dull, marigold painted canvas fuselage contrasted nicely with the drab, lichen-green accent stripes; even matching in a way the Mesa Desert Military Base in Arizona, the airplane’s original home. The P-12 was a basic looking aircraft, relatable to a young boy, almost like one of the toys he played with in his younger days.

"Look at this one, Dad! I could fit into this one..." (He was captivated by the biplane)

WW1 biplanes trained Air Corp pilots in the late 20’s by using simple controls like a leather-handled stick, and two small pedals to handle the plane’s rear vertical rudder. Basic instruments such as the altimeter, airspeed indicator, tachometer, oil & water pressure gauge, and the am-meter (electrical gauge) surrounded the pilot in a simple open-cockpit.

By looking outside, the pilot could see whether or not the horizon was level; eliminating the need for today’s instrument casually known as the gyro-level ball, or altitude indicator. Raw, outdoor flying often required goggles and maybe even a silk scarf for flair, like snoopy in the famous Peanuts® comic strip.

His father gently reminded the Hamp, "be careful walking around buddy, these planes aren't toys."

An automatic ignition eliminated the brave assistant in front, spinning the rotating blades; electronically sparking the P-12 to start: four-cylinders of the Continental engine firing-over twice. An ancient wood-laminate Sensenich propeller spun suddenly into action.

It was one of the oldest "trainers" still flying, and compared to Boeing jetliners today this was a dinosaur. "But, the pedals are the same as they've always been," he said, knowing the basics of flight from his simulator at home.

Humming like a super-powered ceiling fan, the P-12 rolled gently over the grass, slightly bouncing toward the north runway. No one in particular paid attention during the crowded “Fly-in,” as planes of all types landed and departed over the course of the sweltering summer afternoon.

“Where’s Hampton?!” His father wondered.

Eyes instinctively surveying the small airfield grounds caught a glimpse of a tiny boy’s head sticking out of the open cockpit of the biplane. The young pilot’s tiny ball cap barely crept above the leather-cushioned cockpit sides.

He gasped, “You've got to be kidding;” quickly considered hailing a volunteer flagman, using their radio, or jumping onto a nearby fire truck, actually stored in a hangar at the other end of the field. The helpless father stood petrified, watching his young son pilot an historic biplane. This was like a bad dream.

Squinting in the bright sunshine, he thought, "did hours on a X-box flight simulator give his son the soaring fantasy that he could actually pilot this biplane?" It had to be him idling at the end of the runway; power surging against the breaks of the 1929 Army trainer, ready for take-off.

Astounded, he thought, "what in the heck is he doing?!"

Hearing the engine rev, while the propeller’s off-white mirage reflected the sun’s rays; Dad hoped that his kid could keep the plane level enough to establish cruising speed down the runway. He was doing the cold analysis of EMS personnel coming up to a car wreck, "how many people could survive this collision?"

What about the moment of truth, professionally measured in “V-speed;” when the plane can no longer abort the takeoff safely? Would his son achieve V-speed, and thereby, maximum vertical lift? Would he remember to use flaps to direct air underneath the wings, pulling back hard on the stick?

Frozen-still in shock, breath and lips unable to form word, gut wrenching, stomach turning, the brain tried to make him scream; all he could do was wave his hands above his head like someone signaling a runaway train.

His waving was the only way he could talk to his son; though he was sure Hampton was not thinking about him...

Emotion surging, suddenly believing, “He’s pulling the stick back perfectly! Hampton’s flying that biplane like a goddamn Ace!” Running along the airstrip, putting one-foot in front of the other; finally screaming out his son’s name like a maniac; or a cheerleader—a bone-chilling wave went down every spectator’s spine. The airshow crowd unwittingly heard the horrific reaction; even as the little biplane blithely floated upward into the cloudy cobalt sky, now but a spec on the horizon.

With less than an hour of daylight left on the clock, in the glow of a beautiful amber sunset; there was serious doubt whether his son knew enough to navigate back to the field and land this plane in the dark.

(Part 1)

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©Mark H. Pillsbury

9-11 Tribute After 13 years: R is for Resiliency

R is for: Resiliency

“The good folks mostly win, courage usually triumphs over fear, the family dog hardly ever contracts rabies; these are the things I knew at twenty-five, and things I still know now, at the age of 25 X 2. But I know something else as well: there’s a place in most of us where the rain is pretty much constant, the shadows are always long, and the woods are full of monsters. It is good to have a voice in which the terrors of such a place can be articulated and its geography partially described, without denying the sunshine and clarity that fill so much of our ordinary lives.” –Stephen King (April 16, 1996)

 

If I’ve learned anything through trials and travails, it’s that even though life seems short, ephemeral, and progress only seen dimly as through a dark opaque window; there is always the power to rise to the moment, and summon the courage to change. This is my voice articulating a vision of the geography of the dark places we face; and after so many years--maybe even some of those affected by 9/11 have navigated out of the dark forest.

Freedom Tower, Manhattan

 

Even when one seems too old, tired, or uncomprehending of how to alter their course; by taking deliberate steps down another path, I’ve seen durable people transform themselves and their situations remarkably. "In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning," said F. Scott Fitzgerald; however, let me assure you, there is always a way out, the morning after.

Sometimes it means realistically dropping one dream, now cumbersome baggage; developing another set of goals. Other than developing a love to read and learn; this might be one of the keys to unlocking life’s complexities, and is certainly something I want to bestow upon my children: resiliency.

Those fortunate to have their wits and health, living in this great land of opportunity, and with God’s sovereign blessing, can get up one morning and resolve to change; indeed, one’s path is never set in granite. Killing inertia is itself an early skirmish in this brutal, continual, wearisome war.

Standing with your feet firmly planted allows one to gaze out and ponder a new course; even though the road looks twisted and crooked through the brambles and brush of rural forest. Sometimes it seems too overgrown and dark to find your way. Don’t give up! Keep looking for the light, and if necessary, hack your own way out till you find the dirt road for which you yearn.

Once the new path is found and begun by faith; the energy to meet the new challenges will appear; although, this river of energy fueling a fresh endeavor is not always apparent. Sometimes you tap into its power like a hydro-electric plant, or otherwise jump in, just riding with the flow. This process isn't instantaneous. It requires patience, strength, and resiliency founded in a higher power, or should I say “outside yourself?”

Others may call the new path: too risky, or pronounce early failure. Valuable are those friends who support and encourage: every single, solitary one is an angel sent from above. Thank them when you get back on your feet. And don’t be too sure who the angels are; some of those closest to you will disappear at the moment you need them most.

All your days have prepared you for the battle now raging; take the step forward in faith and fire the first shot.

“Now God has us where he wants us, with all the time in this world and the next, to shower grace and kindness upon us in Christ Jesus. Saving is all his idea, and all his work. All we do is trust him enough to let him do it. It’s God’s gift from start to finish. We don’t play the major role. If we did, we’d probably go around bragging that we’d done the whole thing! No, we neither make nor save ourselves. God does both the making and saving. He creates each of us by Christ Jesus to join him in the work he does, the good work he has gotten ready for us to do, work we had better be doing.” Ephesians 2 (The Message--Copyright © Eugene H. Peterson)

“There dwells upon this earth a mysterious Being, whose office is to renew the fallen and restore the wandering… His chosen residence is a broken heart and a contrite heart.” –Charles Spurgeon

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©Mark H. Pillsbury (2014)