• "We've had a little problem..."

The quavering voice on the telephone answering machine said, "We've had a little problem, and I'm at Willow Grove. I'm okay, I'll call you later."

Naval Air Station Willow Grove? In a Cessna 152?



But the story starts months earlier. After working together for almost a year, Kate pranced into my office, settled pertly in a chair by my desk and announced with a coy smile that it was a great day to go flying. A recent convert to aviation, thanks to a ride in my open cockpit biplane, I thought she was asking to go again. But she knew as well as I did--no, better than I did--that there was work to be done.


So when I cocked my head and narrowed my eyes in question, she said,

"What I'm trying to tell you is I'm just back from my fourth flight lesson, and it's a beautiful day for flying."

As an after-work flight instructor I was eager to hear about her flying experiences. Meanwhile, I pondered what stroke of fate had brought me together with this gorgeous woman who was smarted than I was, had better business instincts than I did, and liked to fly.

But that was days ago, and the phone message I'd just listened to had me perplexed and worried.

The 'we' suggested that an instructor had gone with her for some dual, instead of the scheduled solo session. That was easy to deduce because the spring weather was bizarre--snow so hard you couldn't see across the street with thunder followed by crackling clear blue sky and calm air followed by thunderstorm wind gusts followed by white-out snow, rinse and repeat. No competent instructor would send a student out alone in such conditions.

The 'problem' part, though, was hard to judge. "I'm okay" suggested she might not have been, and that was worrisome. And the fact that she was calling from a Naval Air Station suggested whatever the problem had been was significant enough that they'd had to land at an otherwise not open to the public facility. Strange.

Weather had to be the problem, I decided; and waited for the call that never came.

Instead, late in the day, she walked into my office, gingerly closed the door, and sat down as if something might break if she moved quickly. She blinked back tears, her lips quivered.

"Well, I've had an interesting afternoon," she said.

As the story unfolded I understood--although I'm not sure she did--that she'd very nearly died.

When she'd arrived at the rural Pennsylvania airport she was told her instructor wasn't there. The idea, far from a plan, had been a few minutes of dual--as is customary with a low time student--followed by solo practice takeoff and landings. Instead, the guy behind the desk threw her the keys to an aircraft and said,

"Why don't you go buzz your boyfriends house. The tanks are about half full, but that should be enough."

No discussion about weather, no admonition about low flying (quite the contrary), no words about doing a careful preflight, no reminder of the old adage that sky above you, runway behind you, and fuel in the gas truck are all worthless.

During the year we'd worked together we'd had occasion to travel on business in a lovely old G35 Beechcraft Bonanza. She showed an interest that went beyond simple pleasure in a sky-high perspective, so enroute I explained the instruments and controls to her and shared some of the things I'd learned in 25 years of flying up to that time. Fortunately, she remember a lot of what we'd talked about.


She prudently filled the Cessna with gas and took off, ready to enjoy a few minutes of freedom in three-dimensions over rolling Pennsylvania Dutch country before returning to practice some landings. At least that was her plan. With no training or advice, she had no reason to fear the deteriorating weather.

"About thirty to forty minutes into my flight," she wrote later to the FAA,"I began to encounter some clouds and snow at 3500 feet. I immediately headed back to Limerick. As the snow got worse I dropped down to 2500 feet to try to get below the snow. It was clear for a while, but the snow got worse again as I approached the airport. I was able to see the runway, though, so I entered the pattern on crosswind and announced my landing. About three quarters of the way down the downwind leg the snow got so bad that I was not able to see the runway. I immediately turned toward the runway hoping to see it, but I couldn't. I aborted the approach and attempted to get back in the pattern. I announced my intentions again on crosswind as visibility was a little better and I was able to see the runway. This time I was in and out of heavy snow on downwind. I was having trouble seeing the ground when I was to turn to base. At a momentary clearing I saw that I had drifted off course so I immediately turned to final at which time I completely lost all visibility."

This is the point where such stories often end.

But Kate, above all else, is a woman of determination. Well aware that the 500 foot high cooling towers at the Limerick nuclear power plant nearby, and remembering my admonition that the higher you are the safer you are, she decided to climb.


"It felt like the plane was neither climbing or moving," she wrote, "and I feared that the wind was holding me back. On later reflection I suspect that it was the lack of visual cues that caused the disorientation. I looked at my instruments and realized that I was, in fact, climbing so I tried to regain my composure. I announced to Limerick that I had aborted the landing and I did not know where I was."

While private pilots are given a modest amount of training on how to fly using only instruments, that's part of later stages of the curriculum. What she knew, she confided, was entirely what she'd learned in our few flights together. Her instructor had, so far, only taught her how to drive an airplane, not how to fly one. Worse, she hadn't been given even rudimentary training on the few instruments the aircraft had, or even how to change radio frequencies.

By happy chance, on one of those recent flights together, I'd explained how an artificial horizon and turn coordinator worked. Essentially I told her, 'Keep that little thing that looks like an airplane level and in the middle and the airplane will fly straight'. I don't remember exactly what I said about the turn coordinator, but it didn't matter. The one in her aircraft, required equipment, didn't work.

Vertigo, you probably have heard, is what gets you. Staying balanced is accomplished with help from your inner ear, your eyes, and how you body feels. The problem is, when you can't see, your inner ear lies to you and your body gets confused--vertigo takes over.

In everyday life, gravity pulls toward your feet, it pushes your butt into the seat if you're sitting down. But in an airplane you can create your own G(ravity) forces, and they ain't always down. In a loop, for example, it's perfectly easy to have your butt pushed into the seat just as hard when you're upside down as it is when you flying right-side up. So if you take away visual references you don't know which way's up—literally.

To complicate matters, there are other G-forces in an aircraft you don't experience in everyday, ground-bound life; and they can really confuse you. Well known to Navy flyers, for example, a catapult shot off a carrier at night can really confuse your senses. Transverse Gs, the forces you feel during horizontal acceleration, perversely, make you feel like you're climbing. So, surrounded by black ocean, it's easy to develop an uncomfortable sensation that you're climbing too steeply. But if you push a little on the stick when you're flying at 100 feet and accelerating through 200 knots, it only takes a split second before you hit the water.

By the same process, when Kate started to climb the aircraft decelerated, and she felt like she must be descending, so she tried to make the aircraft climb...and it only decelerated more. And this is where the unsuspecting, untrained, pilot often loses control.

The airplane slows to the point where the airflow over the wing is no longer able to generate enough lift. It stalls (aerodynamic stall--nothing to do with the engine, which is working fine and pulling as hard is it can). The aircraft noses over, usually falling off to one side a bit, and the pilot pulls harder sensing the sudden descent. Noting an increase in airspeed, because of the sound of the engine speeding and wind rushing, the ill-fated pilot pulls harder yet, tightening the turn and increasing the rate of descent.

Observers on the ground, under such circumstances, report seeing the aircraft come out of the clouds at a steep angle. They say they heard the engine was screaming (overspeed) or making "weird popping sounds," which is exactly the sound an aircraft engine makes when suddenly pulled to idle--a last dash effort when the pilot realizes, too late, what is happening.

So how do you avoid all this? You get proper training on how to fly using instruments, and how to resist the temptation to believe your lyin' eyes ears. Kate had been taught neither, but those few words about "keep the little airplane centered," and her determination to solve the problem, saved her.

Eventually she flew out of the snow squall. With the airport nowhere in sight, she knew she was lost. Then Murphy stepped in. If things weren't already bad enough, while Kate was trying without success to communicate her plight to the flight school, the push-to-talk button on the microphone broke off and flew across the cockpit.

Meanwhile, another aircraft, hearing her terse calls saying she was lost, came on the frequency and suggested she contact Philadelphia approach for radar vectors, direction to another airport. By using a fingernail, she was able to make the microphone work, and told the helpful pilot that sounded like a great idea, but no one had taught her how to tune the radio. He patiently explained which knobs to use, and what numbers to put in the radio, and mirabile dictu, she was able to switch frequencies, and hear aircraft talking to Philly Approach.

Announcing that she was a lost student pilot with less than two hours of solo experience, the approach controller calmly and reassuringly gave her directions to another airport to the east, Wings Field. That sounded like a good plan; her early flights had been at Wings Field before the school's recent move to Pottstown-Limerick Airport. But as she approached the area she could see snow squalls similar to the ones that she had just narrowly escaped.

She said, no, that didn't look like a good direction to fly and explained why. The controller, realizing that the weather was continuing to get worse, and that the pilot he was talking to was flying an aircraft with less and less fuel, redirected her to Willow Grove Naval Air Station, just a few miles away.


Approaching at right angles to the runway, at first she had problem seeing it in the distance. Then, almost overhead, she had trouble recognizing it as an airport because, as she said, "It had a really big-ass runway."

Directed by Approach to switch to Willow Grove tower, she was cleared to land but, "Watch out for the wires at 500 feet," the controller cautioned.

Oh gees, I'm at 600 feet, she thought. "What wires at 500 feet, I don't see any wires," she asked, leveling out.

"Land long, land long," another voice said.

With 8,000 feet of runway ahead of her--the longest and widest she'd ever seen--that would not be a problem, even with a little whoopdeedo in the middle of her approach. As she flared, the 2 inch steel emergency arresting gear cable flashed beneath her wheels. Held 10 inches off the runway by steel springs to ensure arresting hook engagement, it was just the right height to rip the landing gear off a little Cessna. But she missed the cable, made a "pretty good landing, under the circumstance," and taxied to the ramp.


Parked between huge Navy P-3 'Orion' sub-hunters, she was intimidated enough. When a Jeep screeched to halt, and Marines with rifles jumped out she almost lost it. When she heard a voice on a walki-talki ask if they needed help bringing her in, she cracked up.

"Do I really look like a security risk to you?"

Even the Marine couldn't stifle a grin, and she started to relax a little.

Walking to the Operations building nursing an overdose of adrenalin and blasted by the cold blustery wind, she started to shiver.

"Can we run?" she asked.

"No m'am, if you run I'll have to shoot you." Another grin.

They walked the rest of the way across the windy ramp. Quickly.

Inside the Operations building everyone came out to see who the lost lady was...and gave her a round of applause.

"You sounded very professional on the radio," the controller said.

"How did you know what to say when I told you I couldn't see the wires at 500 feet?" Kate asked.

"They blindfold us and put us behind the wheel of a Jeep out on the ramp. You learn very quickly how important clear, calm directions are.

"We were worried about you, though, 'cause the weather really sucks." the Navy Chief on duty said. "Oh sorry, m'am, that's Navy talk. But it is pretty shitty."

After writing a short, surprisingly coherent, statement on Navy stationary for the Ops Officer, and certifying in writing that she would hold the U.S. Government, The Department of the Navy, and Willow Grove Air Station "harmless from any damages sustained by me or the aircraft as a result of having landed," she called back to the flight school. After explaining what happened to an apparently unconcerned voice she was told just to fly on home, dear.

She explained that given her recent ordeal and poor weather she didn't really want to do that. She was told it was probably a good idea to get back on your horsie, honey. Besides, the weather had cleared up some.

As she protested, the Operations Officer took charge of the situation, asked for the phone and told whoever he was talking to that the aircraft was not leaving the ground unless it was flown by a licensed pilot. "Navy Regulations say so, and I say so. Any questions?"

Hugely inconvenienced by the whole thing, two instructors drove the hour on the Pennsylvania Turnpike to Willow Grove and Kate flew back with one of them.

"Good thing, too" she said. "It was very bumpy, and even the instructor had trouble landing in the crosswind when we got back. He had to use full control deflection."

Is there a moral to this story? Well, a couple.

The first is if you're a pilot, especially a flight instructor, act on your instincts. If I had, Kate would never have been in such jeopardy. She told me once, for example, that she'd asked her instructor why they were doing a certain maneuver and his response was, "Because I told you so." I laughed that off as one of those you-had-to-be-there jokes. But when she later told me that they never used a check list, and he made her feel kinda foolish if she had to resort to one, I should have acted. Later, I found out they never used the shoulder harness (required), they never did a post flight debrief (required), they hadn't signed her off for solo before she went (required), etc. What other shortcuts did they take, say with required maintenance?

The second moral to this story is if you're a student pilot you unfortunately don't know what you don't know. So don't buy flight training because it's cheap or just because it's conveniently nearby, as Kate did with no other criteria to judge by. Make sure your instructor gives you a thorough preflight and postflight debrief, on the ground not in the airplane. Sure you'll pay for the time, but ground instruction (should be) cheaper than flight instruction. If you don't like your instructor, ask to fly with someone else. A good pilot isn't necessarily a good instructor (but never vice versa). In the military you have to 'hack it' regardless of who's in the cockpit with you. Not so when you're paying good money for training that your and other's lives will depend on.

I will always be grateful to whatever fate brought me together with this wonderful woman--indeed my days with her have defined my life. I'm even more grateful that she had the determination and luck to find a solution when she 'had a little problem'.

• Last Flight

He was an old man, suffering from serious depression and an incurable illness. His future, such as it was, looked grim. Just a few weeks earlier he had been diagnosed as having Hodgkin’s disease.

In an effort to cheer their father up, his sons had driven him from Massachusetts to the great air show taking place in Genessee.

Their dad had been a Navy combat pilot in WWII. He’d often told them stories about his days as a younger man, a man they’d never met and perhaps never really believed existed. But they knew how his eyes would light up when he talked about his wartime experiences. Dad became young again, if only for a moment, as he remembered being strong and healthy, fighting against fascism so many years ago. The boys hoped that being around the old warbirds would lift his spirits for at least a day.

His sons, loving and attentive, helped him out of the car somewhere on one of the fields reserved for parking. He’d been glancing up more frequently as they got closer to the airfield. With a veteran’s practiced eye, he identified the aircraft as they wheeled and banked over the field or taxied to the parking positions. He’d already told his boys that “his” plane wouldn’t be there. They weren’t saved after the war like the more glorified Flying Fortresses or Liberators. Still, young men by the thousands had flown and fought in “his” type of aircraft, and not all of them had made it home. He knew that the model he flew was only a memory shared by a dwindling band of old men like himself. His own sons had never even seen one of the planes that carried him to war. For the most part, no one knew they ever existed. The old planes, like the old man himself, were fading away.

Once they had been young, the hope and pride of a nation. But now…no one cared anymore.

They walked slowly along the crowded flight line. Over the rumble of the engines, Dad gestured for his boys. “That one’s a B-17,” he’d explain, “we had those in the Pacific, too. There’s a P-38 Lightning. You can always tell by the twin tail booms. They were good escorts. They went in with us sometimes. We were glad to have them around.”

Further down the line they passed a Japanese Zero. The old man glared at it silently for a moment, some strange emotion passing briefly across his face. His sons didn’t know if it was grief, fear, anger, or a combination of all. He turned and without a backward glance continued his slow walk.

The memories were becoming stronger for him. The breeze carried the scent of rubber, aviation gas, and hot oil, just like his base used to smell. Planes jockeying into position along the line revved their engines, sending gale-force prop wash blowing across the tarmac as people clutched at their hats and leaned into the wind. Overhead was the deep-throated roar of ancient propeller-driven fighter formations passing in review, a sound unlike any other. Air show announcers all over the country call it the same thing: The Sound of Freedom.

The father and his sons ambled along, pausing occasionally to look up at whatever was flying over. After one particularly low pass by a British Spitfire, the boys turned to remark to Dad and saw him standing as if he were frozen in place. He had walked around the aircraft they’d been looking at and was staring like a man possessed at the next plane in line. A look of incredulous wonder began to spread across his face…

“My God,” he whispered. “My God, there it is. It’s…someone…how…I never thought that I’d ever…”

“What is it, Dad? Are you okay?”

He seemed to stand taller and his shoulders squared. “Okay? Hell yes, I’m okay! THERE’S MY PLANE!”

It just so happened that “his” plane was also “our” plane. Lockheed PV-2 “Harpoons” were never immortalized by Hollywood like the Flying Fortresses of “12 O’Clock High,” the B-25 Mitchells of “Catch-22” or any of a score of other films. Why this is so remains a mystery, for the missions they flew were some of the most heroic—and harrowing—of the war. Flying out of New York, Norfolk, and Pensacola, PV-1s and 2s scoured the Atlantic for Nazi U-boats. The WWII cliché “sighted sub, sank same” is attributed to a PV-1 crew. In the Pacific theater, astonished Navy pilots soon realized that the PV-1 could actually outrun the dreaded Japanese Zeros, a feat unheard of for a medium bomber. The Lockheed’s phenomenal speed saved scores, perhaps hundreds, of American lives.

With the debut of the heavier and more stable PV-2, Marine Corps pilots and ground crews, as usual, made a few non-standard “field modifications.” This normally meant torching extra holes in the nose and welding in as many .50 machine guns as they could cram into the forward bay. The Marines also tore out the torpedo and depth charge racks in the somewhat pregnant-looking bomb bay and installed hooks for 500 pounders and napalm. As if this wasn’t enough, industrious gunneys even bolted rails under each wing and loaded them with air-to-ground rockets! Aeronautical engineers were appalled when they heard this, but soon reports came back from the combat zones of Harpoons taking on everything from subs and fighters to tanks and heavy cruisers, all with disastrous results to the enemy. The Harpoons could—and did—fight anything. And somewhere amidst the fire and fury, somewhere between the Philippines and the Aleutians, there was a young Navy pilot who would live to be taken to Gennessee, New York by his sons….

The old man stood at the front of the plane and, after a long moment, simply reached up and placed his hand on the underside of the nose. “I never knew they saved one,” he said softly. “I never thought I’d see one again.” To his sons, the man sounded as if he had suddenly found something priceless that he had lost many years ago.

One of his boys slipped around to the port side of the harpoon. He’d seen an open hatch and one of our crewmen standing near it. The younger man had decided to ask, plead—beg if he had to—for permission to let his father climb aboard a Harpoon just one more time. Please, please…

To his surprise and delight, he was informed that we welcome visitors aboard our plane. In fact, we encourage them to climb in and take a look around. It’s no fun having a bomber if you can’t show it off once in a while, right? Besides, we’re maintaining a living piece of American history, and we’re rather proud of that fact.

The fellow who climbed into the hatch did so with the grace and familiarity of a young naval aviator, not an old man suffering from Hodgkin’s disease. Our crewman offered to show the old gent around and point out objects of interest in the plane, a courtesy we perform for all visitors, but one of the man’s sons tugged at his sleeve. “Dad
knows his way around in here. Can we talk outside for a moment?”

Our crewman was somewhat bewildered, but he was beginning to realize that something out of the ordinary was going on. He’d seen that eerie look in the old fellow’s eyes and it was plain that these other two guys wanted to explain his behavior. He hopped out of the hatch and listened to them. They told our man about their dad’s crushing depression upon learning of his incurable disease, how they had hoped to just cheer him up a little, and how overjoyed he was to see that a bunch of characters from Indiana were actually flying around the country in a plane that he thought no longer existed.

Our man knew there was more to it than that. There was a lot of happiness and relief in these men, too. Their mission was accomplished: against all odds, they’d broken the black spell on their father.

While the old aviator was still merrily poking about in our plane, a couple more of our crew strolled up munching on hamburgers. “What’s up? Anything going on?”

“Yeah. Wait’ll you hear this…”

Within minutes, two of our crewmen set out to round up the rest of the gang. The old man was still climbing in and out of the plane, kicking the landing gear and inspecting the bomb bay, when they all arrived. Our whole “away team” shook his hand and took pictures of him and his boys. The old fellow’s joy was infectious, and our guys were glad to be a part of it. Then someone in the crew cam up with a brilliant idea. It was whispered from man to man and a hasty conference was held under the huge wing. Heads nodded all around. Yeah. It was agreed. They had to do this…

We were scheduled to make a flight the next day for “Aviation Classics” magazine. They wanted some pictures of our rare Harpoon doing its stuff. A photographer had been sent, a swift chase plane had been reserved, and takeoff was set for the following morning.

As is always the case, every seat available was already spoken for. Despite its size, and not counting the pilots and flight engineer, there are only five seats aboard our plane. She was designed as a combat aircraft, not a passenger plane. Even among the members of our organization, a flight is a rare treat. To be honest about the matter, at a fuel consumption rate of nearly two hundred gallons an hour we can’t afford much joyriding. At air shows, our fuel and other expenses are paid for by the promoters of the show so every time we lift off five lucky people get to take a “free” ride. These seats are always reserved well in advance, usually for our own people who’ve spend countless hours of hard work and a lot of their own money to “keep ‘em flying.” It’s a privilege we all look forward to every summer.

Our crew looked at the ancient Navy pilot standing beside the Harpoon. He constantly touched the aircraft as if to assure himself that it was really there and not just a dream. There was a haunted look about him, as if he were surrounded by the ghosts of his former comrades. He had survived the Zeros, but there would be no escape from the disease that now had a grip on him. The old veteran was fighting his last battle even as they watched…

“He can have my seat,” one of our guys said softly.

“Naw. You haven’t gone up for a while. Let him take mine.”

Soon there was a near fight among all five over who would give up their seat. It was a point of honor. Besides, people who fly and maintain old warbirds are slightly crazy anyway.

The argument was settled and, beaming delightedly, the whole crew marched over to the man and his sons. They told him about the photo run that was scheduled for the next day and that we just, ahh, happened to have a spare seat available. Would he like to ride along on the flight?

The question stunned him. “Are you serious?” He looked from man to man, and their faces answered for them. They were all grinning like idiots and nodding their heads in encouragement.

The aged Harpoon pilot blinked a few times and cleared his throat. Then, with his sons standing beside him, he lifted his chin and answered. “Yes,” he said. “I’d love to go. Thanks…thank you very much.”

His sons didn’t comment on our crew’s invitation. For some reason they were suddenly having trouble with their voices. But the way they looked at our people spoke volumes on the subject of heartfelt gratitude. The men from Massachusetts stood with the men from Indiana on an airfield in New York state, and the axiom of a brotherhood among airmen demonstrated its truth once more.

The old aviator arrived at dawn the next day. Only a couple of our people were up and at the aircraft at that time, groggily sipping coffee and still yawning. One of our guys commented that the veteran pilot looked surprisingly wide awake for that early hour. He replied that most of his combat missions had begun at dawn or even earlier. Besides, he admitted sheepishly, he had been unable to sleep the whole night. “I felt like a kid waiting for Christmas morning,” he grinned.

Someone reached into a tool box and produced a thermos of coffee. The old fellow accepted a cup and sat a package down on the work bench. “I thought some of you might be interested in this.” He carefully unwrapped a tattered and patched photo album.

“My boys talked me into bringing it from home when we came up here. I’m glad I have it with me now.” He opened the cover.

Our crewmen took one glance inside and snapped completely awake, nearly choking on their coffee. They stared at the book, then at each other.

The album was a gold mine. The then-young Navy pilot had taken dozens of black and white photos of his aircraft, both inside and out. Equally important, he’d taken many close-ups of the mechanics at work on his forward island bases. We had only been able to guess at where some of the equipment was mounted in the interior of our plane, and how some of the field-expedient repairs had been accomplished under combat conditions. This book could allow us to rebuild and refurbish our plane to her exact wartime appearance, the goal of all military aircraft restorers. We have a thick manual for the bird, but it’s no longer possible to do everything “by the book.”

Lockheed hasn’t made parts for this aircraft for over fifty years. We knew that Navy and Marine mechanics had accomplished wonders with baling wire, tin cans, and friction tape: the big question was how? Which backyard repairs could we get away with and which ones could cause a crash? What do you do when a control cable snaps at 12,000 feet or the port engine starts blowing oil or the landing gear jams halfway down?

Our crewmen suddenly realized that the fellow sipping coffee and looking calmly back at them was not merely an old man suffering from Hodgkin’s disease. He was also a retired United States Navy officer, a combat experienced aviator, and a government-trained expert on Lockheed PV-2 Harpoons. A few hours earlier, they felt as if he needed them. Now it dawned on our crew that they needed him—badly—and the knowledge he had carried for nearly half a century.

“Sir, when the rest of our people get here, would you consider giving us a, uhh, briefing?”

He sat his cup down and smiled. “Be glad to.”

Later that morning they were assembled around the elderly pilot, hanging on his every word. His constant touching and staring at the aircraft had not been the ghostly reminiscences of days gone by, but a careful and professional examination. Instinctively, he’d been giving our Harpoon a pre-flight inspection. He’d been quietly “grading” us on our reconditioning, maintenance, and craftsmanship. He’d noted where we had done well—and where there was need for improvement. Our crew jotted don page after page of memos on everything from how the navigator’s table folded up to which hydraulic lines to inspect frequently. To no one’s surprise, he said that some portions of the manual were nonsense, then went on to tell us how to do things the right way.

He gave our pilots detailed information on how to crash-land the plane in the event of total power failure. Harpoons are not noted for crash survivability, something we all keep in the back of our minds. His crew in the Pacific had been lucky to have him at the controls. He ran out of fuel once and had to belly in on a beach. The plane was a total loss, but the young Navy flyer saved his crew. Someday—God forbid—we may have to try it ourselves.

The veteran continued on for some time without any apparent fatigue or effects from his illness. Presently a civilian aircraft noisily taxied up to the Harpoon and braked to a halt. Two men clambered out of the plane, the photographer and his pilot. They exchanged information with our pilots on how the photo flight was to be handled, shook hands, and hopped back in their plane. The Cessna turned and began to taxi back out to the runway.

Flight line workers began to circle the Harpoon, warning spectators away from our bomber and clearing a path for it to roll out from the parking area. Our pilots and engineer climbed up into the cockpit and began their pre-flight checklist. Two of our people, one at each engine, stood guard outside with fire extinguishers while four more eagerly entered the plane.

For the first and only time in their lives, the old man’s sons watched him climb into a PV-2 Harpoon. Just inside the hatch, he turned and looked at his boys for a long moment. Something seemed to pass between them for an instant, then he gave them a “thumbs up” and shut the door.

He never thought that he’d see another of “his” planes and certainly never dreamed he’d fly in one again, if even only as a passenger, but fate had reserved him one more takeoff, just one more time.

The last flight was under way.

Our pilot shouted out his window. “Clear!” The ground crewmen stood by with the fire extinguishers, just in case. The number one starter motor engaged the flywheel, causing that eerie high-pitched whine that quickens the blood of anyone who ever heard it. Then the pistons fired, coughed, and fired again, blowing out rapid puffs of smoke as the Hamilton-Standard prop began to spin. The engine smoothed and revved to a high idle, pounding out a sound like nearby thunder. Number two engine whined, backfired, and blew out a great cloud of white smoke. Its prop remained motionless. Doubtless cursing under his breath, the pilot initiated a restart while the ground crew eyed the engine suspiciously, extinguishers at the ready.

The flywheel built up speed again, the switch was thrown, and this time the mighty Pratt & Whitney radial roared into life, fairly bellowing strength and defiance. The whole aircraft shook visibly as the great 2,000 horsepower engines warmed up. The brakes strained to hold the ship in place while the preflight was completed, then they were gradually released and the bomber started to roll.

As always, she gained speed rapidly. Halfway down the strip, the barn-door sized tail lifted and the plane seemed to balance on her main gear. Then, with the awesome sound of a warbird—the Sound of Freedom—the Harpoon thundered into the sky.

They circled the field once, gaining altitude. The chase plane fell into formation with them, the photographer taking advantage of a beautiful cloudless day. The Harpoon banked gracefully, easing back over the airfield. Together the two aircraft made repeated passes giving the cameraman every shot he could wish for. When the photo run was over, both planes slowed and dropped into a landing glide path, flaps and gear down. The smaller plane led the way, touching down well ahead of the big blue Navy patrol bomber.

It was the moment our crew had been waiting for. The airspace was now clear.

The Harpoon’s gear went back up and the engines throttled forward. She picked up speed, streaked over the runway at a breathtaking fifteen feet, and rocketed back up in a tight climbing turn.

One of our ground crew grinned at the old pilot’s sons. “I think your dad is in for a little treat.” The Harpoon was now going in excess of two hundred fifty knots. The bomber stood on one wing, whirled around in a high-stress turn, and dove like a falcon—straight towards the field. Her engines were audible for miles, and the vast crowd of spectators looked up as one. “What the hell are they up to?” Hot dogs and soft drinks were dropped by the score as people snatched for their cameras. The plane shrieked over the flight line, a blue streak above the Mustangs and the Liberators and that thrice-damned Zero. In the wink of an eye they blew past the throng of spectators as babies cried, women covered their ears, and children howled with delight. The slipstream sent hats, programs, and paper cups flying in every direction.

The plane rocked back on its tail and flew into the sun. The crowd squinted and tried to follow it. Eventually even the sound of the engines grew faint. The plane was gone—but to where? A few minutes passed, then someone shouted, “There! To the north!”

They’d gone for altitude, and were now diving back in again. But this time something was different. The plan was flying strangely. A teenager asked his father, “Are they in trouble?”

The Harpoon was dodging rapidly left and right and flinging itself up and down in the dive. Experienced combat pilots—and there are many at air shows—knew at first glance what the Navy bomber was doing. “Jinking” is how pilots are trained to avoid ground fire in combat. The plane was coming in under evasive action and gaining speed at an alarming rate. Two hundred sixty knots, two seventy, two ninety…Then the aircraft straightened and flew with determined precision, seeming to aim itself at a point just opposite from the crowd on the other side of the runway.

The bomb bay doors snapped open and half dozen dark oblong shapes spilled out.

Spectators gasped as the objects tumbled and fell, whistling loudly as they came. The missiles hit the field and exploded into a spectacular red and green spray. The crowd sent up a mighty cheer as they realized what they’d seen, and the sons of our passenger laughed and cheered loudest of all.

Gennessee, New York had just been bombed by a planeload of Indiana watermelons.

After pulling up from its surprise “bomb run,” the Harpoon slowed to cruise speed, circled, and came back for a final pass before landing. She swooped in low and slow, one wing tipped in salute to the crowd while cameras clicked and video recorders whirred. Then the great flaps lowered, the gear came down, and the tires screeched on contact with the tarmac. The bomber taxied to the parking apron, turned, and rolled slowly to her assigned area.

Flight line workers held back the crowds who surged in around her, waving, applauding, and holding children on the shoulders. The old aviator’s sons stood with our ground crew, shielding their eyes from a final wind blast as the port brake was locked, the starboard engine revved, and the plan ground-looped perfectly into exactly the same spot she had left. The engines were cut, number two giving its characteristic double backfire, and the props clattered to a halt. The elevator surfaces on the huge tail lowered and thumped softly down to their rest positions. The flight was over, the bomber now silent.

Our crew formed a semicircle around the hatch, the veteran’s sons standing expectantly in the front. For a long moment the hatch remained closed. Then the handle rotated, the door swung slowly open, and a figure appeared at the top of the access ladder. The sons looked up solemnly, as if seeing their father for the first time, He paused there, returning their gaze. Then the emotion became too great for even him to control, and his loving, joyous smile became framed by streams of tears that rolled down both cheeks. He hopped down the short ladder and into the arms of his boys. Our crew surrounded them as they gripped each other, laughing and weeping, in an impassioned, back slapping, three-way hug.

The scene was best described to this writer by one of our female crew members.

“Oh, you should have seen it! These macho guys of ours in the plane came out and they were all crying. They were embarrassed by it, but they had to keep wiping their eyes. The old man was the happiest person I’ve ever seen in my life. He kept on laughing and crying at the same time and asking his boys if they saw the bomb run. They were nodding and hugging him. The ground crew was sniffing and snorting and looking at everything except each other. I finally gave up myself and said ‘What the hell?’ So I started crying too.”

The aviator told everyone within earshot how happy he was to have been with us, even if only for a short while. Another of our ladies appeared at his side and asked if he would like to join our organization. Before she could even finish the question he exclaimed, “Yes!” She pulled an application out from behind her back and, grinning, handed the old fellow a pen. He quickly read the document and signed it on the offered back of our flight engineer. After handing the paper back, he reached inside jacket. “I have my checkbook with me. I can pay my first annual dues right now and…”

There was a cry of outrage and our “recruiting officer” steadfastly refused to take a cent. She looked around threateningly at the rest of the team and called for a forum. By immediate and unanimous voice vote, the veteran was made a life member of our crew on the spot, all dues waived forever.

Addresses and phone numbers were exchanged. The retired naval officer was told that he could expect our first organizational newsletter within a week and that we’d stay in touch by mail, keeping him abreast of developments with the plane. He replied that he had many photographs and notes pertaining to PV-2 Harpoons that he’d send us, as well as personal observations and letters answering any questions we might have in the future.

After some time, they had to leave for the long drive back to Massachusetts. Our men shook his firm hand for the last time, our wives and girlfriends each gave him a kiss, and it was time to leave. One of the sons kept repeating to our crew, “You don’t know. You don’t know what this has done for Dad. This has brought him back. He’s his old self again. You just don’t know…”

Well, maybe we don’t. But we have a pretty good idea. We know what he did for us.

Whatever else life may have in store for him the veteran will always know that one of his planes is still flying, crewed by a new generation. And we will know that we have a friend, our senior member, who we can turn to when the skies grow dark and we need advice.

Sometimes people ask me why I love air shows.

I never know what to tell them.

Ken Ballard

• I Fell 15,000 Feet And Lived

Chapter 7 in author Ron Knott's book Supersonic Cowboys, a collection of forty-five Crusader stories is by Marine Corps aviator Cliff ('Jud') Judkins, reprinted here for your reading pleas . . . astonishment. Because he was able to write an account of his experience you've probably concluded that Jud survived this ordeal—but he also returned to flight status and was flying F-8s again within six months. After leaving the Marine Corps he was hired as a pilot with Delta Airlines and retired as a Captain.


JUD ! YOU ARE ON FIRE! GET OUT OF THERE !

Needless to say that startling command got my attention.

Our in-flight refueling process was necessary, and routine, because the F-8 Crusader could not hold enough fuel to fly from California to Hawaii. Soon, after plugging-in to the tanker, my fuel gauges stirred, showing that all was well.. In my cockpit, I was relaxed and confident. My thoughts were “In a few hours I knew we’d all be having dinner at the Kaneohe O'Club on Oahu."

My fuel guages indicated that the tanks were almost full. Then - THUD ! I heard the crack of an explosion. Instantly, I could see the RPM gauge unwinding with the tailpipe temperature dropping. The engine had quit – a flame-out !

I punched the mike button : “This is Jud. I’ve got a flame-out !”

Unfortunately, my radio was already dead; I was neither sending nor receiving..

I quickly disconnected from the refueling tanker and nosed over, into a shallow dive, to pick up some flying speed to help re-start the engine. I needed those few seconds to think. I yanked the handle that extended the air-driven emergency electrical generator ( RAT ) into the slipstream, hoping to get ignition for an air start. The igniter's clicked gamely, and the RPM indicator started to climb slowly, as did the tailpipe temperature.

For one tantalizing moment I thought everything would be all right.

But the RPM indicator hung uncertainly at 30 percent . . refused to go any faster.

Jet fuel poured over the canopy and the RED FIRE WARNING light blinked ON.

At the same instant, powered by the RAT, my radio came back on. And a great babble of voices burst through my earphones. Fuel was pouring out of my aircraft . . from its tailpipe . . from under the wings . . the fuel had flowed together, then it ignited in . . . a great awesome trail of fire!

I told my flight leader , “ I’m getting out! ”

I took my hands off the flight controls and reached above my head for the canvas curtain that would start the ejection sequence. I pulled it down hard over my face and waited for the tremendous kick in the pants, rocketing me upward.

Nothing happened!

The canopy, was designed to jettison in the first part of the ejection sequence. But it did not move. It was still in place.

And so was I.

I reached down between my knees for the alternate ejection-firing handle, and gave it a vigorous pull. Nothing happened.

I was trapped in the burning aircraft.

The plane was now in a steep 60-degree dive. For the first time, I felt panic softening the edges of my determination. I knew that I had to do something or I was going to die in this sick airplane.

With great effort, I pulled my thoughts together and tried to imagine some solution, as a voice in my earphones was shouting : " Ditch it !”

That suggestion must have come from the re-fueling tanker skipper or one of the destroyer commanders, because every jet fighter pilot knows you can’t ditch a jet fighter and survive. On impact with the water, it would usually destroy itself.

I grabbed the control stick and leveled the aircraft. Then I yanked the alternate ejection handle once again.

Nothing.

That left me with only one imaginable way out : jettison the canopy manually, release your seat belt and harness, then jump out of the aircraft.

I was not aware of any Crusader pilot who had ever used this World War II tactic to get out of a fast flying jet fighter. I had been told that this procedure, of bailing out of a jet, was almost impossible. The Crusader's high vertical fin's almost certain to strike the pilot’s body and kill him.

My desperation was growing, and any scheme that offered a shred of success seemed better than riding the aircraft into the sea swells.

I disconnected the canopy with my hands.. And it disappeared with a great whoosh.

To move the tail slightly out of the way of my exiting body, I trimmed the aircraft to fly in a sideways skid . . nose high and with the rudder trimmed in a ' crab ' to the right. I stood up in the seat, and held both arms in front of my face.

I was harshly sucked out of the airplane.

I cringed as I tumbled outside, expecting the tail to cut me in half ! Instantly, I knew I was uninjured. I was going too fast, so I waited . . . and waited . . . until my body decelerated to terminal velocity. Then I pulled the parachute's D-ring and braced for the opening shock.

No shock.

I heard a loud pop above me, but continued falling rapidly. As I looked up, I saw the small pilot chute had deployed. But the main, 24-foot parachute had not opened ! I was stunned with disbelief and horror as I saw the parachute's neatly arranged white folds, tangled by the shroud lines. Frantically, I shook and jerked the risers in an attempt to open the main chute.

It didn’t do anything.

Hand over hand, I pulled the parachute bundle down toward me, then wrestled with the shroud lines, trying to get the chute to billow open. But the parachute remained as a closed bundle with shroud lines wrapped around it. All the while I am falling like a rock toward the Pacific ocean. I noticed a ring of turbulence in the ocean. It looked like a big stone had been thrown in the water with white froth in the center. I quickly realized, that was my Crusader crashing.

“Would I be next to crash? ”

Again, I shook the parachute risers and jerked on the shroud lines, but the rushing air was holding my chute in a tight bundle. I began to realize that I had done all I could reasonably do.

I was just along for a brutal ride that may kill or severely injure me.

I have no recollection of positioning myself properly nor even bracing for the impact. In fact, I don’t remember slamming into the water at all.

At one instant, I was falling fast toward the ocean. Suddenly, I was very cold. And in an eerie world of half-consciousness, I thought, “Am I alive ? ”

I finally decided , “Yes, I think I am . . ."

The cold water helped clear my senses. But as I flopped around injesting water, I began coughing and retching. The Mae West around my waist had inflated. I concluded that the shrill whistling sound that I had heard was the gas leaving the CO2 cylinders as it was filling the life vest. A sense of urgency gripped me, as my mind told me there were some task I was supposed to do next. Then it dawned on me what it was. I need to get rid of the parachute! It had billowed out underwater, and it was now tugging me down.

I tried reaching down for my hunting knife located in the knee pocket of my flight suit. I had to cut the shroud lines before the parachute pulled me under for good.

This is when I first discovered that I was injured severely.

The pain was excruciating. Was my back broken? I tried to arch it slightly and felt the pain again. As I tried moving my feet, I could feel my broken ankle bones grating against each other.

There was no chance of getting that hunting knife, but I had another, smaller knife one in the upper torso of my flight suit. With difficulty, I extracted it and began slashing feebly at the spaghetti-like mess of lines surrounding me.

Once free of the parachute, I began a tentative search for my survival pack. It should have been strapped to my hips. And it contained my one-man life raft, canned water, food, fishing gear, and dye markers. Not there.

The impact had ripped it off my body.

“How long would the Mae West sustain me ? ”

I wasn’t sure, but I knew I needed help fast. The salt water that I had swallowed felt like a rock in the pit of my gut. And, here I was, solo, 600 miles from shore, lolling in the deep troughs and crests of the vast Pacific. And my Crusader, upon which we had lavished such affection, was sinking the thousands of feet to the ocean's bottom.

In about ten minutes, I heard the drone of propellers. Flying very low, the pot-bellied, four-engine refueling tanker came into view. They dropped several green dye markers near me, and some smoke flares a short distance away. They circled overhead and dropped an inflated life raft about 50 yards from me.


I was so pleased and tried to swim toward the raft. When I took two strokes, I almost blacked out due to the intense pain. The tanker circled again and dropped another raft closer to me, but there was no way for me to get to it . . then in it . . in my condition.

The water seemed to be getting colder, and a chill gripped me. I looked at my watch, but the so-called unbreakable crystal was shattered and the hour and minute hands were torn away. I tried to relax and surrender to the Pacific Ocean swells.

I could almost have enjoyed being buoyed up to the crest of one swell and gently sliding into the trough of the next, but I was in such excruciating pain.

In about an hour, a Coast Guard amphibian plane flew over and circled me as though deciding whether or not to land. But the seas were too high. And I knew he couldn’t make it down, then make a successful take-off. He came in very low and dropped another raft; this one had a 200-foot floating lanyard attached.



The end of the lanyard landed barely ten feet from me. Using only my arms, I paddled gently backward. I caught hold of it and pulled the raft to me. I knew I couldn’t crawl into the raft due to my physical condition. But I was able to get a good grip on its side and hold on. And this gave me a little more security.

The Coast Guard amphibian pilot gained altitude and flew off and found some minesweepers returning from the Far East. He was not able to tune to their radio frequency, but the ingenious pilot lowered a wire and dragged it across one of the minesweeper's bows, then rocked his wings, heading back toward me. The minesweeper captain understood. He instantly veered off and headed at top speed in my direction.


I was fully conscious during the two and a half hours it took the mine sweeper to reach me. I spotted the ship while teetering on the crest of a wave. Soon, its great bow was pushing in close toward me. Sailors in orange life jackets were crowding its lifelines. A bearded man in a black rubber suit jumped into the water and swam to me.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “My legs and my back.”

I was now very cold and was concerned about increasing numbness in my legs. Perhaps, the imminence of rescue had made me light-headed, for I only vaguely remember being hoisted aboard the ship. I was laid out on the ship’s deck as they cut away my flight suit.

“Don’t touch my legs ! Don’t touch my legs ! ” I screamed.

I don’t actually remember saying that, but then somebody gave me a shot of morphine. It erased part of my extreme pain.

An hour or so later, a man was bending over me and asking questions. A doctor had been 'high-lined ' over from the cruiser USS Los Angeles, now along side the sweeper.

He asked me, “You have a long scar on your abdomen. How did it get there ? ”

I told him about an auto accident I’d had four years earlier in Texas, and that my spleen had been removed.

He grunted, and asked more questions while he continued examining me. Then he said, “You and I are going to take a little trip over to the USS Los Angeles; it’s steaming along- side.”


They got me into a wire stretcher, and hauled me, dangling and dipping, across the watery interval between the ships.

In the Los Angeles’s sickbay, they gave me another shot of morphine before they started thrusting all sorts of hoses into my body. I could tell from all their activity, and their intense, hushed voices, that they were very worried about my condition.

My body temperature was down to 94 degrees; my intestines and kidneys were in shock. The doctors never left my side during the night. They took my blood pressure every 15 minutes. I was unable to sleep. Until finally, I threw-up about a quart or more of seawater and my nausea was relieved a bit.

By listening to the medical team, I was able to piece together the nature of my injuries. My left ankle was broken in five places. My right ankle was broken in three places. A tendon in my left foot was cut. My right pelvis was fractured. My number 7 vertebra was fractured. My left lung had partially collapsed. There were many cuts and bruises all over my face and body, and my intestines and kidneys had been stunned into complete inactivity.


The next morning, Dr. Valentine Rhodes told me that the Los Angeles was steaming at flank speed to a rendezvous with a helicopter 100 miles off shore from Long Beach. At 3:30 that afternoon, I was hoisted into the belly of a Marine helicopter, and we whirred off to a hospital ship, the USS Haven, docked in Long Beach. Once aboard the Haven, doctors came at me from all sides with more needles, tubes, and X-ray machines. Their reaction to my condition was so much more optimistic than I had expected.

So I finally let go a few tears of relief, exhaustion, and thanks to all hands.

Within a few months, I was all systems go again. My ankles were put back in place with the help of steel pins. The partially collapsed left lung re-inflated and my kidneys and intestines were working again without artificial prodding.

The Marine Corps discovered the cause of my flame-out, was the failure of an automatic cut-off switch in the refueling system. The aircraft’s main fuel tank was made of heavy reinforced rubber. When the cut-off switch failed, this allowed the tank at high pressure, to go beyond its capacity. The tank burst like a rubber balloon, causing a flame-out and very spectacular fire.

We will never know why the ejection seat failed because it is on the bottom of the ocean. The failure of the parachute is a mystery also. Like they say, “Some days you are the dog, but others you are the dog's fire-plug.”

Do I feel lucky ?

That word doesn’t even begin to describe my feelings. To survive a 15,000-foot free fall with an unopened chute is a fair enough feat. But my mind keeps running back to something Dr. Rhodes told me during those grim and desperate hours.

He said that if I had had one, the spleen would have almost certainly would have ruptured at impact and I would have bled to death, internally.

Of the 25 fighter pilots in our squadron, I am the only one who didn't have a spleen.

• Blue Angels

With yesterday's French vid behind us, here's some amateur video from the back seat of the Blue Angels slot aircraft, with some rather odd music. Note how tight they fly, especially the inverted pass in the last few seconds.

The Van Halen msuic in the following classic clip is much better suited . . .

• Don't Knock the Knocker

The Aeronca Champion is often refered to as The Champ, the Air Knocker or simply, the Knocker. The company name usually is pronounced "Er-on'-ica" with emphasis on the i, probably for the same reason that shimmy dampers are called 'dampners' with emphasis on the n.

I've never been quite sure why in either case. But this story from Flying magazine, way back in 1974, suggests the answer for the Knocker.


I sip my coffee and wave off the autograph-seekers. Through the restaurant window I keep an eye on my plane and the curious masses that swarm around it. It always attracts the masses, this great beast from out of the past.

The throbbing of the idling engine, burping little wisps of iridescent blue smoke, travels through the ground up to the lunch counter and leaves little rings in my coffee. I always leave the engine idling when I'm having my morning coffee. It pleases the masses so.

The morning sun glints on the golden wings the same way it did so many years ago when we screamed out of the sky with guns blazing, ending the career of the infamous Baron von Doppeldecker (450 kills confirmed)...

"More coffee, Ace?"

The Golden Moment is shattered by an uncaring waitress with her pot of battery drainings. The throb of the engine fades and, through the window, I watch a shimmering wave transform my snarling beast into a squat, dumpy, and bug-bedecked caricature of an airplane. It leans ungraciously to the left and leaves its calling card on the asphalt in a random pattern of oil drips. Sounds a little like an Air Knocker, you say? You know, you could be right.

At some obscure moment in the annals of aviation, a group of frustrated designers decided it was high time to come up with the perfect lightplane, one that would be in every hangar throughout the land, being flown by every type of aviator. In order to compete forcefully in the mish-mosh that was the present competition, this Dream Plane would have to be powered by an efficient, albeit modest, engine that promised more speed than horsepower; carry a great payload faster and farther than the competitors; climb higher faster, land slower and be more patronizing to the ham-fisted student; have unexcelled crosswind capabilities; ad infinitum. All of these requirements were compiled, annotated, reworked, and then thrown out. And what did they come up with? Aeronca Champion is what it was.

An Aeronca is a lovable parody on flight—an animated cartoon that can become airborne. Its shape would give the Wright Brothers second thoughts about their bicycle business. There are bends and lumps where there shouldn't be and there are straight, architectural lines where there should be bends and lumps. Put any more hardware into the slipstream and it would fly faster sideways. Come to think of it, it will fly sideways.

What the Kon-Tiki was to yachting, the Aeronca is to powered flight. But miracle of miracles, the people came and, for some warped reason, embraced this flying chamber pot. They accepted the "Knocker" just like it was a real flying machine. From everywhere they came to learn to fly this critter and, shortly, more fledglings were given wings (one way or another) in the Aeronca than were in the famed Piper Cub, even.

Why, you ask? Hell, I don't know, I answer. Maybe what it took was a flight in the thing to open your eyes. All I know is that's what did it for me. One turn around the pattern and I was hooked.

For those uninitiated few of you (the rest can ride along and no smart comments, please), let's check you out in this son-of-a- wrinkled blueprint. Hop in front, or in back if you wish. Both seats go the same places. Hopefully.

First note how sensibly appointed the roomy cabin is. Instruments (both of them) right up front where you can see them. Fuel indicator, that piece of bent wire bobbing up and down on the nose. Keep an eye on the wire—when it goes down, so do you. Switch? Merely twist your left arm into its most uncomfortable position and grope around near your hip for a loose handle; we'll assume you're sitting front seat. You won't be able to read the markings, but take my word that all the way forward is BOTH. The little knob next to it is the carb heat, and to use this it would be best to climb into the back seat and use both hands to pull it out. Not too hard, or you'll really pull it out. Not to worry—dead-stick landings are good practice.

Out front, some patient soul will have to twist the prop for you while you are untwisting yourself in the cabin. After the tenth flip of the prop, you will notice the quizzical look on his sweat-beaded face. He is likely pondering the Continental nameplate staring at him with its motto: "As Dependable As the Nation."

In the interest of time, we shall assume that the engine is churning and that all systems are "go."

Someone once commented that an airplane is the most awkward and stupid means of surface transportation ever devised by man, being paralleled only by a sack race. He must have at the time been watching an Aeronca taxi. The most time-consuming and laborious chore you will ever log is getting from tie-down to take-off. To begin with, it will take full power to get the Knocker to consider moving. This theory is carried on into flight. Any of you who have ever tried to taxi over your chocks know the feeling.

Once rolling, the plane will generally head into the wind. Any wind. Even in dead-calm air, it will find some passing zephyr to favor, and no amount of rudder-and-brake combination will do anything but aggravate the situation. Its course is predestined and all you can do is hope there is a taxiway somewhere along that route. It will wallow and creak along prehistorically, responding only to generous amounts of throttle and coarse language.

For the take-off, push throttle full forward and it will begin rolling down the runway at a speed somewhere between a fast taxi and a trundle, exhibiting all the style and grace of a Dixie cup in a windstorm. However, an Aeronca Champ will actually become airborne faster than a Cub, pound for pound. Usually, because it instinctively favors the grassy areas alongside the runway, before flying there is a 50-50 chance you'll end up heading for the fence or those hangars on your left. This is known as the "cross-runway" take-off technique. Once mastered, it can be stimulating and quite showy, and everyone will notice your take-offs, including the FAA examiners. Tower personnel are legion who have hit the deck upon seeing a grinning Aeronca face heading straight (or, roughly straight) for their office.

Once aloft, you establish an "Aeronca Pattern," which is best described as something between an ellipse and a rhomboid octagon. No traffic problem here. Most of the other aircraft will follow you—if only out of fascination or curiosity.

Control surfaces are overabundant, so be tender with the rudder pedals or you are likely to find out what racing drivers refer to as "swapping ends." Other than that, the Aeronca is quite forgiving in its flight characteristics. There is ample time to consider all of your actions because you are not moving at exactly breakneck speed. This you will assume by the blowing bits of paper and leaves that pass you up, later by the bug splat on the trailing edge of the wings.

But the view is unparalleled! More-or-less clear plastic windows abound, and you will become increasingly aware of this facet as the day heats up.

Now for the landing—and here comes the part with the meat on it. Get a good line-up with the white runway stripe and mentally mark an "X" where you wish to touch down. Then forget it. Chances are good the only white line you will see after touchdown will have a sign: AUTO PARKING ONLY. Cut the throttle and notice how immediately nothing happens. No sweat. The Knocker has merely decided it doesn't want to land. This "Schweizer Effect" can be overcome by generous bursts of more coarse language and by energetically bouncing on the seat to shake it loose from the sky.

The landing itself is a thing to behold. From the ground, at least. They come from miles around to watch an Aeronca land. The last Super Bowl lost money because the word got out that there would be a Knocker landing.

Next we come to the "No-Bounce" gear. Aeronautical Corporation of America commissioned someone to come up with a snappy name for its new patented landing gear. I think it was Woody Allen who suggested the phrase, "No-Bounce." Some 15 feet up you can feel the tires groping for the runway—like sticking a toe in a hot bathtub. At five feet the Knocker will act as if it's trying to find a lost contact lens. Then touchdown comes. This normally will register between 2.6 and 4.5 on the Richter Scale. No matter where you think the ground is, it isn't. There's always about three feet left when you run out of fly. "No-Bounce" means that the wheels never leave the ground after first contact. The fact that the rest of the plane is performing a crude Lomcevak is beside the point. The wheels stay glued, even when you go careening off into the grassy area. I know some pilots who think it's salty to taxi around with their earphones around their neck. In a Knocker, that's where they end up after touchdown.

So much for the basic Aeronca familiarization. Perchance you find the tenor of this article deprecatory? Knock the Knocker? Me? Never!

I speak of this thing called Aeronca as a husband would speak of the wife who occasionally burns the toast and comes down to breakfast in hair curlers, or sometimes forgets where she parked the car. Little things that will either endear her to you or drive you to early basketweaving therapy. It is a conditioned love affair. You become conditioned. I'm fresh out of Aeroncas at this writing, but you can catch me doing my biweekly Trade-a-Planing with red pencil busy circling and deleting in the "Aeronca" column. I was spoiled many, many years ago by a squat and dumpy barge with a huge shamrock on its nose, and I am conditioned. I like earphones warming my neck.

Aeronca? If you have no particular place to go and don't have to be there at any particular time, fly it—you'll like it.