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

There Goes my Hero: Code Yellow (Part II)

Foo Fighters - My Hero (Live on Letterman) - YouTube:

'via Blog this'

There Goes my Hero: Code Yellow (Part II)

“Are you ready for the dance tonight, dude?” Lieutenant Harrington casually asked me as we climbed up on the Rhino, outside of the hearing of enlisted men, or “blackshoes” who checked all the tags and ordinance hanging off of the Hornet they prepared to catapult off into the ink-blue night.

As we both settled into the routine of pre-flight checks in the cockpit of the highly complex, computer driven F/A-18 Hornet aircraft, it stretched comprehension to think that this flying machine descended from the heavier than air model that the Wright Brothers flew at Kitty Hawk in 1903.

In just a little over a century, aviation went from analog to digital; the awareness of this complexity lost on the aviators, but not in history. The Hornet was so complicated, the pilots did not know what they did-not-know about this evolution from clothe and pulleys on the dunes of North Carolina to gigahertz and nanoseconds cruising on the Persian Gulf. Could aviation’s complexity eventually take human beings out of the cockpit? That question was not on the agenda tonight.

Idling on the deck of the USS John C. Stennis, they both knew in the far reaches of their “leadership grey-matter,” that possibly they could be one of the last crews back on the carrier. The chaperone waits by the door until everyone makes it home safely from the party. That is just the gentlemanly thing to do.

“Hope the Texaco jocks are warmed up and sharp tonight,” I said partly to myself. If this was a long ordeal, many of the jets would probably re-fuel while in the heavens.

The Lt. replied, “This could turn into a Turkey shoot before that,” the landing process, although a dangerous part of the evening, was more of the business side of this mission; Lt. Harrington’s fangs were out, clearly focused on engaging bandits before the serious landing maneuvers started.

“Can’t you see the guys in the con-tower placing their side-bets on Bubba Bolter,” the slang name for the pilot who makes multiple attempts at the tail-hook. My bombardier-navigator focuses also sharp, still picturing the SNAFU routine of the pitching deck at landing time.

Carrier landings are actually controlled crashes. The fighter jet rams into a lurching runway, hoping the large titanium hook jutting out of his tail slaps across the thick steel cord tightly wired across the deck, known as the crossdeck pendant.

Once the plane hits the ship’s surface, hopefully lined up straight down the runway; the pilot throws the throttles forward full. This full speed tactic instantly allows a hookless Hornet the opportunity to get back off the carrier and try again; otherwise jets skid off the runway and into the ocean in front of the ship, adding insult to injury.

Blue-water ops in the dark, an opportunity to excel as Lt. Harrington liked to remind us. “You look like a lost nugget tonight, J.O.?” “What’s wrong?” “I’ll take you out partying tonight, little brother, promise.”

“It’s gonna be a long night, Lieutenant,” trying not to complain. “At least we don’t have to plow through the Goo,” meaning bad weather that makes it impossible to see.

“We’re in the Navy to have fun, remember?” I was looking at the back of his helmet by now; we were conversing on the intercom. “Don’t forget the Code:Yellow gouge we got in the readyroom?”

“Copy, Rocket One.” I was done with small talk and wanted to light the two fires on the Hornet’s tail and get up in the sky, where even though I was not flying the aircraft, I had the best seat in the house.

©Mark H. Pillsbury

(aviator fiction series #2)

Dave's blu Gibson in case you watched the YouTube video "My Hero" on Letterman