Pulp Fiction Takes Flight

My feet worked the rudder pedals of the little Cessna 120 as it bounced along the dirt taxiway to Runway 21 at Chino, California. Leon Hamilton, my instructor, was standing in the grass next to the runway. He followed my progress with his head cocked to one side in a quizzical gesture. I had delayed my departure, wondering if I really wanted to do this. A few moments ago, without warning, he'd climbed out, stuck his head back through the door, and yelled above the noise of the idling engine, "You'll notice she'll be lighter without me, so watch your climb. Make three takeoffs and three landings. That's three times around the pattern, then pick me up." He slammed the door and sauntered off in seeming unconcern. But now he looked puzzled.

I was numb. I was solo.

It seemed I had dreamed of this moment most of my life. But now that the moment was here I was scared to death. My first eight hours of dual instruction with Leon had not gone well. Indeed, I noted that he often misspelled dual and wrote it as duel when he entered the time in my logbook after each flight. That's the way I felt about it, too. I seemed to have no feel for the airplane. I couldn't coordinate. I fought with the controls. I couldn't concentrate on Leon's instructions. My mind kept drifting to questions of life insurance and "Why did I want to fly, anyway?"

I had grown up during the golden age of aviation when Jimmy Dolittle, Al Williams, Frank Hawks, Roscoe Turner, Charles Lindbergh, and Wiley Post were as familiar as movie stars. Not a week passed without the newspapers reporting another air race they'd won or a new distance record they'd set. Post was girdling the globe and climbing into the stratosphere while Charles and Anne Lindbergh explored new international airline routes for Pan American Airways. Tailspin Tommy and Smilin' Jack, a Turner-like character, were favorite comic strips of the era. My friends and I built model airplanes by the dozen.

Then there were the aviation pulp magazines with their garish covers and melodramatic stories that I devoured as fast as they were published. I had to smuggle them past my mother, who tried in vain to kindle in me an interest in a higher grade of literature. There were Wings, G-8 and His Battle Aces, and a dozen others. My favorite was Flying Aces magazine.

One day I caught my mother in a weak moment and was able to subscribe to Flying Aces, which each month provided its readers with far-fetched but delectable stories of air adventure. Who could ever forget Philip Strange, "the man of a thousand faces"? Capt. Strange was a super World War I spy. He was described as a famous actor-turned-spy who was capable of superb impersonations and ultraswift makeup changes. The scenario was for Strange to figuratively turn his back on the reader and, with a few swift strokes of finger, brush, and makeup pencil, emerge as an entirely different character. A favorite device of the author was to set the scene (often German high command headquarters) so that a number of entrances and exits were made by key figures. The challenge for the reader was to pick up the author's clues as to whom Strange was impersonating from moment to moment. The tense buildup to the eventual unmasking would never shake the reader's faith in Strange's unflappable style or his ability to outwit his foes. In the closing chapter this was usually accompanied by the sound of his "screaming Hisso" engine and "stuttering Vickers" machine guns as he toe-danced his Spad through waves of German Fokkers with the secret plans for a new Boche offensive safely tucked in his tunic.

Another popular pulp magazine of the era was Bill Barnes Air Trails. I recall that Frank Tinsley provided it with some of the best aviation art to be found anywhere. Barnes had his own private air force that turned up each month fighting for the good guys in some far-off corner of the globe.

Tinsley's rendering of Barnes' Scarlet Stormer remains fresh in my mind. The Stormer was a gull-wing amphibian with retractable floats powered by twin V-12 diesels mounted in tandem, turning contrarotating propellers. Tinsley anticipated the Messerschmitt Me 109 of WW II by equipping the imaginary Stormer with a 20-mm cannon firing through the propeller hub. Speeds of 400 miles an hour were casually mentioned in an era when the fastest landplane racers were struggling for the 300 mark.

Oh, I had tried to fly during the war, of course, but the Army Air Corps and the Naval Air Service each decided that my eyes wouldn't pass muster. I ended up with Patton's Third Army in Europe. Not quite the same as flying. I remember that I ate my heart out as many of my fraternity brothers went off to service flying schools; they went on to fly P–38s in Europe and Hellcats from carriers in the Pacific, while I was bored silly watching training films showing 41 ways to dig a hole in the ground. I was furious with fate. Why them? Why not me? But now the years had passed, and it was my turn to spread my wings.

The year was 1965. Twenty years of hard work had paid off, and my wife and I considered that at last we "had arrived." We had a nice house, two cars, a swimming pool, and enough money to send our daughter off to college. We even had a little money left over, and now I seriously could consider fanning the flame of an old love affair, one with that girl wearing the blue dress in the sky. I could learn to fly. However, it was clear that the indestructible youth of 23 years ago had become a scared, vulnerable, middle-aged man.

At the end of the taxiway was the engine run-up area. I swung the Cessna's tail around, turned into the wind, and went through the checklist. No help here. Everything was working just fine. Of course, since we'd just been flying the airplane it wasn't necessary to go through the entire run-up procedure, but it gave me time to think.

Leon must be clear out of his mind to think I could fly this airplane alone. He was irresponsible. He shouldn't allow an obviously frightened 43-year-old man with but eight hours of instruction to try to fly an airplane by himself. Sure, other students had soloed in less than eight hours but I knew I couldn't handle it.

I wiped the sweat from my brow and steadied my shaking legs. Holding left brake, I jockeyed the airplane in a tight circle and checked for air traffic because Chino was an uncontrolled field then. There was a blue Luscombe on final approach. I waited as he floated over the threshold to a problematical touch-and-go landing. Probably another student, but at least he didn't crash and burn. Could I do as well?

After one more look around I edged the Cessna cautiously onto the runway and squared off on the white centerline. More than a mile of wide, confidence-building concrete lay before me. In a moment the Luscombe lifted off the runway and climbed out, so I released the brakes and advanced the throttle to full power. A little right rudder held her straight against the torque, and then I eased the control wheel forward.

The tail lifted. I divided my attention between the runway ahead and the airspeed indicator. Sixty miles an hour.

Then I gently pulled back on the wheel, and that moment came when the wings took the weight and we were flying. The runway fell away quickly. Too quickly. I panicked. The Cessna was gaining altitude too fast. Already it had climbed above pattern altitude. Then I remembered Leon's words about the airplane climbing faster without his weight. I lowered the nose and saw that the blue Luscombe was well ahead and turning left crosswind to make another touch and go. Looking at the airspeed indicator I saw that it showed 130 mph and increasing! The Cessna was still at full throttle and quickly approaching never-exceed speed. Good grief, what to do? Oh, yes; reduce the power and bring up the nose to kill the excess speed. But gently now. Whew! OK, let her sink until the altimeter shows 1,400 feet, then come in with some power and steady her at 80 mph as Leon had instructed. Adjust the trim.

Glancing out I saw that the road intersection where I was to turn left crosswind was already under me. I banked the plane gently and fed in left rudder—and skidded furiously. Too wide. I banked more steeply and then leveled out. How bad can you get? I seemed to have forgotten everything Leon had taught me. I wasn't flying the airplane, it was flying me. Relax.

Time to turn downwind, parallel to the runway. This time I managed to feed in coordinated aileron and rudder, and the Cessna banked like a dove. I glanced at the airspeed and saw 80 mph. Right on the money. Then I looked at the turn and bank indicator and saw that this time the ball was centered. Hot dog. I rolled out level and looked for the Luscombe. It was well downwind. Taking a deep breath, I relaxed my muscles one by one.

All I had to do now was to get the airplane and myself on the ground in one piece, and then I could tell everyone that I gave up flying because it really was quite boring and I'd rather play golf.

"Lord," I vowed, "just help me make one landing, and I'll never fly again as long as I live. Just one landing."

Contemplating the empty right seat, I looked down at the runway 800 feet below and a quarter-mile to the left. What was I doing up here alone, anyway? I must be having a mid-life crisis. No wonder my nonpilot friends shook their heads in disbelief whenever I mentioned that I was learning to fly. What had possessed me, anyway? I knew the answer even as I asked it of myself. I was living out a childhood fantasy, but it wasn't turning out quite like I had imagined it would.

Looking out, I saw that I had flown beyond the key position opposite the approach end of the runway where I was supposed to throttle back and start my descent. That meant if I established a normal glide and turned base at the usual spot over the ground, I'd be too high as I approached the runway for a landing. Blast it! Since I didn't trust myself to try a sideslip (which Leon had demonstrated), I'd not only have to reduce power immediately but also extend my pattern. But by how much? As I pondered the question I retarded the throttle, pulled out the carburetor heat knob, and thumbed in some nose-up trim.

Careful, now, don't slow her up too much. Maintain flying speed. There was plenty of runway—6,800 feet of it—long enough to make several landings. What did I care if I didn't land on the numbers at the beginning of the runway, so long as I got the airplane down without bending it? Or me.

I banked into my base leg and saw that I was drifting to the right and remembered that there was quite a breeze blowing but, thank heaven, right down the runway. I thanked the lady in the blue dress that I wouldn't have to fight a crosswind on my first solo—and in a taildragger at that. I fed in some left rudder and felt the Cessna skid into a crab. Well, not very elegant, but I wasn't drifting to the right anymore.

The wind was blowing strong enough down the runway so that I was no longer high on approach, and while the threshold seemed to be coming up slowly, I could see that I would make it without adding power. I waited as the Cessna settled almost to the runway, and then I pulled back on the wheel to flare. Whoops! The airplane ballooned just as I saw the runway numbers flash by under the wheels. I lowered the nose and added some throttle, as Leon had instructed, then backed the power off slowly and again pulled the wheel back into my lap. In a moment I heard the sweetest sound a pilot can hear, three almost simultaneous squeaks as the main gear and the tailwheel contacted the runway. I was down.

The Cessna slowed, and I was about to apply the toe brakes to make an upcoming runway turnoff and taxi back to Leon. But instead I let her roll. "Hmmm, is that it? Is that all there is to it?" I mused. A peculiar feeling overtook me. I was young again. I closed the carburetor heat, neutralized the trim, and let the Cessna roll a little farther.

Strange reached up and armed and cocked the twin Vickers machine guns and settled his goggles more comfortably over his eyes. He added full power and the Spad's tail came up immediately. Aha! There was the blue Fokker D-VIII monoplane ahead, just turning crosswind. Well, Strange would soon have him in his sights. While the D-VIII was clean and nimble, its puny 110-horsepower Oberursel rotary engine was no match for the mighty 220-hp Hispano-Suiza V-8 behind the blunt radiator of Strange's Spad XIII. As he turned the Spad into the crosswind leg of the traffic pattern, Strange triggered a short burst from his twin Vickers machine guns to test them.

How rapidly things changed. The first aerial combat consisted of firing pistols and rifles at enemy pilots and perhaps dropping a hand grenade or even a brick on the enemy craft. Then movable machine guns were mounted in the rear cockpit of two-seaters, and the British introduced the awkward-looking F.E.2b pusher biplane that placed both the pilot and gunner's cockpit in front of the propeller. Eventually, both the Allies and Central Powers developed synchronizing gears that fired the guns when the propeller wasn't in the way. Now two forward-firing machine guns were standard on all combat aircraft, and weapons lethality had increased tenfold. Aerial combat no longer followed the rules of chivalry but had become deadly business.

Around and around the Chino airport pattern they went, the Fokker D-VIII leading Strange on a merry chase. Clever devil! Soon, however, Strange would have him in his cross hairs, then it would be goodbye, D-VIII. With each circuit of the pattern Strange closed the distance between the two airplanes. What tactics should he use when he did close the gap?

He knew that Baron Von Richtofen, who flew a scarlet Fokker triplane and was called The Red Baron, almost always pounced from out of the sun and dived behind and below his prey. Then he would pull up under the belly of his enemy and open fire when only yards away. It was usually an easy kill. But Strange was already flying level with the blue D-VIII so he would have to settle for a simple tail chase. Well, that would do.

However, he must be careful not to overrun the D-VIII because the pilot might execute a quick scissors maneuver and get behind him. To execute a scissors, the pursued pilot would suddenly reduce engine power and pull the nose up sharply, thus slowing his airplane. The pursuing pilot would be forced to dodge his erstwhile quarry to avoid a midair collision, and then their roles would be reversed; the hunter would become the hunted. The famous American ace of French parentage, Roul Lufberry, introduced the Lufberry Circle to defeat just such a situation. He would roll his Nieuport into a tight circle, and if his pursuer followed neither of them could bring their forward-firing machine guns to bear on the other. It was a maneuver to live and fight another day. Of course, Strange knew that the Oberursel rotary engine of the D-VIII had no throttle and was slowed with a blip switch that turned the engine on and off. To slow an airplane equipped with a rotary engine for a landing, the pilot would switch the engine quickly on and off and produce the brrt-brrt-brrt sound so characteristic of many WWI aircraft. At the same time, however, the D-VIII's blip switch would make it easier to pull off a successful scissors. Strange would be wary.

With a crisp left bank he turned downwind again and saw that the D-VIII was closer than ever. Careful, now. Don't waste ammunition or provoke the D-VIII pilot into evasive maneuvers. Just a little closer. He was sliding down final approach and ready to open fire when a figure trotted out onto the runway and frantically waved its arms.

Leon! Good grief, he'd get himself killed. I added a little power to fly over him, then made another nice three-pointer. I applied the brakes and took the first turnoff and taxied back, picking my way between the largest potholes on the old taxiway. When I reached Leon I swung the Cessna around smartly and popped open the door. I could see that Leon was angry. Very angry.

He climbed in, slammed the door, buckled his seat belt, and turned to me and yelled, "What the devil do you think you're doing? I told you to make three takeoffs and three landings. That was number seven. What do I have to do, shoot you down? I'm already late for my next student, so let's go."

I nodded, took a fast look around for traffic, then gunned the Cessna onto the runway and rolled right into a takeoff. Neither of us spoke for several minutes. After I leveled off at 3,500 feet over the Chino hills I glanced at Leon and could see that he had a smile on his face. Without turning his head he said, "You know, for awhile I was afraid that you wouldn't make it. What came over you, anyway?"

Strange smiled to himself. The Hisso's mighty roar was muted by the mufflers on the twin exhaust stacks that ended just below and on each side of the cockpit. The throaty rumble they emitted was music. The wires hummed in the wind. Strange hummed, too. Next time he'd get that blue Fokker D-VIII.

Frank A. Quackenbush, AOPA 268960 , has been flying for 35 years. A retired publishing manager, he has restored a Fairchild 22 C7B and owned a Piper PA–17 and Cessna 120.