‘Twas two hops yesterday down at the customary, the first being a multi-generational affair with pops paying for Grampa Art to fly against his very own son, Amon y-clept and an ostensible 8th grader, the whole passle of them but recently ridden in from Tuscon. I say “ostensible,” for just like the carnival we have certain age and height limitations that are in effect, and if Amon was an 8th grader his grampa may have been named Art but Bob was his uncle.
Or maybe they don’t feed ‘em, much, in Tuscon.
But there are cushions and such, and phone books if it comes right down to it. Soon the young man was bundled in the trunk of the Mighty Varga (1200 pounds of twisted steel and sex appeal), strapped down securely in four places and hooked into the intercom via the voice-activated head set. I did not have to warn him about not resting his feet atop the rudder pedals where the brakes are situated as we taxied or took off, for his feet couldna barely reach the deck, far less the rudders. Still, he could see over my shoulders for to fly and fight the machine if only as through a glass, and darkly.
I asked Amon, who was trembling like a bird dog on point with anticipation, whether this opportunity had been some class of birthday present, or maybe something under the tree?
“Academic honors,” he’d replied, and I thought to myself: what a jolly thing for his father to do.
Da hisself hovered around the machine as we made preparations for flight, more or less happily snapping away at Amon with a digital camera, his happiness visibly subsiding into thoughtfulness the closer we came to cranking engines, for this was his only son and it was clear that he was dearly treasured. The moment came to push off, and as it did, Amon’s father jumped on the wing, kissed the young man on the side of his head and told him quietly that he was loved.
Moments like that both warm my heart and strengthen my resolve, for machines may fail but men must not.
Once airborne, it became clear that Grampa Art either did not entirely grok my well-practiced air combat maneuvering pre-flight brief, or else he had contrived in his secret heart to let young Amon win, for he was, in the vernacular of the sky, summat of a grape:
One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.
It went like that, with the only complication that young Amon – a tiger in a very small package – remained convinced despite my oft-voiced protestations that the way to turn harder and finish the old man off was to roll the aircraft ever more fiercely with the ailerons vice pull a little more authoritatively on the elevator. We had us quite the little wrestling match there at the end, for aileron rolls in trail are all very well and good, cinematically speaking, but they do very little to refine a gun solution once you’re properly in the saddle and nothing at all for maintaining sight of an almost vanquished foe a few hundred feet ahead.
Round two was led by Earl the Pearl, and our paying guests were a pair of whitebread young college students from Provo, Utah, all smiles and gollies. They were newlyweds of seven months, and seemed eminently willing and even eager to go forth, be fruitful and multiply, just as soon as they’d finished their studies.
Earl briefed, so of course the lass went a-flying with him, that being the inevitable custom of these things, and let me help you with those shoulder straps. Once airborne, the lady transformed in to something of a she-devil (or perhaps her young man never forgot which side the bread was buttered on), for she coursed us through the sky like a hare on two out of three hacks, and we were well and fairly done to a golden brown there at the end of the third engagement: Pinned like an insect to the hard deck and quailing in anticipation of the blow; out of altitude, out of airspeed, and pretty much out of ideas.
Her zeal got the best of her however, and coming down on us from on high like an avenging angel of doom she utterly neglected her altitude, flushed through the hard deck for a rocks kill and let us off the hook.
Now, three was to be the number of our briefed engagements. No more. No less. Three is the number that we count, and the number of the counting is to be three. Four engagements we do not do, nor either engage twice, excepting that we then proceed to three, so long as all the paying passengers are feeling OK. Five is right out. Once the number three, being the third number, is reached, then we knock it off, swap leads, and head back to the base.
Except that this time, uncharacteristically, Earl the Pearl – still being in the lead – called us on the radio after their hard deck bust to say, “One more quickie, take a turn away to the south, I’ll go north for separation.” Which I promptly did, him being the lead and all, and our time on earth to dance the skies on laughter silvered wings being but a finite thing, each moment to be treasured, and anyway the gas was paid for.
Now, here’s the thing you should know about Earl the Pearl: He is wonderful man, a credit to the Marine Corps, funny, warm and professional.
He is also a cheating b@stard in the air.
As am I, and as you would be, if you were a fighter pilot. For as everyone knows, in this gig, if you ain’t cheatin’, you ain’t tryin’. No points for second place. In fact, if there were a sliding scale that measured degrees of sportsmanship, you would find eagle scouts on one end, inveterate cheats in the middle, and fighter pilots on the other end. That’s just the way of it, or it least it was until HUD tapes were invented.
Now, usually we cheat small: A little climb above the briefed start altitude with a quick descent down just prior to the merge gives you an extra ten to fifteen knots and is considered cheating fair. Climbing in to the sun and then briskly changing plane of maneuver isn’t considered cheating at all.
Telling your gullible wingman to “take a turn away to the south” and then jumping on his tail instead of turning away yourself?
I wish I’d thought of it.
So, John and I reversed our turn back to the north in the expectation of a neutral, head on merge, only to find that Earl and Tina had climbed behind us at our six o’clock. In the little Varga, you can either climb or you can turn, but you can’t do both, at least not very well. We made a game show of it, met them more or less head on but with at least a 20 knot disadvantage in airspeed. Arced around across his tail nose low, trying desperately to get some speed up while still turning, for airspeed gives you g, and g gives you turn rate. Without which, you gonna get shot.
We held them off, and even achieved a kind of positional advantage, but getting our speed up had cost us altitude and there was no way of getting it back without leveling our wings and yielding angles. So we met the two of them more or less head on, a couple of hundred feet below and like Brave Sir Robin, bravely turned our tail and fled, bugging out to the north. Which, that’s the great thing about fighting guns, given a fair start and more or less evenly matched machines, eventually you can run out the range. Which is why God invented air-to-air missiles, to make the bad guys break back into a gun envelope.
It was good clean fun, take it for all in all.
As soon as you started lauding Earl, I knew could see the next line coming. And then before I could think, “and you’re not?” I was suitably gratified to see I was right.
That story was a lovely way to start the morning. Thanks!
You’re just miffed that you didn’t think of it first
Glad to hear that you have so much fun at your part time job, Lex. Wish I could find one that was as enjoyable.
Oh do I ever love your aerial poetry, Lex, (with a constant heart, even..
) prose being too harsh and prosaic a term to describe your etchings with the scribing tool. But even more amazing: How oh how did you find that link to Brave Sir Robin? You must have stumble-upon working overtime…
PS: My fav line has always been: “The vorpal blade went snicker snack!” Just LUV those vorpal blades…
Some parts there sounded like you were in the hire of the Holy Flight School of Antioch. LMAO.
Holy Flight School of Antioch — where the poor impoverished ground staff is but skimpily clothed, stunning attractive, and very naughty. Wings of Gold, indeed.
“poor impoverished ground staff”
And REPRESSED!
No doubt a spanking is in order…
Ah, but what then?
Lex, if you have any kind of public speaking voice at all you should be on radio. At the very least, a regular column in newspapers and major magazines.
Soo…what happened after that spanking?
Actually, I’m more interested in what happens the next time Earl and Lex find themselves with a few extra minutes at the end of a flight…
That was great! I’m still laughing. “…turn away to the south” -ha, I would wager that will not work twice.
Jabberwocky brought back memories of reading such wonderful, nonsensical stories to the girls so many years ago. They loved it, though not so much as I to my mind.
VR
I just hope they’re not pointed out to sea when it happens. I can see the accident report now: Last Radio call was “you first!” as they disappeared out into the Pacific.
I love these posts. I like reading your observances of the human character, the paying folks. They make me at the very least smile big and most always bust a laugh as I did today when getting to the part “He is also a cheating b@stard in the air”. My son is in the room and said, “What’s so funny?” I had to reply, “You gotta read it all to understand.” Holy crap, good stuff. I’m still laughing.
It sounds to me that young Amon’s Dad is doing much right. Rewarding a young man for doing so well academically, and finding out what reward gets to the heart and will make him want more, is an excellent approach. Afterall, we all expect to be paid in our work life. Sometimes just seeing the A’s on the piece of paper needs to be accompanied by something else extra special.
Agree about something special with the A’s Bou, and for me it was giving something that left a memory, not just money.
It ain’t fair. Most of us working blokes toil all week in order to have a little scrill for weekend distractions. You on the other hand……..
Isn’t it ordained somewhere that Knights of the Bird and Ball shall always take advantage of poor gullible squids? I seem to recall being taught that in a course on History and Traditions of our Beloved Corps.
Why, the next thing you’ll be complaining about was that some fly-by-night came through River City pedaling Change You Can Believe In, and a majority of people actually believed.
Uh, hey there Mr. Brave Sir Robin, would you fly this?
http://www.flixxy.com/besler-steam-airplane.htm
Of course he would, as would I. The thing is almost silent, so you can yell at people from it and be heard.
“Now, here’s the thing you should know about Earl the Pearl: He is wonderful man, a credit to the Marine Corps, funny, warm and professional.
He is also a cheating b@stard in the air.”
It’s a pleasure to see that after all these years young Earl still follows the prime precept of Marine aviation when practicing against the sister services. As I recall, the boys in (light)blue were especially slow to learn that the format of the brief did not always dictate the format of the fight.
I do seem to recall that in my finis flight, a little 2 v 2 Eagles/Hornets, I neglected to mention that our configuration was clean, no tanks. They were configured somewhat differently, two bags of gas plus assorted other drag inducing detritus. Aww, the memories of that first, and only, merge still linger sweetly. Suffice it to say that when your first visual of a clean Eagle, is in your rear hemisphere, your day is about to get long.
Or very, very short.
IM A (former) Eagle Scout and I can say with authority, we cheet too ! WHY, once I used lighter fluid to light a fire. (OK, everytime)
PS Know the Boy Scout Oath ?? “On my honor I will do my best, To help the Girl Scouts get undressed.
Gotta go, Tis Brillig time.
My fave time of the week – your air stories.
That paragraph after “He is also a cheating b@stard in the air.” is sheer poetry.
With a little edumacation Earl could be a trial lawyer.
There are very few things in this world that anyone groks; that quote took me back many years. There are many aspects to your writing that I enjoy… thanks.
Eagle scouts don’t fly?
The explanation of what ’3′ means is what got to me. Simply brilliant, and delightful. Thank you Captain.
Best regards, Peter Warner.
So fighter pilots are as trustworthy as walruses, or carpenters?
Hmmm. Would you have been so eloquent had the roles been reversed?
Ah those were the days. Leaves me (almost) wistfull. My affection for the planes is fading, but not for the pilots. Wish you’d been there when we were, Lex.
Oops, blew my cover.
Ah those were the days. Leaves me (almost) wistfull. My affection for the planes is fading, but not for the pilots. Wish you’d been there when we were, Lex.
Bonus points awarded for the proper use of “y-clept”…..
I had to look it up to figure out what it meant.
You know, I kept telling myself there were benefits to being an English major. Just didn’t appreciate them at the time.