This can be a fair trade only because each airplane is worth the same amount of money. Money aside, the two airplanes have absolutely nothing in common. And the biplane? I want it because I want it. I have brought sleeping bag and silk scarf for a biplane voyage home. My decision is made, and now, touching a dark wingtip, nothing can change it.
“Let’s roll ’er out on the grass,” Evander Britt says. “You can pull on that outboard wing strut, down near the bottom.”
In the sunlight, the darks of red and yellow go bright scarlet and blazing bright flame to become a glowing sunrisebiplane in four separate wing panels of cloth and wood and an engine of five black cylinders. Thirty-five years old, and this hangar could be the factory, and this air, 1929. I wonder if airplanes don’t think of us as dogs and cats; for every year they age, we age fifteen or twenty. And as our pets share our household, so do we in turn share with airplanes the changing drifting sweeping household of the sky.
“. not really so hard to start, but you have to get the right combination. About four shots of prime, pull the prop through five or six times. ”
It is all strange and different, this cockpit. A deep leathertrimmed wood-and-fabric hole, cables and wires skimming the wooden floorboards, three knobbed stalks of engine controls to the left, a fuel valve and more engine controls forward, six basic engine and flight instruments on a tiny black-painted instrument panel. No radio.
A four-piece windscreen, low in front of my eyes. If it rains now, this whole thing is going to fill with water.
“Give it a couple of slow pumps with the throttle.”
“One, two. OK.” Funny. You never hear of cockpits filling up with water, but what happens when it rains on one of these things?
“One more shot of prime, and make the switches hot.”
Click-click on the instrument panel.
“CONTACT! And brakes.”
One quick downward swing of the shining propeller and the engine is very suddenly running, catching its breath and choking and coughing hoarse in the morning chill. Silence runs terrified before it and hides in the far corners of the forests around. Clouds of blue smoke wreathe for a second and are whipped away and the silver blade becomes nothing more than a great wide fan, and it blows air back over me like a giant blowing on a dandelion and the sound of it over the engine sound is a deep westwind in the pines.
I can’t see a thing ahead but airplane; a two-passenger front cockpit and a wide cowling and a silver blur that is the propeller. I let go the brakes and look out over the side of the cockpit into the big fan-wind giant-wind and touch the throttle forward. The propeller blur goes thinner and faster and the engine-sound goes deeper, all the while hollow and resonant, as though it were growling and roaring at the bottom of a thousand-gallon drum, lined in mirrors.
The old tall wheels begin to roll along the grass. The old grass, under the old wind, and bright old wings of another year and of this year, bound solidly together with angled old wires and forward-tilting old struts of wood, all a painted butterfly above the chill Carolina grass. Pressing on the rudder pedals, I swing the nose slowly from one side to the other as we roll, making sure that the blind way ahead is clear.
What a very long way has come the dream of flight since 1929. None of the haughty proud businesslike mien of the modern airplane hinted here. None of it. Just a slow leisurely taxi, with the constant S-turns to see ahead, pausing to sniff the breeze and inspect a flower in the grass and to listen to the sound of our engine. A quiet-seeming old biplane. Seeming, though, only seeming.
I have heard about these old airplanes, heard stories aplenty. Unreliable, these machines. You’ve always got to be ready for that engine to stop running. Quit on takeoff, usually, just when you need ’em most. And there’s nothing you can do about it, that’s just the way they are. If you do make it through the takeoff, look out for those old ones once they’re in the air. Slow up just a little too much, boy, and they’ll jerk the rug right out from under you and send you down in a spin. Like as not, you won’t be able to recover from the spin, either. They’ll just wrap up tighter and tighter and all you can do is bail out. Not too strange or unusual for the whole engine to fall out, sometimes. You just can’t tell. That old metal in those old engine mounts is all crystallized by now, and one day SNAP and there you are falling backward out of the sky. And the wood in these airplanes, look out for that old wood. Rotted clean through, more than likely. Hit a little bump in the air, a little gust of wind, and there goes one of your wings folding and fluttering away, or worse, folding back over the cockpit so that you can’t even bail out. But worst of all are the landings. Biplanes have that narrow landing gear and not much rudder to work with; they’ll get away from you before you can blink your eyes and suddenly you’re rolling along the runway in a big ball of wires and splinters and shredded old fabric. Just plain vicious and that’s the only word for ’em. Vicious.
But this airplane seems docile and as trim as a young lady earnestly seeking to make a good impression upon the world. Listen to that engine tick over. Smooth as a tuned racing engine, not a single cylinder left out of the song. “Unreliable,” indeed.
A quick engine runup here on the grass before takeoff. Controls all free and working properly, oil pressure and temperature pointing as they should. Fuel valve is on, mixture is rich, all the levers are where they belong. Spark advance lever, even, and a booster magneto coil. Those haven’t been built into airplanes for the last thirty years.
All right, airplane, let us see how you can fly. A discreet nudge on the throttle, a touch of left rudder to swing the nose around into the wind, facing a broad expanse of tall moist airport grass. Someone should have stamped out those rumors long ago.
Chinstrap fastened on leather helmet, dark goggles lowered.
Throttle coming full forward, and the giant blows hard twisting sound and fanned exhaust upon me. Certainly aren’t very quiet, these engines.
Push forward on the control stick and instantly the tail is flying. Built for little grass fields, the biplanes. Weren’t many airports around in 1929. That’s why the big wheels, too. Roll over the ruts in a pasture, a racetrack, a country road. Built for shortfield takeoffs, because that’s where the passengers were, short fields were where you made your money.
Grass fades into a green felt blur, and the biplane is already light on her wheels.
And suddenly the ground is no more. Smooth into the sky the bright wings climb, the engine thunders in its hollow drum, the tall wheels, still spinning, are lifted. Listen to that! The wind in the wires! And now it’s here all around me. It hasn’t gone at all. It isn’t lost in dusty yellow books with dusty browning photographs. It is here this instant, the taste of it all. That screaming by my ears and that whipping of my scarf—the wind! It’s here for me now just as it was here for the first pilots, that same wind that carried their megaphoned words across the pastures of Illinois and the meadows of Iowa and the picnic grounds of Pennsylvania and the beaches of Florida. “Five dollars, folks, for five minutes. Five minutes with the summer clouds, five minutes in the land of the angels. See your town from the air. You there, sir, how about taking the little lady for a joyride? Absolutely safe, perfectly harmless. Feel that fresh wind that blows where only birds and airplanes fly.” The same wind drumming on the same fabric and singing through the same wires and smashing into the same engine cylinders and sliced by the same sharp bright propeller and stirred and roiled by the same passage of the same machine that roiled it so many years ago.
If the wind and the sun and the mountains over the horizon do not change, a year that we make up in our heads and on our paper calendars is nothing. The farmhouse, there below. How can I tell that it is a farmhouse of today and not a farmhouse of 1931?