Jim Davis - PLANE TALK

THE GREEN

AEROPLANE

JIM’S EARLY DAYS PART 2

Jim remembers some of the extraordinary people who came to him for lessons at his first flying school.

IF YOU CAST YOUR MIND BACK to the last neatly,” he conceded. “But I still don’t know how issue, you may remember that I introduced you to go round sharp corners, or land in fields or to one of my favourite odd-ball pupils – Jeff any of that sort of thing. Perhaps you could Towill. He was the 40 year old, bumbling Boris show me some of those?” Johnstone look alike, who asked if I could teach him to fly a green aeroplane. Oh dear, oh dear – this was not going to be easy. I gathered he was referring to steep This turned out to be a paint peelingly tatty turns and precautionary landings. But actually Luscombe Silvaire that he had just flown in Jeff’s training turned out to be a lot of fun. from his home in Beaufort West, 150 miles He was a bright guy with good hands and an away and over two serious mountain ranges. understanding of machinery. It seems that the person who had sold him the Luscombe had thrown in some illegal instruction as part of the deal. Illegal in that he was not an instructor and had only just got his own PPL. “Well you see, it’s kind of like this,” Jeff explained, “I mean to say, old chap – I can the darker patch up ahead will turn out to be a nice big hole DCA kindly credited him with the time he had been flying illegally and I filled in the gaps. I did his flight test and the written exams and he soon disappeared back to his home in Beaufort West with a shiny new PPL. Shortly after Jeff got his license he headed off to East London, some 350 miles away at the coast. kind of fly it, but I think perhaps I should get a I knew nothing of this until one night when his sort of a licence thingie.” wife, Ethne, phoned and asked if her husband “So you’ve been flying without a licence?” was a safe pilot. Now, I realised this was a loaded question. Ethne was a very sharp “Do you know, I think you’ve put that rather woman. She was one of these lightweight

human beings who’s inclined to scare the shit out of their more massive partners. She possessed not only a razor-sharp brain but also a violently serrated tongue. You didn’t want to be near Ethne when she was dissatisfied with the way the world was treating her. I say it was a loaded question because Jeff was something of a law unto himself. He was also plain scatty, a combination of talents that frequently got up Ethne’s nose like a stray bogfly.

The phone line was clear and I could tell by her tone that Jeff’s piloting skills were not the real reason for her call. But, as I had just signed out the issue of his PPL, I was largely responsible for his actions in the world of aviation.

Ethne’s voice made it clear that Jeff had done something bloody stupid and she was about to let me have it with both barrels.

“Why do you ask if Jeff is a safe pilot?” I enquired, playing for time. “Do you know what the bastard has done?” she almost screamed down the line. Now, how the hell would I know what Jeff had done before she told me? But I decided against pursuing that line of inquiry. “Tell me about it, Ethne,” I said as soothingly as I could. I held the phone away from my ear in preparation for the blast. “The effing idiot has just phoned me and told me he doesn’t know where he is.”

“Well you married him,” I replied, in an unsuccessful bid to lighten the tone. Ethne was in no mood for frivolity. You know that tightlipped, narrow-eyed look that women use to show who’s boss? Ethne managed to do that over the phone. Terrifying. Anyhow, here’s what happened. Jeff had flown his little Luscombe safely to East London and was on his way back when a fairly sparse flock of friendly little sheep-clouds drifted beneath him.

None of us has a problem with that – we’ve all done it. But sheep are sly little bastards, and the next time you look there’s quite a lot of them. Very soon you’re not watching the sheep, you’re looking out for gaps between them. Then there are no gaps below you, but you’re pretty sure that darker patch up ahead will turn out to be a nice big hole. You and I know that such a thought is just plain wrong. But Jeff hadn’t been flying long enough to understand this fundamental law of meteorology – sheep, once gathered, seldom scatter. Please take notes if you like. And so he headed hopefully onward until the seriousness of his situation became alarmingly obvious.

He did a 180 and headed back towards the place where he had last seen a gap. But, of course, it wasn’t there anymore, so he had to go further and further back. I won’t alarm you with the distressing details of how the sweat started to run down his nose and drip on to his map. Or how his mind conjured up pictures of events just before everything going black. I don’t want to upset you by explaining how the downward movement of the fuel gauges acted as the hands of a clock ticking away the last moments of his life. Suffice to say that he viewed his future with some disquiet. By the time he did eventually find a gap and descend through it, he was in a very different world. Above the cloud he had been basking in the late afternoon sunlight, but now he found himself in a dark, damp and gloomy place with misty visibility and patches of drizzle.

the weather was like the inside of a cow

As both fuel gauges started to knock against the stops, the cloud base lowered and daylight started to give way to darkness. Jeff realized that what he needed was the safety and warmth of a country pub. Fortunately, his track took him pretty well along the R63. A route that was both flattish and easy to follow. The road runs roughly east-west along the base of the Winterberg Mountain range. It can’t be mistaken for any other road because it mingles with the railway line for the entire route. Several streams run down from the mountains and head south across the Karoo. And at each river crossing, you find pretty a little town. In short, navigation from East London to Beaufort West is easy and undemanding – if you just follow the road and railway and check off the towns as you pass them. No doubt the perceptive reader will have spotted a problem. Even though you know you’re on track, it’s easy to get lost because all these little towns have the same geographic features – mountain, road, railway, river, bridges and so on, all with the same orientation. So if you haven’t been checking on groundspeed and time, it’s almost impossible to tell one from another. Such places as King William’s Town, Fort Beaufort, Adelaide, Bedford and Somerset East are pretty much identical to the aerial navigator. Normally a glance at your watch would clarify the matter, but Jeff had thrown out that option when he was backing and forthing above the cloud.

The long and short of it is that when he eventually spotted a field and landed, he had

ZS- BWH was Jeff’s green Luscombe.

no idea where he was, and the weather was like the inside of a cow. He tied the aeroplane down and walked a short distance to the main road. It wasn’t long before a farmer in a bakkie picked him up and asked where he was going. Now Jeff didn’t want to ruin his big pilot image, he was wearing one of those sheepskin-lined bomber-pilot jackets with the collar turned up against the weather. So he just said, “Into town will be fine.”

“Ag ja, man, but where in town?” “Church Street will be great.” That was a pretty safe bet. “Maar waar in Kerkstraat?” But where in Church Street?

Jeff had this very British way of speaking. “Do you know, I’ve completely forgotten the name of the jolly place. Is it the Grand Hotel, or the Royal Hotel, or something like that?” “Ja, it’s the Grand. I’ll just drop you there.”

And so Jeff slouched into the hotel, looking more bedraggled than usual. Drops of rain were dribbled down his collar as he leaned on the wall of the tikkie-box and dialled home.

Ethne was naturally in something of a tizz. She had expected him home before dark. “Where the bloody hell are you?” she screeched.

Jeff tried to fob her off with the story he had told the farmer – that he was at the Grand Hotel – but she knew him better

There is a Grand Hotel or a Royal Hotel in every country dorpie.

than that. “The Grand Hotel WHERE, you idiot?” “Ah, now you’ve rather got me… you see it’s like this…”

“You don’t know where the vok you are, do you? Unbelievable. Well bloody well ask someone.” Now, I know this sounds silly, but you can’t just drip water on the carpet of a country hotel, and accost a passer-by to ask where you are. All you will get is a funny look and a hurrying away of the accostee. Jeff’s money was ticking away in the public phone so he hurried back to inform Ethne that the people wouldn’t tell him where he was.

It was at this stage that Ethne banged down the phone and called me to enquire about whether he was a safe pilot. I don’t remember exactly what I told her, but thinking about it afterwards I realized that Jeff wasn’t a bad pilot – he was just Jeff. And Ethne was exactly the right wife for him. She was actually a hell of a lot of fun – when she wasn’t spitting flames. j

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