Spoils of Invasion

Michael G. Crawford

Chapter Three

"A little less rudder. That's it, try to error on the side of being to far upwind. The crosswind will quickly help you correct if you start to overshoot off to the upwind side. But if you get behind the eight ball on the downwind side of the crosswind, you wind up in the grass."

Darla nodded as she strained a little more to add left rudder. The Debonair was a pretty big handful for her, but the price was right. Uncle Francis owned part of this bird, and he furnished the gas for her lessons, although flying on her own time she had to pay for fuel. She appreciated his constant recital of the dogma. It helped her to fix the lessons in her mind.She thought that she might make a pretty good instructor herself someday, he ability to absorb the teaching skill he had shown her as well as the learning the skills being taught.

She added a little throttle just before her Uncle reminded her, and he changed his request to "Good on throttle". With a sigh she realized she had it taped, and the little aircraft began to settle toward the runway as she flared. Just before the wheels touched, she ever-so-slowly let up on the pressure on the left rudder, and the nose began to swing around back to the centerline. The jarring impact of the main gear locked the direction in place, and she unconciously held the nose in the air for just a moment more, just to feel the effect of the rudder on just that little portion of the aircraft still flying. Reaching to the throttle, she backed off as she also relaxed her back pressure on the column, the nose setting down with an nearly indiscernable bump.

"Nice three point, Honey. One more time and we'll full stop."

"Yes, Sir" she replied, quickly jammed the flaps lever into the fully raised position, then carefully added throttle up, and again, unconcious of her skills, added a little left rudder and aeolian to counter for the crosswind and the torque. The Debonair lifted free of the runway, a perfect touch and go, Darla maintaining the course straight down the centerline despite all the outside forces attempting to screw it all up.

As she settled into the pattern, chopping power and arresting her climb at 1800 feet, she looked across and past her Uncle, peering out the side window to get a fix on the end of the runway as it slipped off to the rear. Uncle Francis turned his head away from the window and smiled at her for a few seconds before she broke her concentration and noticed, her own smile quick to follow. He was proud of her. So was she. It felt good. Having soloed at 14, she had spent the last three years perfecting her skills, and now she was ready for her instrument test. Because of his predjudice, Uncle Francis had always demurred to the local FAA regional flight inspector, both for reasons of legality and to insure that there was no doubt of her flying status despite her young age. There were damn few instrument rated pilots at age seventeen, let alone a female seventeen year old.

When they landed, they were met by Jim Farstare, the resident "FAA puke" as her Uncle called him. They were old friends, and Jim called Uncle "that old worn out thing" every chance he got. It came from some ditty about "Oh, there aren't no Old Bold Pilots". It went like this...

"Well there are old pilots, young pilots, And the very bold pilots. But there are not old bold pilots,The bold ones die young.

Darla had actually watched General Chuck Yeager sing it when she was 11, impressed both by his history as a test pilot as by his offers to let her fly that beautiful old Lear Jet.

"I've a mind to sign you off right now after that remarkable display of flying in a 15 knot crosswind, young lady. Good Job. But you know...

But she was drawn back to the present by the conversation going on around her.

"Anyway, perfect day for an instrument flight though, Jim. Look at that overcast dropping."

"Yeah, well, you know, for an old worn out thing, you tend to fly in the worst weather."

This was also a standing joke. During Vietnam, Jim had been a FAC pilot, Forward Air Controller, flying above the canopy of the jungle popping Willie Pete, the white phosphorus rockets used to mark where the bad guys hid. Uncle Francis, a Lt. Colonel at the time, had led a small attack force of F-100s into a perilous close support mission, when the Viet Cong had opened up with .50 caliber anti-aircraft guns hidden in the brush. The shells had streamed up in front and to the side of him taking off a fair chunk his right wing, and totally obliterating the canopy of his wingman in the aircraft behind him on the strafing run. The aircraft flew on for another 1/2 mile before the rounds that had lodged themselves around the tubing and such of the engine finally took their toll. The F-100 had augured in with a shocking explosion, while Francis had watched swinging from his parachute.

Jim directed in several of Uncle's other aircraft to give him support while he dashed for cover, and then took hit after hit in his little O-1 FAC airplane as he waited for the helicopters to come and pick him up. At one point he buzzed a group of ten VC, the fearless FAC braving their small arms fire, and taking a round in his shoulder. But the diversion was enough to buy the time for the Huey to land a group of five Combat Rescue grunts who chewed the hopping mad VC up like bowling pins being felled by a perfect strike.

"Fraid I've been submarined on doing Darla's flight check. The regional director decided to drop by and insists on doing it himself. Seems He feels that because you got me shot up in Nam, that I might be too tough on the young lady pilot."

The two men grinned at that, both knowing full well it was better for Darla that a stranger sign her off. But Darla wasn't so sure of the benefits. Jim made her nervous as a bunny. Some hardnosed guy from the regional office would probably put the screws to her first chance he got. Oh well, she'd just have to do it right. But what if she choked? What if the guy found something she hadn't learned about? She rejected that last idea. Uncle Francis was a perfect instructor, there should be little doubt he had taught her well. Probably more than was necessary to pass her instrument rating, erring, as usual, on the side of too much practice and training. Those old test pilots ground in the basics. It was probably because the basics had saved their lives so many times.

Well she would not let Uncle Francis or Jim down. She'd show that Regional Director how a female driver could fly loops around...well at least fly straighter and steadier than anyone else. Loops wouldn't do. Nope. Not a good idea. She grinned as she thought of it.

Noticing, Jim said "What's got into her?"

"Probably thinking of giving the director a hairy ride just to pay him back. It would almost be worth it to see the guy puking all over the cockpit. Course she'd have to clean it up" her Uncle replied a twinkle in his eye as he once again pegged her to the "T".

Chapter Four
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Last Updated: November 8, 1996