Blake Boy Who Liked Airplanes

1. Auflage 1976
ISBN: 978-1-5439-5583-5
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 200 Seiten

'The Boy Who Liked Airplanes' is a gripping, whimsical autobiography of a young boy, in the early days of flight, that loved looking at, dreaming about, drawing, flying, and everything else 'Airplanes'. The story starts at small municipal airport in Iowa and follows 'the boy' through his school years, his life in the military, flight training, and solo up until 'the girl' came along. The story includes dozens of illustrations by the author to help the reader visualize what 'the boy' saw every time he was near an airplane.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Blake, Bill

Leseproben

Chapter 4

1934 - The Chicken Coop Airplane

During the heat of the hot Iowa summers, the old chicken-coop was one of my favorite places to play, day-dream about airplanes, and escape from the heat. A long, low wooden structure, it sat some twenty feet behind the house and up on a low dirt bank. The only door faced the house and, through the kitchen window, Mom could keep a watchful eye on me. She could also check and see if I was bothering the laying hens who always seemed to slow up on egg production when I was around the coop.

Gramps had made me a sling-shot from a fork of the willow tree in the front yard, and the propulsion unit for it came from rubber bands cut from a Model A inner tube. It did not take me long to become very proficient in the use of the weapon after an upstairs window and one of the family roosters bit the dust. I was forbidden to use the sling-shot for two weeks until I knew what to shoot at. These were depression years. Windows were expensive to replace and the only remaining rooster would have to go on overtime.

I was sitting in the coop with the dog enjoying a newly found method of harassing the hens which, in turn, slowed up the egg production. Taking a rock from the ammunition store in my pocket I would load it into the leather pouch, draw back on the rubbers and fire at a box nest with a hen dozing in it. The speeding missile would crack loudly against the box and the hen would fly squawking out the window while I doubled up in laughter.

After driving the last hen out of the coop, I sat with one arm around the dog wondering what to do next. Sometimes, I wiled away the day sitting on an empty box with a stick between my legs and dreamed I was flying - soaring high in the sky over the golden fields of corn and green pastures surrounding the house. Many times during these flights of fantasy, I would meet my antagonist, the Red Baron and, together, we twisted and turned through the blue in our fighters each trying to get on the others tail to get a good shot in. This went on until Mom would call me in for lunch or supper.

Suddenly, a wild thought crossed my mind. Why not build an airplane in the chicken-coop? I could build an airplane with a fuselage big enough to sit in, with real pedals, an instrument panel, and maybe even a seat for the dog. If the dog could have spoken, he would have told me to leave him out of it. Three weeks before, I had strapped a parachute made from an old sheet on the dog and tossed him off the roof of the dugout garage. It was only an eight foot drop but the chute failed to open and it took the dog a week to get back in shape.

The next few days found me busy with the construction of the airplane. I asked Dad for permission-to use the tools and he agreed if I promised to put them away each and every night. This, I did faithfully. I wanted nothing to interfere with the airplane.

The materials for my plane came from the old reliable woodpile out behind the coop in the form of two by fours, one by twos, and wall laths. Although the sawdust flew and the sound of hammering never ceased during the day, the laying hens became accustomed to the noise. Even the rooster, who was still doing double duty, didn’t fly out when I came in. Mom and Dad continued to be amazed by the thought that here was something keeping me occupied and out of trouble for so long. One hen, however, made the mistake of making a deposit on the hammer handle and I kicked her so hard it almost drove her egg layer out her beak.

After four days of hard work, I drove the last nail in and stepped back to admire my handiwork. I had waited a long time for this. At last, I had my very own airplane. When I returned to school in the fall I sure would have something to tell the other kids that were always calling me “Airplane Nuts.” How many of them had their own airplane?

The fuselage of the plane started at two upright studs at the far wall and continued back some eight feet to the center of the coop. The sides were made from sections of wall laths nailed together from three foot lengths as were the uprights on the sides. More laths nailed across the top and bottom served to hold the sides together. The top of the fuselage was about eighteen inches off the dirt floor of the coop. A two by four driven into the dirt floor at the rear of the fuselage held the sides together and served as a tail-post to attach the lath rudder to. The empty fruit crates at the wingtips kept the trailing edge from sagging.

The cockpit was a work of art! One empty crate lay flat on the floor for the seat and another stood upright behind it to form the seat back. A short piece of hoe handle, complete with a rubber hand grip from the tricycle, was driven into the dirt for the control stick. The rudder bar was a short piece of lath pivoting about a nail driven through its center into a two by four weighted down with two bricks. The instrument panel was cut from a cardboard box and the instruments themselves were tin can lids taped to the panel. A bent nail through the panel became the ignition switch. I had seen enough pictures of airplane cockpits in books to know what was in them and I knew I had a good one.

Walking over to get into the plane, I suddenly realized I had made no provisions for getting into the seat. I had to climb over the wing but I knew the frail laths would never support my weight. I considered piling two boxes atop each other, stepping over the wing and down onto the seat but quickly dismissed the idea. If I happened to slip, the entire airplane could be wrecked. I had just about made up my mind to go over and sit with the dog and think about some engineering changes when the way into the cockpit hit me. All I had to do was crawl in under the wing, through the side and into the cockpit.

Without further thought, I lay down on the dirt floor, rolled under the wing and climbed up on the seat. No matter that the hens had the floor well fertilized; I was in my own airplane!

I sat there for a moment absorbing the feeling of sitting in the tiny plane. Directly ahead of me was the instrument panel and stretching out to either side, the wings. Although they were not covered with fabric and painted to a shining tautness, they were beautiful. Turning my head to look over my shoulder, I could see the rudder rising above the fuselage top and the elevator, the magical thing that would make the airplane climb and dive, waiting to be brought to life. I reached for the ignition switch.

“Contact,” I called to the waiting mechanic who spun the prop.

I stuck my tongue out between my compressed lips and blew. The sound that issued forth became the noise from the engine.

I eased forward on the imaginary throttle and took off.

The wall of the chicken-coop was still there but I did not see it. My eyes were glued to the tin can lids on the instrument panel and, to me, each had a pointer on its face giving me airspeed and altitude.

Slowly, I cruised past the outhouse behind the coop and over the weed patch up the hill. Steadily climbing higher, I increased my speed until I was over the next street a block away. Looking to my right, I could see the house my buddy Jack lived in and I banked the airplane in that direction. As the house came into view over the nose of the plane, I centered the lath rudder bar and proceeded in that direction.

Over the house, I pulled back on the throttle and put the plane into a glide, turning in a circle over the garden where I could see Jack pulling weeds.

“Jack! Hey Jack,” I called over the sound of the wind slipping by the shining wings. “Look, Jack, I’m flying! It’s my own airplane and I’m flying.”

I laughed as Jack looked up in sheer amazement at the plane circling overhead. Noticing I was getting low, I pushed forward on the throttle, waved goodbye to Jack and turned back toward my own home.

My dreams were in full swing now as I climbed ever higher over my own home. Too bad Mom wasn’t coming out to gather the eggs so I could surprise her too. She would just make me come down though, because she really had no desire to fly in one. Women were kinda funny when it came to something real neat like airplanes.

I passed over the cornfield in front of the house and over the gully filled with trees where me and my pals spent many happy hours during summer vacations from school. I could see the tree swing with its rope swaying gently in the breeze and remembered last spring when I tried to swing across the water filled ditch in my school clothes. The darn rope broke and, from the way Mom acted, I guess she hated rope swings worse than airplanes.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash in the sunlight at the crest of the hill in front of me. Quickly, I banked the plane around to get a better look. A tingling ran...