"If I Live to be Five Hundred..."

Many of the most delightful moments of my life have had rather inauspicious beginnings. So it was with the trip to Galesburg, Illinois, for the National Stearman Fly-In of 1979. Many friends had described previous experiences at the fly-in to me in glowing terms, but---you had to be there.

I had owned Stearman number N50072, a 1940 U. S. Navy N2S-1 training plane, for only a few months, and Bob Livingston was teaching me to fly it. At the same time, I was taking lessons in small Cessnas from another pilot, had achieved solo status in those, but not yet in the Stearman. My previous flying had been in the U.S. Navy some twenty-five years before, and I was finding that the good old Navy training still hidden away in the recesses of my brain was coming back quickly. Bob was a pilot qualified in many planes, but his Stearman experience was far in the past, and he was learning as he taught.

Bob and I arranged to make the trip in the company of Gil Flint and Ed Janes in their silver Stearman. John Crider and his wife Barbara left on Wednesday, Sept. 5, flying Larry Palmer-Ball's N61P, and the rest of us were to leave early Thursday, Sept. 6, and fly in formation.

Thursday dawned clear overhead, but with IFR (Instrument Flight Rules) conditions because of fog and haze to 3800 feet. We met at 0730 for breakfast, and it seemed doubtful to me that conditions would improve in time for us to make the trip that day. However, by 1100 hours visibility had improved to 2 miles, and we were granted a special VFR (Visual Flight Rules) departure. We lifted off into the muck at 1135, reassured by the fact that all weather reports from the west were improving.

Because of the delay, we elected to fly through to Champaign, ILL, for the first stop. That was some hop. Bob did the navigating and flying, and I practiced pilotage and open cockpit map folding. For the first time, I was able to keep track of our position about 80% of the time, and I didn't lose the map overboard. Flying along in loose formation at 1000 feet pressure altitude in the heavy haze, dragging our little bubble of visibility with us over the ground, we seemed to be in the center of the universe, and a very small one, at that. The visibility gradually improved, with a sudden change for the better about one hour into the flight, and by the time we sat down at Willard (Champaign) at two hours and fifty-five minutes, it was CAVU (Ceiling and Visibility Unlimited). Bob and the plane were still getting to know each other, and the landing there, with a 10 knot wind 10 degrees behind the right wings, made him mumble for some time.

The old Stearman charm worked again on our arrival, and a lineman volunteered to give us a guided tour which included a highly modified 450 horsepower Stearman, Art Scholl's Super Chipmonk, a beautiful P40, SNJ, F6F, Vultee, etc., etc.

Fuel, john, food, in rapid succession, and off again to the west. The country changes now to billiard table flat, with all the farms, roads, etc. lined up E-W and N-S. The tracking is easier here--just hold a constant angle between your track and the remarkably ordered landscape. One hour and fifteen minutes of flying through a beautiful, warm, blue sky over wheat fields crying out for the long-lost barnstormers, and there is Galesburg, small and neat in the distance.

A turf strip had been set aside for the exclusive use of Stearman pilots, but being unfamiliar with the pattern and with the landing at Champaign fresh in his mind, Bob wisely chose to land on the hard strip. A grand sight awaited us as we taxied to the the grass area designated for fly-in participants. Eleven Stearmans all in a row, bright and clean, like a mirage from some earlier time. What a pleasure.

There to greet, count, photograph and welcome us were Laverne Heck and Larry Palmer-Ball. We had arrived. Total flight time 4:15, gas consumption 10.9 gph. The low gas consumption reflected the fact that we had to cruise at 1650-1700 rpm instead of the usual 1800 in order not to leave Gil behind, probably because of our Curtis-Reed propeller. The same proved to be true of N61P. They out climbed us, and we out cruised them.

After a quick tour of the other planes and registering at fly in headquarters, it was off to the Holiday Inn to check in, then to Tootie's bar for ham sandwiches, barbequed beans and potato salad. All the Louisville gang chatted for a couple of hours, and then returned to the motel. Bob and I, very much caught up in the excitement of the event, sat up and talked until.... too late.

Early on Friday, Bob went up solo to "feel the plane out a little". Both returned none the worse for the feeling out, and I noticed Bob was starting to grin a lot.

Throughout that day a steady stream of planes arrived, and the rows grew longer. The beauty of the restorations done on some of them has to be seen to be appreciated. How great to realize so many of the marvelous old machines are being so lovingly preserved.

Joy rides for Tom Woods and Mike O'Neal, browsing in the commercial tent, meeting and matching new faces with familiar names (Tom Lowe, Jim Leahy, Sam Mendenhall, Bill Wilkins the Silent Eagle), and admiring the planes took up the rest of that day. About 1200 someone wandered by and said, "Don't forget the acrobatic contest at Monmouth at 1400, with a good lunch of prime beef across the road at the festival". We jumped in and took off toward Monmouth with visions of great slabs of prime beef clouding our thoughts. About 20 other planes joined us. The festival, like a small county fair or carnival, was delightful, but the "prime beef" was still on the hoof! It was a prime beef judging event, not a prime beef eating one, so we settled for cheeseburgers and homemade blueberry pie under the wing of the plane, followed by a short nap in the grass. Nine contestants then competed in acrobatics, and their skills ranged from excellent to ridiculous. Great fun.

By now, the almost constant sound of deep-throated radial engines and the smell of hot oil had taken over our senses. We were bombarded from all sides by sensations so old, so meaningful, so pleasant, we were actually beginning to think differently. We had surrendered to the pleasures of the moment, and we resented anyone or anything that called our attention back to the real world.

Dinner that evening was Chinese at Wang's Cafe ,with Tom Woods, Laverne and Larry, Nick and Patty Palmer-Ball, Bob and myself. In preparation for Saturday's dawn patrol, we all turned in early.

Dawn Patrol.... I can't say that without having my mind flooded with images of Spads and Neuports, Fokker DR-1s, early morning mist over the French countryside, machine gun clatter and flaming death. Never did I dream of experiencing anything even remotely similar.

The field is still dark when we arrive. The morning is clear and cold, with a thin, patchy ground fog blanketing everything. As we walk through the rows of silent biplanes shrouded in mist, silhouetted against the coming dawn, strange things begin happening in my head; wonderful, exciting, spooky things that quicken my pulse, send shivers up my spine, call forth ancient images. I seem to be remembering something from long ago, to know what is coming next. I have felt that cold, wet metal before, have shivered as I slid into this cockpit on some much earlier dawn, have been aware of a growing fear and excitement in anticipation of what is to come. As dawn races toward us, suddenly the silence is shattered by the coughing, barking sound of a big radial engine stirring to life in the misty half-light. Shortly, a second, then a third. We quietly decide to play it safe, and watch this thing develope a little before we start, but within seconds we both are overwhelmed by the delightful anticipation. We smile knowingly at each other, nod, and without a word, race to get ready, to get started, to get into it, whatever it is. I sense that Bob is undergoing the same deluge of sensations as I, and wonder if he has a lump in his throat, too.

Soon a lone plane is off with a roar to buzz the town. Then there are two or three making low passes at the field. The dawn sky is developing into a Van Gogh canvas, awash with red and yellow, silver and gold. The tension builds. Several planes taxi out and line up, waiting for legal sunrise, because they have no lights. We fire our engine (I've felt that same blast of cold air, before), run rapidly through the check list (I've seen that dew slide down that wing, before), and taxi into line (Watch your tail, von Richthofen!). As the first trace of the bright, golden rim of the sun flashes into view, we lift off by ones and twos into a sky that would make a poet cry.

The leaders climb in a left circle over the field, and we scramble to catch up and join. Soon we are Tail-End Charlie in a thirteen plane formation, wheeling over the town. As we circle so the formation is backlighted by the sunrise, the last filaments of attachment to the here and now are blown away, and we are flying thru the skies of 1917, forming up to stalk the Hun. Not all of us will return.

Formations of planes build, then trade through the sky around us like flocks of ducks, backlighted in gold. Soon, forty planes orbit the town; an absolutely unbelievable sight, an impossible sight, an unforgettable sight. The panorama around us, the bloody bright sky filled with planes, the countryside blanketed in soft, golden pockets of mist, the rushing cold air, the sound and vibration.... suddenly, with a rush, the realization comes that we have waited for this moment all our lives. We will neither ever be the same.

Around and around, soaking up the delights, storing away sights and sounds and impressions; wanting it never to end, but knowing it will, all too soon.

After fifteen minutes of wheeling over the town, the leaders line out for Monmouth, fifteen miles to the west, and we reluctantly follow. I am disappointed not to see Fokker Tri-planes rise from the mist to defend the town against our approach. Over the strip, we break from the group, land quickly in the grass, and taxi to the grass field where two facing rows of Stearmans are forming.

Bob shut off the engine, and it clankety-clanked to a stop. Overhead, the harmonic drone of some thirty radial engines all at the same RPM filled the air in the distance, but a momentary lull on the ground left an eerie quiet. Neither of us moved for a long time, just sat there in the plane. Than, softly, Bob said, "If I live to be five hundred......." I could only reply "Yeah." It was a magic moment.

We climbed out and walked around excitedly, still filled with the joy of it, giggling like adolescents, reluctant to come back to the present. So that is Dawn Patrol. I understand, now.

Breakfast of ham, eggs, hash browns, toast and coffee, eaten in a large tent set up for the occasion, while surrounded by a mob of Stearman fanciers, was the perfect way to end the flight. The excited voices and gleaming eyes of those around us assured me that the flight had been much longer in time and space than just to Monmouth for many others there, also.

On the return to Galesburg, all planes lined up for photographs by Ken Wilson. Who would believe Stearmans lined up as far as one can see? About 50 planes were present by this time.

The rest of the day was filled with scheduled events. First was short take-off, then bomb drop and spot landing. We had no chance on the take-off with our cruise prop. Our second flour bomb was a very near miss, but we must have been disqualified for being below 50 ft., because we got no trophy. We know we won, though. Bob will explain about the spot landing.

Tom Lowe and Tom Woods flew N50072 with N61P for some in-flight pictures by Ken Wilson.

Laverne and Bob flew in a four plane formation contest. All three different configurations looked very good to me from the ground.

Bob gave, "Bill", of Galesburg tower, his first Stearman ride. Bill yelled a lot.

The plane total climbed to 54, and they all seemed to be flying all the time. The air was filled all day with the sight and sound of Stearmans, from dawn to dusk. Fantastic!

In the afternoon a mini-airshow amazed us all. Jim Leahy in his stock Stearman, and Bob Heuer in his highly modified one, both did excellent work. We also met and chatted with Bob Lyjack, whom Bob had done air shows with. He flies a taper-wing Waco, and must put on some special show. Nice guy, and sharp.

As another perfect day swiftly drew to a close, we ran out of time. Bob took Tom Woods, then me, up for "Just one more flight" to practice loops, and dusk beat us home. We had to go directly to the awards banquet covered with grease and dust, in formal jeans.

The food was great, and there was good companionship with Larry, Laverne, Tom and Bob. The awards presentation was fairly nice, highlighted by a story by Deed Levy. There seemed to be too many awards, too much talk, to many thank you speeches, but that was probably because my head still hadn't really come to earth, and I still had the sound of phantom engines in my ears. The special award given to Mr. Bill Wilkins, the Silent Eagle, was certainly richly deserved.

Reluctantly, we decided to start back home the following morning, and thus miss the airshow. Surely would have enjoyed seeing Jack Lane in his Luscomb and Bob Lyjack in his Waco.

At 1030 hours on Sunday, we lifted off and started home, with John and Barbara Crider flying lead in N61P, N50072 wingman left, and Gil and Ed wingman right. Formation flying was the order of the day, and we got 5 hours of it. The day and the country were beautiful, the wind was on our nose, as usual, and great fun was had by all.

When Bob let me try my hand at formation flying, I was pleased to find that the years had not stolen all the old reflexes and skills, and I very much enjoyed the approximately 1 1/2 hours I got to do. Stops at Champaign, Illinois, and Bedford, Indiana, and we arrived at Bowman at 1730, did a tight two plane approach (Ed left minutes before), and set down.

The trip was over, but the memories linger and will for as long as I live. There will be other fly-ins, many I hope, but none will ever equal the first. This one was special for being first, but also because of the presence of four people who have quickly become good friends....Laverne Heck, Larry Palmer-Ball, Tom Woods, and my delightful and empathetic companion throughout every moment of this mind-healing event, Bob Livingston. Beautiful weather, the companionship of close friends, Stearman airplanes, and flying, flying, flying....what more could one possibly ask?

Copyright © B. E. Spencer 2000 All rights reserved.


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