noise of wood shattering reaches us over the wind.
All over the field, men have been watching the Parasol come in. Now several of them, including Jack, take off at a run toward the trees. I stay where I am, rooted to the spot by a sick feeling in my gut and the horrifying realization that my friend Cecil is dead.
O NE OF OUR PLANES AFTER A CRASH LANDING .
CHAPTER 9
A Pair of Letters—February 1916
C ecil died instantly, his body crushed in the mangled remains of the Parasol. I spend the rest of the morning walking around the field in the rain, mourning the only friend I had in a thousand miles. I promise myself that I will not get close to anyone else in this war. That way I won’t have to suffer the pain of loss again.
In early afternoon, the wind drops and the clouds break up. Jack insists that despite the tragedy of the morning, I take the remaining Parasol up. I remember nothing of the flight except a determination to make myself the best Parasol pilot in the war, as an honor to Cecil.
Over the succeeding days, I ignore the other young pilots struggling to master their cumbersome B.E.2cs. I get a reputation as a loner, but I don’t care. I work hard with the Parasol and, with Jack’s help and encouragement, learn to love it. Jack’s right—the Parasol’s fast and maneuverable, but you can’t relax for a minute when flying it. Any of the dozens of mistakes I make in training would be fatal close to the ground, but at five thousand feet there is time to correct. I learn that the trick is not to try never to make mistakes, but to know how to correct them quickly when they happen.
“All right, you’ve got most of the basics,” Jack says one morning. “Now you’re ready to spin.”
“If I spin, I’ll crash,” I say. “It was a spin that killed Cecil.”
“Yes, a spin at two hundred feet above the ground. But if you’ve got enough time and space, there are ways to recover. Do you know what a spin is?”
“It’s when the plane goes out of control and spirals down.”
“But it happens because you stall. If your plane stalls, it will flip over on whichever wing has the most drag, making you spin left or right. Your instinct is to increase power and pull back on the stick to force your way out of the spin. But that’s actually the worst thing you can do. When you go into a spin, make sure your ailerons areneutral, reduce power and give the machine hard rudder in the opposite direction—if you’re spinning to the left, give hard right rudder and vice versa. As soon as you come out of the spin, ease off on the rudder and increase power.
Voil
à, you have control back. Want to give it a try?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. In next to no time, I’m following Jack up to five thousand feet. We’ve received a replacement Parasol for Cecil’s machine and Jack takes that up. It’s agreed that he will spin first and I will watch. As I circle, Jack climbs and reduces power. For an instant, his Parasol stands stationary on its tail. Then it tilts to the left and snaps into a terrifyingly tight spiral down. I follow and see Jack set the ailerons to neutral and move the rudder hard over to the right. The spiral eases and the Parasol is suddenly flying flat. Jack points up to indicate my turn and smiles. I take a deep breath to calm myself and pull the stick back.
I feel the Parasol losing power in the climb. Everything seems to be slowing down. I stop, hanging impossibly in the air, then, with a sickening lurch that leaves my stomach behind, my plane falls. The force of the spin presses me back into my seat, and the sky and the land flip wildly across my vision. I resist the temptation to pull back on the stick and try to think calmly. Following Jack’s instructions, I neutralize the ailerons, reduce the power and kick the rudder hard over. Almost magically, I am flyinglevel and under control. I look around and give him an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Back on the ground, Jack congratulates me.
All over the field, men have been watching the Parasol come in. Now several of them, including Jack, take off at a run toward the trees. I stay where I am, rooted to the spot by a sick feeling in my gut and the horrifying realization that my friend Cecil is dead.
O NE OF OUR PLANES AFTER A CRASH LANDING .
CHAPTER 9
A Pair of Letters—February 1916
C ecil died instantly, his body crushed in the mangled remains of the Parasol. I spend the rest of the morning walking around the field in the rain, mourning the only friend I had in a thousand miles. I promise myself that I will not get close to anyone else in this war. That way I won’t have to suffer the pain of loss again.
In early afternoon, the wind drops and the clouds break up. Jack insists that despite the tragedy of the morning, I take the remaining Parasol up. I remember nothing of the flight except a determination to make myself the best Parasol pilot in the war, as an honor to Cecil.
Over the succeeding days, I ignore the other young pilots struggling to master their cumbersome B.E.2cs. I get a reputation as a loner, but I don’t care. I work hard with the Parasol and, with Jack’s help and encouragement, learn to love it. Jack’s right—the Parasol’s fast and maneuverable, but you can’t relax for a minute when flying it. Any of the dozens of mistakes I make in training would be fatal close to the ground, but at five thousand feet there is time to correct. I learn that the trick is not to try never to make mistakes, but to know how to correct them quickly when they happen.
“All right, you’ve got most of the basics,” Jack says one morning. “Now you’re ready to spin.”
“If I spin, I’ll crash,” I say. “It was a spin that killed Cecil.”
“Yes, a spin at two hundred feet above the ground. But if you’ve got enough time and space, there are ways to recover. Do you know what a spin is?”
“It’s when the plane goes out of control and spirals down.”
“But it happens because you stall. If your plane stalls, it will flip over on whichever wing has the most drag, making you spin left or right. Your instinct is to increase power and pull back on the stick to force your way out of the spin. But that’s actually the worst thing you can do. When you go into a spin, make sure your ailerons areneutral, reduce power and give the machine hard rudder in the opposite direction—if you’re spinning to the left, give hard right rudder and vice versa. As soon as you come out of the spin, ease off on the rudder and increase power.
Voil
à, you have control back. Want to give it a try?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. In next to no time, I’m following Jack up to five thousand feet. We’ve received a replacement Parasol for Cecil’s machine and Jack takes that up. It’s agreed that he will spin first and I will watch. As I circle, Jack climbs and reduces power. For an instant, his Parasol stands stationary on its tail. Then it tilts to the left and snaps into a terrifyingly tight spiral down. I follow and see Jack set the ailerons to neutral and move the rudder hard over to the right. The spiral eases and the Parasol is suddenly flying flat. Jack points up to indicate my turn and smiles. I take a deep breath to calm myself and pull the stick back.
I feel the Parasol losing power in the climb. Everything seems to be slowing down. I stop, hanging impossibly in the air, then, with a sickening lurch that leaves my stomach behind, my plane falls. The force of the spin presses me back into my seat, and the sky and the land flip wildly across my vision. I resist the temptation to pull back on the stick and try to think calmly. Following Jack’s instructions, I neutralize the ailerons, reduce the power and kick the rudder hard over. Almost magically, I am flyinglevel and under control. I look around and give him an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Back on the ground, Jack congratulates me.
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