Miller's Memoirs - Part Two

The day has been oppressively hot. 
Since early this morning, the vindictive sun has burned a searing hole in the late July sky.  The air itself is heavy and thick and it seems as though the entire world is burning.  If there were even a whisper of wind, it would blow the trees down and scatter their bones across the scorched countryside like dust. 
The scene crawling by under twin wings is uniform brown, yellow and gold - a shimmering carpet of desolation.  The hills roil and swell like a gritty sea frozen in time.  Every few miles, a old farmhouse, barn and broken fence line drift by - abandoned, derelict and cast adrift. 
Drawing a deep breath in does little more than sear my insides.  I've spent the better part of the day trying to stay awake - mouth agape, eyes staring dumbly and unfocused, sweat dribbling down my forehead - and pleading to get off the ground.
In the cockpit, here aloft, there is little respite from this hell.  Even the wind being shoved back from the propeller thrashing against the thin air is insultingly hot.
The sun remains an unflinching, relentlessly pulsating, white hot blotch on the cloudless sky.
The hum of the engine and subtle vibration of my machine is lulling me to sleep.  I gasp, taking desperate gulps of air.  I hope against hope that they might revive me.

Charlie Miller poses for a hero shot before departing on a flight.  (Photo courtesy: Charles Miller)

Still, these solo patrols are a rare joy.  There is no leader to guard, no wingman to worry about...or weep over when they fail to return from a raid.  It is only I and my airplane and all is as it should be.

Nearly, though.  I've noticed a barely perceptible change in the engine's drone.  I've felt the change rather than heard or seen it but I know something is amiss.  A quick scan of the sparse instrumentation and the mixture knob reveals itself as the most likely culprit.  In my heat induced stupor I must have brushed my sleeve against it and drawn it out further than it needs to be.  I lean forward to adjust it - happy to perform a commonplace duty that requires some measure of attention.

I feel the bone-jarring hammer blows of the twin Spandau machine gun before I hear them.   

I am suddenly very much awake.

The mixture control is quickly forgotten and I instinctively slam the stick one way and push opposite rudder to the floor.  The horizon abandons all reason and spins around madly. The sound of the slipsteam changes in tone as the wind strums the flying wires.  My stomach turns.

I am looking through a neat, little hole punched in the upper right corner of my windshield.  From its borders, tiny, hairlike cracks splay out like beams from today's harsh sun.  I've never seen such a perfect circle.  I would marvel in its beauty and simplicity if not for the fact that, had I not leaned aside to adjust the mixture, the bullet that created that hole would have buried itself below my right eye.

I jerk my head around.  My silk scarf billows out behind me as the flaps from my leather helmet slap my cheeks.  Another biplane is turning around below and behind my ship.  It has cream coloured wings with red stripes and a crimson nosebowl.  I recognise it instantly as the mount belonging to a rival ace.

I push the throttle through the gate and I smoothly pull back and to the left.  My biplane slows as we approach inverted and I add enough rudder to bring the nose around.  My target is hovering below me now and clawing his way skyward in a climbing turn.  I let the nose drop through the inverted and roll hard to the right.

Charlie Miller in FAM (right) on the tail of Gordon Skerratt's CF-REB. (Photo courtesy: Charles Miller)

The cream and crimson biplane is sitting in the middle of my windscreen now.  His wings, however, are set at a sharp angle and it is immediately obvious that he is approaching at a great velocity.  I may have but an instant to strike.

I feel the airplane shudder and slow as I fire the Vickers machine guns.  The smell of cordite fills the cockpit and dust speckles my goggles.  He flashes by over my top wing, engine snarling in defiance.  I pull back hard and arc high to the left, tilting my head back to catch a glimpse of my quarry.  My skin is on fire with the heat and slick with sweat but my insides are ice cold.  The longer this jousting match continues, the greater his odds of winning are.  I must end it quickly.

This last maneuver was more aggressive than the one before it and so the target I'm presented with is more profile and therefore, better.  I give him another two second burst blast from the Vickers.  The result is devastating.  Angry tongues of flame lick at his cowls.  The engine vomits thick, black smoke tempered with wisps of white and grey.  It billows between the wings and wires, obscuring the cockpit.

The handsome little biplane steepens her roll towards me.  I pull back on the stick and we're carried above her.  I watch her slide underneath and roll onto her back.  Then, she dives out of view.

Charlie (right) and Gord (left) in an aerial jousting match. (Photo courtesy: Charles Miller)

My senses heightened now, my eyes catch a shade of movement on the right wingtip.  It is but a dot...but oddly out of place. I roll sharply towards the new target.  My airplane responds immediately as if invigorated by this change in office - from hunted to hunter.
Our speed builds and the rush of air around the little ship intensifies to a gale.  The dot floating in the middle of my windshield sprouts two wings and a tail.  As I continue my approach, it grows larger.  I hunch my shoulders and flex my fingers around the control column.  I hear my heart thumping in my head.

My target is one of the new monoplanes.  He is cruising leisurely...and very much alone.  I am so close now that I can easily see where the fabric around the exhaust stacks has darkened with heat and grime.  I can can count every rib pushing against the red fabric.  There is a name stencilled below the cockpit rim...and a small patch of fabric covering some recent damage.  The rigger has yet to paint it to match the rest of the ship.

I trigger the Vickers guns.  I hear a metallic clang but no bullets emerge and my prey flies idly on. 

Jammed! my mind screams.

I haul back on the stick and we rush upwards.  I feel the monoplane slide beneath us.  I tilt my head back and see that I've betrayed my approach.  He is now very much aware of my presence and is maneuvering to gain the advantage.  I roll out to face him and we rush towards each other head on.  As his machine swells in my sights, I wonder what, exactly, it is that I'm doing.

I break hard, up and to my left.  The horizon tilts crazily and slips out of view and I pull the airplane into a near vertical bank.  My opponent flashes by.  The muzzles of his twin Spandau twinkle and an instant later I hear and feel his bullets whizzing past.  He roars overhead and I yank the stick into my belly and bound upwards to follow. 

This deadly dance continues for what seems an eternity but may be, in fact, mere minutes.  My new opponent is an old and skilled hand.  There are no wasted movements.  Each act is calculated and deliberate yet executed so swiftly one gets the impression he isn't thinking at all but running purely on instinct.  It becomes evident that the outcome of this meeting will not depend on who is more skilled but rather on who will commit the first error.

That, inevitably, falls to me.  I pull too hard in an effort to get on his tail.  My biplane, forsaken by her master, wallows right, then snaps her left wing down hard and tumbles into a spin.  I react instinctively and she snaps out of the spin as quickly as she fell into it.  Still, it is too late. As I pull out of the dive, his bullets are spiralling between the wings and through the flying wires.

My opponent may be faster, more skilled and able to both out-dive and out-climb me but there is scarcely a ship in the skies that can out-turn this biplane.

C-FFAM maneuvering. (Photo courtesy: Charles Miller)

And so, with the bullets careening around me, I sweep into an ever-tightening left turn.  As we race around this crazed carousel, I wonder if I'm merely delaying the inevitable.  My guns, after all, are jammed.  I can't mount an attack of any kind.  To cut and run would be certain suicide.  Outside of waiting for him to run out of ammunition, fuel or patience, there is little I can do but keep turning.

At intervals, the monoplane's pilot takes pot shots at me.  His fire arcs hopelessly wide and falls away.  He cannot score a hit without tightening his turn; he is not able to tighten his turn without stalling out.

And so, we've arrived at an impasse.  I begin hammering a gloved fist against the jammed Vickers guns. 

After a few minutes, on one of my frantic glances rearward, I notice my hunter has disappeared.  I level the wings to discover he is flying alongside.  He pulls his goggles away from his eyes to reveal a jovial grin on an oil-streaked face.  He raises a gauntlet in salute, waggles his wings and starts a sweeping turn to the west.

I watch him for a long while.  He floats away until his craft becomes a mere speck and that speck fades into the countryside.  I have no concept of time.  Was I watching him for a minute?  An hour?

I am drawn again to the neat, little hole that turned this lazy, limp, sun stroked afternoon into a sweat soaked nightmare. 

Why had I leaned forward at that exact moment? 

To adjust the mixture, naturally.

Naturally, I reply.  But why not a moment earlier?  Or worse, a moment later?

Silence.  The engine's mindless hum is my only reply.

And why the mixture?  And what if my sleeve hadn't brushed against it in the first place?  What if I'd leaned the other way to, say, scratch my shin?  Or grab the chart stuffed into my right boot?

What if, what if, what if...

Charlie and FAM doing their best impression of the Red Baron.  (Photo courtesy: Charles Miller)

Now, the sky is rusting.  Every colour in the scarlet spectrum is bleeding from the atmosphere; from deep reds the colour of velvet to light yellows that remind me of cornfields in the fall.  It is as if a crazed painter, in a fit of rage, has thrown his entire palette at the canvas.  I am watching each colour smear itself against the sky, collect in heavy ridges along the silhouetted hillsides and drip onto the earth below.

It's time to go home.

I close the throttle and let the speed spill from the wings.  The earth rises up to meet me and I level off just above the countryside.  In this fashion, in order to escape detection, I will lurk back to my home field.  In short order, I realise this is an exercise in futility.  My airplane is painted an emphatic red and white.  If my intent is to escape attention, I may as well be on fire.

An ironic smirk touches my lips.  I remind myself that I very nearly was - twice.

When I reach my home field, the last of light has bled from sky leaving it an ashen indigo blue.  The landing has its usual charm but is otherwise uneventful.  I taxi to my tie down and switch off the engine.

All the other airplane are in their spots.  I'm the last to return.

Despite the setting sun, it is still very warm and I'm in a hurry to get out of the airplane.  I pull off my goggles and damp helmet and hang them on the intersecting flying wires to my left.  I run a hand through my dark hair, matted with sweat, and smooth out my moustache. I take a deep breath, wrap my gloved hands around the cabanes and pull. 

Nothing.  My legs are useless. 

Fine, I muse.  I'll sit here awhile longer.

Inevitably, my eyes return to the hole.  Its creator is lodged in the headrest behind me.  I know this without having seen it. 

I am wondering if the spider leg cracks are in fact growing before my eyes, when I see, through the hole, two beams of light piercing the gloom.  They bob and roll, seemingly at random, as they search the twilight, reaching into the thickening darkness.  My ears are still ringing from the sound of the engine but I am sure I hear the whine of a motor in low gear...and the sound linen makes when it tears.

Bunny pulls up in the duty car and bounces to a stop - grinding the gears.  He whistles and points to the offending hole.

"Nasty bit, that," he yells over the sound of the motor.  "How'd you dodge it?"

I shrug and give him a tired smile.

"Never mind," Bunny says.  "Hop in.  Beers are on you tonight!"

In a few minutes, we push our way into a crowded tavern.  The barman grins and nods toward the far corner where a table is laden with burgers, chips, gravy and pub fare.  There are puddles of beer everywhere.  Crowded around the table are the other pilots - still clad in leather flying jackets and oil-stained coveralls. 

Woven into the din hanging over the bar, I pick out solitary phrases.

"So, there I was, hanging in my straps...and Roy comes up from behind..."

"I swear I had the son of a bitch...and next thing I know, he's on my tail..."

"...out of airspeed, out of ideas and staring God in the face...I thought I was a goner, for sure..."

Bunny muscles his way in and I drop into a chair next to him.  My first opponent from this evening is sitting across the table.  He slides a large, glistening pint of ale across to me.

"Bottoms up, Charlie," Gordy says.  He's a good friend, Gordon Skerratt - perhaps the best.  On most days, he's my faithful wingman and I am his.  On this day, however, I've flamed him and his Smith Miniplane CF-REB.  His airplane is just fine and tied down a short drive away. The bullets, smoke and flame were imaginary.  The victory, however, is very real.

Gordy Skerratt in CF-REB. (Photo courtesy: Charles Miller)

I take a long swig.  The beer is cold and slakes my thirst.  I loudly proclaim that it is the best beer I've ever had.

"I thought I had you for sure," Gordy says.  "How did you get around so quickly?"

"No idea," I shrug. "I hauled back on the stick and then there you were.  I must have blacked out."

"Obviously." Gordy says, laughing.

At the other end of the table, George Jones, our local EAA president, is recounting how he came to be Roy Hems' victim on this day.  George is excitedly describing the mock dogfight with his hands.  Roy, who flew Spitfires in the second world war, is sipping beer and silently saying a prayer of thanks that today's battle was fought with their imaginations rather than with tracer bullets.

A few seats away, George Welsch, another World War II Spitfire pilot, is in conversation with one of the combatants.  He's sliding his pint in circles absent-mindedly.  Beer sloshes from the stein's mouth and collects on the slick table.  Our eyes meet and he gives me the same grin he flashed from the cockpit of his Flybaby not an hour ago.  He's the pursuer who let his prey go when my Vickers guns jammed.

I raise my glass in salute.  George, his face still dark with oil, returns the gesture.

When I get to the bottom of my first beer, another magically appears before me.  The excited chatter continues well into the evening.

The "Brampton Boys" on their way to the Battle of Caledon Hills.  (Photo Courtesy: Charles Miller)

And so it went, once a week, all summer long.  Some guys even called in sick to get out to the airport early and stake the best chance to "bounce" an opponent.  At a predetermined time, EAA airplanes would meet over the Caledon Hills north of Toronto and every pilot would be on the look out for an attack from any side.  There were no guns, obviously, so a "kill" would be scored once the aggressor pilot latched onto an opponent's tail.  A head-on attack or a strike from the side would not count.

From the ground, it must been quite a sight:  a cloud of colorful airplanes tangling like gnats, buzzing as they looped, rolled, yanked and banked around the summer sky. 

It might have been a scene out of France during the Great War or a snapshot of the long-gone era of swashbuckling barnstormers and aerial daredevils.  In this era of widespread controlled airspace, highly travelled airways, glass cockpits, urban sprawl and crowded skies, it is hard to imagine such a day ever existed.  The truth is, it wasn't that long ago that Miller and his mates were wheeling free above a quilt of farm fields, jockeying for position and glory - for the pure fun of flight.  These were carefree days. They revelled in the rush of speed, the exhilaration of the wind's breath rushing through the cockpit and along the fabric flanks, the surreal sensation of gravity's pull and lift's might...the magic of flight.

Charlie Miller and FAM.  (Photo courtesy: Charles Miller)

It is a secret not often revealed by the select few who have been tasked with keeping it.  Every so often, in rare occasions, it is betrayed in a smile, a glint in an old pilot's eye or a whispered tale.  I saw it in the first photograph Charlie sent me of his prized airplane.  Miller, clad in an old flight suit, boots, a worn leather helmet, goggles and a pencil thin moustache, is perched in the cockpit - looking over the top wing.  Even in black and white, FAM shines brightly - not a blemish on her rosy skin.  Miller's eyes are ablaze.  His face is frozen in time, a mischievous half-smile formed on his lips...as if he's in the middle of teasing whoever is behind the lens. 

If you look closely, you might just see it.

Miller's Memoirs - Part One

The recent publication of FAM's story in three parts in the Canadian Owners and Pilots Association "Flight" newspaper led to a good number of notes, emails, phone conversations and kind words in the pilot's lounge at my local airfield.
I learned a great many lessons from these interactions no matter how brief or seemingly inconsequential.
In short order, it became clear that this story was not just about an airplane, a father, a son and a shared love of flight.  It is about so much more - life, death, loss, the richness of life, our tenuous, fragile grasp of existence and our collective hopelessness when we are suddenly robbed of the tangible. 
When this happens, to an individual, we wallow  - stumbling around in the fog like a lost airplane and an uncertain crew, wincing in anticipation of the unimaginable.  For the uninitiated, think about how it feels to grope around in the blackest of dark nights, feeling for the light switch and knowing that the precipice of a stairwell lurks in the flat shadows.
When I set out, this is how I felt.  I was very much alone.  With each step, I gained companions - first singly and then in pairs.  A glow appeared on the horizon then a few orphaned shards of dawn and then, finally, the sun.  By the time I reached the wilds of this story, slogging uphill and beating my way through the vines and overgrowth of time and memory, I had the wind at my back.  The support of friends, family then perfect strangers buoyed me and spurred me onwards.

Believe me when I say, this is our story.

One of the emails came from Charlie Miller - FAM's second owner-pilot.  His note arrived in the midst of one of the most vicious flu/food poisoning hybrid maladies I had ever experienced.  Feverish and sweating, drunk with delirium and Tylenol, my swimming eyes struggled to focus on the tiny, flickering screen of my Blackberry.  I read the email three times before I allowed myself to believe that it had come from the man who sold the biplane to my father. 

Heart thumping, head spinning, I launched myself out of bed and lurched out the bedroom door and down the hallway.  I made it as far as the office which, mercifully, is home to a lumpy, yet surprisingly comfortable green corduroy couch.  I flopped onto my back, breathing hard and feeling the cold sweat trickle from my dwindling hairline, down my temples and over 3 days of stubble.

"Baby!"  I yelled - or tried to.  It came out as a croak.  I gathered my voice and tried again.

"Yeah!" Melody comes bounding up the stairs.  This frightens me since, even as an accomplished dancer, she has atrocious balance, our stairs are often polished and she had the unfortunate habit of tumbling out of control - either up or down the stairs.

There's a look of alarm on her face.  I have tears in my eyes.  The sweat is gathering in rivulets at the corners of my upturned lips.

"Charlie Miller wrote me!"  I whisper - as if saying the words out loud would rob me of this gift.

In short order, we are writing back and forth, swapping flying stories and memories.  Charlie, obviously, has many more than I do - and I'm happy to listen.  There seems to be an latent excitement in our notes that isn't immediately evident in the black and white type.  I'm overjoyed to hear from him, buzzing in anticipation of photographs, recollections and impressions of the Miniplane.  Charlie eases into it like he would an comfortable, old sweater - happy to relive the 3 years he owned and flew FAM.

Charlie Miller racing  a motorcycle that he built himself.  (Photo Courtesy: Charles Miller)

Charlie grew up racing motorcycles and boats.  An uncle's offer of a flight in a Piper Apache opened up the world of flight.  Charlie was hooked.  He started working on a private pilot license, sought out a Bellanca Citabria and discovered the magic of aerobatic flight.  After his instructor lent him a copy of Richard Bach's "Biplane", Charlie made up his mind: he must have one.

In the summer of 1978, Charlie, in his own words, was "going through one of the most traumatic times of my life.  I was nearing the age of 30, found three grey hairs, had a private pilot licence, and no airplane."  After forlornly chasing the unpredictable summer weather and here-now-gone-a-minute-later aircraft bookings, Charlie decided, against advice, to buy his own machine.

Charlie's list was short and sweet:

1.) It must have two seats (or I'll end up with an ex-girlfriend)
2.) Good manoeuvrability (or my local EAA Red Baron will have me for breakfast)
3.) Low fuel consumption - self explanatory and,
4.) Cheap - for the same reason as low fuel consumption.

So, Charlie looked up newspaper ads and sought out leads.  When he found a promising target, he packed his list, a lunch, road maps and VFR charts, fired up his Volkswagon Beetle and chased down the prospect.

Day by day, trip by trip, Charlie watched the list of candidate airplanes shrink. The Pitts S-2 gulped fuel.  The Chipmunk and Cap 10 were too pricey.  One by one, each option was shot down until Charlie was faced with a blank page and an empty heart.

"You know what you really need," Charlie's girlfriend said,  "is two airplanes."

Brilliant, thought Charlie, but I will need more money. 

And so, a la Edward Norton in "Fight Club", everything in Charlie's world appeared with a price tag hovering above it.  His 35 mm camera meant $500 towards an airplane.  A hockey stick would yield ten bucks, a tape recorder perhaps twenty.  Snow tires?  Gone too - to the highest bidder.

Charlie with his 1973 Porsche 914 2.0L.  He rebuilt it and painted it - even designed an exhaust and twin turbos "just for fun." The selling of this car would make the purchase of the Smith and Champ possible. (Photo Courtesy: Charles Miller)

"When my little white sportscar drove off with its new owner," Charlie writes, "I sat down and admired the contents of a savings book that said I was the proud owner of $9,385.78 of flying money."

Charlie knew Ernst Muller from the local EAA meetings.  Muller, of course, had been flying FAM for about 5 years and currently had the impeccable little airplane for sale.

CF-FAM in her original, EAA-inspired, paint job.  Ernie Muller is at the controls.  This shot was taken in the mid to late 70s at King City Airport.  (Photo Courtesy: Charles Miller)

Miller fell in love.  More than 3 decades later he remembers FAM "as the prettiest little blue and white Smith Miniplane you ever saw."  He'd made up his mind.  He'd found the biplane he'd dreamed of since the day he picked up Bach's book. 

On August 6th, 1978, Miller made a quick trip to King City to make sure his 6 foot frame fit inside the diminutive bipe.  When Miller slipped into FAM's single seat for the first time, he knew - and Muller had a deal.  After a quick pep talk from her former master, Charlie fired up the 85 horsepower Continental, opened the throttle and watched helplessly as the little biplane executed a beautiful right hand 360 degree turn. 

It would be his first education in FAM's notoriously cantankerous ground landing characteristics.  As an old Pelican once said of a much larger taildragger, "there are two kinds of airplanes - those you fly and those that fly you . . . you must have a distinct understanding at the very start as to who is the boss."

After a few additional abortive attempts and an upturned eyebrow from FAM's soon to be former owner, Charlie surrendered the pilot's seat to Muller.  Muller flew FAM to Brampton.  Miller followed in Ernie's car - peering up through the windshield in a vain attempt to keep an eye on his prized airplane.

Charlie poses with FAM at his tie down  at Brampton, 1978.  (Photo Courtesy: Charles Miller)

Charlie spent two weeks getting to know FAM...without leaving the ground.  He ran her up and down Brampton's runways; first, slowly, with the tail down then a little faster, endeavouring to raise the tailwheel and bring life to the stubby twin wings.  Each practice run was a conversation between plane and pilot; an incremental education as to what the aviator must do and when. In a single seat aircraft, it is painfully evident that there is no instructor, no seasoned veteran to guide one's development.  The airplane, therefore, becomes the teacher...but the pilot must remain her master. 

It is a delicate proposition - one that is balanced precariously, in this case, on a rigid Taylorcraft landing gear.

After two weeks of courtship, Charlie and FAM left the ground for the first time together. 

Charlie, decked in leather flying cap and goggles, gives a thumbs up before departing on a weekly EAA dogfight.  One of his opponents, Smith Miniplane C-FYSG (owned by EAA local president George Jones) is in the background. (Photo Courtesy: Charles Miller)

Miller describes what follows as "very exciting lessons taught between two short wings and a total lack of forward visibility."  FAM was everything he'd dreamed of and more: quick, manoeuvrable and exciting.  After each pulse racing flight, however, Miller would return to find his girlfriend waiting.  He still needed a two seat airplane.

Not long after, and once again thanks to Ernie Muller, Charlie found a red and white Aeronca Champ for sale and FAM had her first stablemate. 

The flights of fancy in the Smith, however, could not delay Winter's approach.  The leaves turned from green to rustic red, burnt orange and golden yellow.  The humidity bled from the southern Ontario skies.  The air grew cool and fresh then cold and sharp.  The color drained from the leaves, they turned, wilted and fell in heaps onto the brittle grass.

There was change in the air for FAM as well.  You see, in Charlie's mind, the ideal  picture of a biplane was a Pitts Special.  So, he took FAM apart - storing the fuselage in the garage of his Bramalea townhome and the wings in the living room.  Charlie insulated the garage door against the ferocity of winter but he still found it too cold whenever he opened the door to work on the airplane.  One day, an accidental but conveniently placed hammer strike opened a hole in the garage wall...and Charlie could see into his hallway closet on the other side.  This happy coincidence gave Charlie an idea and in short order, he installed a door on the inside of the closet so that he could gain direct access to the garage and his airplane.

With the temperature issue solved, he got to work.  He removed FAM's engine cowls and the sheet metal surrounding the cockpit and built new ones.  He created new coverings for the landing gear legs, found a new spinner and reshaped the nose bowl.  He made the Naugahyde cockpit trim with a rubber hose.  Charlie put in a new instrument panel, complete with a G-meter.  Then, Muller's EAA-inspired coat of blue and white with yellow and black trim came off.  Charlie repainted FAM in the iconic colours and scheme of the Pitts Special biplanes.

C-FFAM, newly rebuilt and repainted, in the Brampton EAA hangar in the spring of 1979.

In the spring, he moved the airplane, in pieces, back to the Brampton airport and put her back together. 

Now, Charlie Miller had his dream biplane and an entire sprawling province, littered with airfields, to explore. 

The horizons were wide open and plane and pilot were raring to go.


Footnotes:

This entry references the following articles and publications:

1. "On being decisive" by Charlie Miller, Canadian Homebuilt Aircraft Vol. 3, No. 2, 1979
2. "Blackhole's Buckers" by Garth Wallace, Canadian Aviation, May 1989