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)

##

©Mark H. Pillsbury