Wingman III

Author's note: The following was written and posted to Facebook immediately following the flight on August 2nd, 2016.  My notes are as follows: Form w/ C. Ricci and M. Bedard in Champ C-FILL. NW to Wakefield & back. Beautiful sunset, flew as wing, returned in twilight, low pass. Gorgeous.
From those hastily scribbled notes, I penned the following.



The northwestern horizon is awash in fire as we climb. The sky above is nearly white, washed out by the sun’s brilliant fantail. Against this background, a 1946 Aeronca Champ emerges first as a shadow and, as I get closer, takes on her natural appearance. White with light blue trim and royal wingtips. I slot the Smith in on the right wing, perhaps 15 feet distant, and call that I’m on station. A nod from the pilot, a slight rock of the wings from the airplane.

Joining up on the Champ with the Gatineau River in the background. (Photo courtesy: Martin Bedard)

We follow the river upstream. The face of the Gatineau is wide, flat and, oddly, nearly black in color. The hills, through which it threads its way northwest, shield it from the rays of the setting sun. Below, the crickets have begun their song and the warmth is already leaking from the early evening air. Aloft, we plow onward, sliding along an invisible plain with nary a ripple.
Formation flying is hard work. My movements of stick, rudder and throttle are barely perceptible but constant. My eyes never leave the leader. And yet, while I’ve no idea of our precise physical location, I’m suddenly aware of the sheer beauty of this image and overcome with a desire to share it. I jabber on the radio, equal parts excitement and incredulity, about the spectacle unfolding before us.  

Champ India-Lima-Lima northwest bound into the sunset. (Author's Collection)

And then I fall silent. The Champ has drifted in front of the sun as the great star, a violent magenta now, begins to dip below the distant horizon. The light leaks through the Champ’s cabin, refracting into every conceivable colour at once and backlighting the pilot and backseat passenger. The air around the little ship’s exhaust pipes shimmers and roils. The white wings, fabric taut over 70-year-old spruce ribs, take on a rosy hue. Here, framed between the wings and wires of this little biplane, is an image that is for me and me alone. No photograph or painting would capture it just so – as I see it now.  
With a final crimson gasp, the sun sinks below the horizon. The sky, save for a silken thread of yellow and orange lying atop the horizon, is a uniform gray. The Champ dips her left wing and starts a turn to the southeast. The Smith and I follow.
As we roll out, the last light of this August evening spills over my shoulders and dances across my instrument panel. Below, the valley is still, quiet and dark. Beyond, on the distant horizon, the lights of the city wink on, seemingly one by one, to guide us home.

Wingman II

At some point in 2015, a pudgy little Aeronca Champ appeared on the field and settled into a tie-down in the north-west sector of the airport.  White with two-tone blue trim, fat tires and chrome hubcaps, she was a fine example of the '46 vintage and, like the Smith, the only one of her kind at Rockcliffe.
Pilots of a certain vintage have a great affection for the Champ.  It's easy to understand why.  Most pilots who learned to fly between the end of the second world war and the early 70s would have trained in a Champ - and typically out of small airfields that featured at least one grass runway.  The mere sight of the little taildragger evokes intense emotions associated with youth, the excitement of that first solo flight and the promise of learning.

Stunt pilot Sammy Mason flying a slalom course between pines near Santa Paula, California in the late 40s.  Note the aileron deflection.  Mason went to a storied aviation career as an instructor and test pilot - which included being Steve McQueen's flight instructor. (Photo Courtesy: allposters.com)

If you ask an old hand, they'll tell you the Champ is a charming airplane.  It's true that they are not particularly fast (snail-like, in fact) and don't do any one thing particularly well.  However, they're forgiving and docile - a real sweetheart of an airplane that is simply a lot of fun to fly. 
The Rockcliffe Flying Club began operations with a fleet of Aeronca Champs so the airfield has a deep and powerful connection to the type.  I'll admit that the first time I saw India-Lima-Lima climb away from runway 09, chugging away in a valiant effort to clear the trees at the end of the field, it truly did feel like I was gazing through a window in time.

Champ Juliet-Uniform-Quebec on the take-off roll down runway 09 at Rockcliffe in the mid 60s. (Photo Courtesy: Rockcliffe Flying Club)

Champ November-Mike-Yankee, one of the Club's first Champs - mid 60s.  (Photo Courtesy: Rockcliffe Flying Club)

When I became a flying member of the Rockcliffe Flying Club in late 2002, its fleet consisted of five Cessna 172s and two 150s and Simon Garrett was the Chief Flying Instructor.  Flight instruction is unique in that it is the key to the health and safety of air transportation and yet it's the permanent resident of the dank basement of flying jobs.  That, and its practitioners are usually poorly paid for long, grueling hours sitting next to students who are seemingly hell bent on killing them.  And while the risks are sometimes quite severe, the non-monetary rewards are astronomically soul-nourishing.  Simon is one of a rare breed of "career" instructors - individuals who managed to stay alive long enough to eke out something of a living and truly live to create, foster and champion pilots of all kinds, regardless of their aspirations.  I'm not sure I've met a more generous and dedicated teacher and mentor.
In mid 2015, Simon moved on to new challenges and, in August, the club hired a new CFI to succeed him.  Like Simon, Chris Ricci drew his energy from the inherent promise of the job.  Like me, while a relatively young man, he has much of the old school in him and a marked affinity for the beauty and simplicity offered by taildraggers, aerobatics, formation, ski-flying and the like.  It didn't take long for Chris to seek out the Champ's owners and work out an agreement - flight instruction in return for the use of the airplane, plus gas.
On Chris' list of goals was an aerobatic instructor rating.  As the club's only aerobatic instructor pilot, it fell to me to help get him there.  Whenever time and money allowed, we shoehorned ourselves into the Super D and began building on his existing experience in aerobatics.  Aviation, and in particular an aerobatic airplane, is a crucible wherein friendships are formed or rendered inert.  One needs little time to discover which it will be.  With Chris, it was clear that we would get along.

Charlie Miller's Champ CF-GRN while under Charlie's care.  (Photo Courtesy: Charlie Miller)

And so, the Smith had a nicely matched and historic dancing partner in the Champ.  After all, my dad had flown one at Collingwood in preparation to solo in Fox-Alpha-Mike and before that, Charlie Miller had purchased one, sight unseen, as a stable mate for the Smith.  My dad wasn't fortunate enough to have a formation partner but Charlie had Gord and now, I had Chris.
And so, on a shockingly cool July evening, Chris and I sit under the cover of the canvas hangar and brief a quick formation flying trip.  Above, a blanket of stratocumulus - an ugly, grey and swirling morass - slides by at a decent clip.  Just outside, we can hear the windsock straining against its metal bracket.
"Hey," Chris said, more or less reading my mind.  "At least it's straight down the pipe."
About fifteen minutes later, the Smith and I climb out of runway 09 at Rockcliffe and turn left to follow the Ottawa River west.  As soon as we level out at circuit height, I throttle back to allow the slower Champ, which climbs at a speed barely faster than we stall, to catch up.

It takes Chris and the Champ a few miles but, by the time we're rounding the southern end of the Gatineau Hills and entering the practice area, they slide into position off our right wings.  Afraid to tear my eyes away from the path ahead, I quickly glance over to make sure all is well.  As if reading my mind, Chris gives me a curt nod.  Eyes front again, busying myself with the duties of a flight leader.

Heading north-west towards Luskville with the Smith leading the Champ, July 2016.  (Photo Courtesy: Chris Ricci)

In short order, we discover that our 90 miles per hour translates into about 85 for them - and that this is a good formation flying speed.  We've climbed to two thousand feet in the hopes that the ride would be smoother higher up.  It isn't so and every so often the invisible wind slams against our brave little formation.  There's little to do than stick out our chins and clench our jaws in defiance.  On the wing, Chris and the Champ cling on grimly, bouncing up and down in the onrushing current. 

The sky is uniformly grey and the land below it is equally sallow.  The Ottawa River, now off to our left and meandering north towards a sharp turn at Pontiac, is of similar complexion save for a few shimmering bands that betray the light leaking through the overcast.  Despite it being the height of summer, it's damn cold up here.
I inhale sharply and do a quick scan of the instrumentation; speed 90, altitude 2050', engine gauges green.  A glance at the drunken compass provokes a chuckle before I focus again on the outside world for other traffic. 
"Lead, two," Chris' voice crackles in my ears.  The Champ doesn't have an alternator so the radio draws off the battery.  We limit voice communication for this reason.  "Going echelon left."
"Lead," I acknowledge. 
I glance over as the Champ seems to back away slowly and then sink out of sight below my tail.  It's unnerving, not having eyes on the Champ, but I rely on trust and focus on keeping my flying as precisely steady as my abilities allow.  Moments later, the Champ resurfaces on the left wings.  Another nod from Chris.

C-GDSA as lead in July 2016.  (Photo Courtesy: Chris Ricci)

Charlie Miller at the controls of C-FFAM in her original livery, formed up on a Piper Cub in southwestern Ontario, summer 1978.  This is a screen shot from an old 8mm film found by Gordon Skerratt. (Photo Courtesy: Gordon Skerratt)

We push on as far as Luskville before angling towards the escarpment to open up a wide turn to the left.  Chris masterfully keeps station on the inside wing as I guide the formation back towards Rockcliffe. 
Despite the gravity and seriousness of the flight, it truly is great fun.  I can't help but think of Charlie Miller and Gordon Skerratt who, in two Smith Miniplanes and armed only with caps, goggles and one chart between them, set off to discover Ontario.  Neither ship had a radio, so they communicated solely by hand signals and navigated using only a moistened thumb and a map.  As Charlie describes it:


 I find out where I am, touch my tounge with a gloved finger and then press my finger against the map.  It leaves a telltale spot.  On a hot day, by the time it evaporates, I know I am about five minutes from where I was...and therefore not too lost.


On one such memorable hop - a contour flying, nape-of-the-earth formation flight in the Muskokas - they crested a small hill hiding a lake where they came upon and surprised two lovers fornicating in a canoe.  In Charlie's words:


Flat out in ground effect, both of us locked on target, our canoe comes into focus. What also comes into focus is that there are two legs, kind of pointing up and out and a white something round in between. As we both pull up and looked over the cockpit edges we see a naked guy and a equally dressed well-endowed young woman trying to wave and scramble to keep the canoe right side up at the same time. Well, based on that sight I knew we were still in cottage country.

In all my communications with Charlie, there's an obvious undercurrent of nostalgia but also pride...in that his adventures in FAM are, in a large way, responsible for the flight Chris and I are enjoying today.  It's all the more meaningful when you consider that, had my dad not purchased FAM from Charlie nearly 30 years ago, this flight and everything it represents simply wouldn't be. 
It's an undeniable and powerful thread as real and tangible as the one keeping the Champ firmly anchored on the Smith's wings. 
It's about a quarter to 9 in the evening by the time our little two-ship formation arrives overhead Rockcliffe.  The last of the light is leaking through the gaps in the overcast, which, where thickest, has become almost black. 
"Low and over?" Chris asks.
"Good idea," I respond. 
We begin a wide and gradual, descending spiral to shed altitude.  The wind has died off somewhat so the abrupt jolts are fewer and further between.  Chris keeps station beautifully as we round out onto final approach and sweep across the field in formation.  My radio calls and the combined clatter of our engines has attracted a small group to the runway's edge to witnesses our "beat-up."  As the end of the field approaches, I go to full throttle and peel away to the north.  Chris maintains runway heading to allow me the space and time to rejoin the circuit, land and taxi clear. 
No canoes or coitus but great fun all the same.
A few minutes later, having cleared landed and cleared at taxiway Bravo, I'm using the light of the radio to jot down notes.  Over the swishing of the prop, I hear Chris call short final for runway 09 and glance up to see the Champ's silhouette glide in over the western fence.  Suddenly, it appears to stop in mid-air, seemingly hovering only inches above the runway - before dropping onto all three points.  The wings rock slightly as the little Champ slows to a brisk jog and then a walking pace.
Chris taxies off and, once again, sidles up next to the Smith.  I raise my hand in greeting.  He and his mount appear only as a silhouette, backlit by last light of a dying day, but I can tell he's smiling at the promise of a new tradition.

Transmissions

It's late on a Tuesday evening in May - likely around 8:00pm as I recall scribbling down "1954" as our time up.  We're gliding east along the south shore of the Ottawa River - our usual route with the sun at our back.  The Gatineau Airport is off the left wing, on the opposite shore, and entertaining only a pair of training flights practicing take-offs and landings.

Getting ready to depart Rockcliffe on a May evening.  (Author's Collection)

"Gatineau Radio, good evening.  Smith Miniplane Golf Delta Sierra Alpha with you, one-two-two decimal three - no transponder."
"Delta Sierra Whisky, Gatineau Radio.  Good evening."
It's likely a slip of the tongue as DSW was one of the old Aviation 550 172s based at Gatineau years ago.
"It's Delta Sierra Alpha.  Local flight - eastbound, south shore Ottawa river, one point seven."
"Roger," comes the reply.  "Report clear of the zone to the east."
It's a smooth evening - nary a ripple in the sea aloft - but hazy.  The horizon is undefined, bloated by humidity and tinged a smoky golden color by the low-slung sun.  Orleans crawls backwards underneath our wings.

Rockcliffe on May 24, 2016 - flight number 100 in the Smith. (Author's Collection)

This is my hundredth flight in the Smith.  It feels like that first heart-thumping flight and near disastrous landing at Brampton happened a lifetime ago when, in fact, it's been two years less two weeks.  Time is a funny thing.
I feel safe up here - despite the inherent dangers of flying.  In this cockpit, perhaps more than most, life is beautifully simple.  It's measured in miles per hour, feet per second, gallons per hour... The mechanics of flying are so ridiculously easy that one wonders why more won't take it up.   Then again, perhaps it is a blessing after all.  Having spent time aloft, one grows jealously protective and, while happy to admit guests to this inner sanctum, would prefer fewer permanent residents.              
For me, the sky has always been an escape.  I don't mean that in the sense that I'm running away from anything but rather, life is easier to manage when one has even but a momentary respite.
My father's death hit me harder than anything else I'd faced in my life - before or since.  I don't mean to say that my marriage or the birth of our son was of less impact but I was able to live it emotionally. That wasn't the case with Dad's passing.  Everything that followed happened so quickly and with such cold severity that I could do nothing but flip a switch and function purely on autopilot.   I grieved later and in my own way.  This blog and what I hope it becomes is an extension of that grief.
If someone asks, I'll honestly tell them that I don't like visiting my father's grave.  If pressed as to why, I'll confess that I don't think it holds anything of him, anything of worth at least. It's why I feel closer to him in the air, than I do on the ground.  It's why I insisted on having his Smith engraved on the crypt's plaque.  It's the reason for the airplane I'm sitting in, two thousand feet above the earth.

The engraving of Foxtrot-Alpha-Mike on my dad's plaque.  (Photo Courtesy: Author's Collection)

My dad worked long hours and often arrived home exhausted.  Naps were common after dinner.  As a little boy, I remember watching his chest rise and fall and, for some reason, worrying about what I would do if this breath was his last.  In the same vein, I would kneel on the couch that backed onto the large front window of my childhood home and wait for his car to pull into the driveway.  Sometimes, I would walk out to the end of the driveway and wait for headlights to appear at each end of the street then hurry back inside, hoping those two beams of light would illuminate the house rather than continue past.
I can't explain it and I don't think I've mentioned this to anyone...but I always felt as though my dad was living on borrowed time.
In a way, we all are.  It's an ugly proposition.
"Delta Sierra Alpha, Gatineau Radio," the voice of the flight service specialist crackles in my ears.  It's a welcome interruption.
"You're cleared en route.  Have a good flight."
So we are.  I glance over the canopy lip and see the ferries at Cumberland.
"So long," I reply.
I guide the little ship into a slight right turn to the south-east towards JP's farm.  A few orbits fail to solicit a response so we head further south into our favoured patch of farmer's fields.  Here, I throw the airplane around a bit, just for the fun of it.  After about ten minutes, we turn west again for home.
The sun is beginning to set.  The Ottawa River is a mirror - placid and flat and reflecting a kaleidoscope of colors filtered by the haze choking the horizon.  The suns rays bounce off the surface of the river and, like a skipping stone, set off a series of sparks - dots and dashes.
My dad did his national military service as an army Marconista - a wireless operator for a tank battalion - and he'd taught me some Morse code.  When I was perhaps 7 or 8 years old, he wrote the entire alphabet and numbers on a piece of lined paper and we went over a few letters every weekend after breakfast.

A dying sun.  (Author's collection)

The bursts of flight being thrown up at us by the surface of the river are not unlike those dots and dashes or di(t) and dah, as my dad put it.
I remember some but not nearly enough...
...di-di-di-dit - easy, an H.
...di-dah-dah-dah - J, or a misreading of Y.
...dah-dah - M, or was it dah-dit - N?
Is it gibberish - my trying to find meaning in chaos?  Or is the dying sun sending us a message?  It's fantasy, surely, but an intriguing idea.  At any rate, the flashes occur with the speed and breadth of a meteor shower and, while beautiful, it's impossible to decipher what, if anything, is being sent.

I've had a few dreams about my dad since he passed - but nothing like the waking reverie I'm having now.  I want to believe in an afterlife or, at least, that our loved ones still exist in one form or another. Perhaps this is a sign.  At the very least, it's something to hold on to.
As the sun falls below the horizon, the earth darkens and the sky changes.  The great telegraph key falls silent with a final burst and whatever light remains reflects golden off the underside of the top wings.

Heading home at dusk. (Author's collection)

It was a long winter and while I've made perhaps a dozen flights so far this season, tonight's was my dad's first "visit" of the year.  It was for me alone and it's difficult to describe.  What I saw this evening proves, at least to me, that he isn't in the mausoleum, behind that granite plaque.  He's up here with me, in a single-seat biplane.
Tonight, it's obvious - and I see it as plainly as I can count the ribs in the Smith's wings.  Tonight, I took a few minutes back.

...di-di-di-dah-di-dah...

Wingman

The sun has only just risen over the horizon on a cool May morning as I push through the door of a local coffee shop.  There's a jingle of a bell as I walk into the warmth and light.  As you would expect, the air smells of fresh coffee grounds and warm pastry - an invigorating scent given I've only just risen myself.

I order my usual morning brew with two milk and one cream - repeating it twice because it's apparently an odd request - and, cradling the cup in both hands, shuffle over to a table in the corner where my two compatriots are huddled around an aviation chart.  I sit down and take that first tentative sip.  They often mistakenly add sugar but no, this cup is as advertised.
I look down at the chart unfolded before us.  I love maps - all maps really - perhaps because of the promise of adventure they represent or the artistry lovingly invested in depicting three dimensions in only two.  I suppose I'm not unique among pilots as this is a sentiment often shared, albeit in whispers and somewhat in embarrassment.
The chart before us has seen heavy use.  Its corners are curled and its creases are prominent and deep.  It has helped chart many flights as evidenced by the faint remnant pencil marks of course and drift lines, checkpoints and alternates.  I know, without looking, that it is certainly out of date and therefore its use likely runs contrary to one regulation or another.  Today's flight, as most of mine are, is a local one and we know the airspace well.  Truth be told, open cockpit flying with a chart is comically nightmarish and I only use one if the territory is unfamiliar.  As such, our veteran chart's role is to help plan out the morning's activities rather than to guide us. 
We use our coffee cups as paperweights.  Mist rises from the face of each mug as our movements - poking a town with a finger or using a fingernail to trace a course - cause ripples in the liquid.  As the level of coffee in our mugs drops, we sink deeper into briefing this morning's formation flight - rendezvous point, frequencies, speeds, join procedure, break-off contingencies, safety considerations and so on. 
Once all parties are satisfied, the final dregs are drained and we trudge together into the brightening morning - unique among our peers by promising to meet again in the sky.
An hour later, the Smith and I are clattering east across Orleans - the buckles of my leather helmet slapping against my cheeks and the wind rough against my face.  My goggles are up and my eyes are narrow - searching for my friends.  Their mount is a Cessna 172, white with green and blue cheat lines, and it should be at my ten o'clock position by about a mile.
After some searching, I pick out the shape of the Cessna.  It's surprising as I've been staring straight at it for the last several moments.
"Tally-ho!" I joyously bellow into the current of the air rushing by - head thrown back, grinning like a fool.  I've always wanted to say that on an open channel.  One day I might work up the courage.


 Taken on July 14, 2010, this might be one of my favourite pictures.  Myself and Garrett Watkiss in Grob 115C C-GKPB as number 2 with Mark Psutka in Citabria C-FTSP as number 3.  The lead ship is a Cessna 172.  Within months of this picture being taken, all three of us had moved on to other flying jobs.  (Photo courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

I key my mic and ask for my leader to slow down and begin a slight turn to the right so that I may close the distance.  A few minutes later, I slide into echelon right position - to the right and slightly behind the Cessna.  From this point onward, we will be one.
This business is life and death and our currency in the exchange is trust.  The leader trusts his wingman to not chew his tail off and the wingman trusts his leader to not lead them into the ground.  My eyes do not leave the Cessna.  My hands and feet work the stick, rudder and throttle to keep the Smith balanced in position.  Turns to the inside are relatively easier - requiring the wingman to slow down - while outside turns are much harder, as the wingman must put his boots to the flanks of his mount to keep pace.

Another shot from the same series.  Note the Grob's canopy latch is open to allow greater airflow.  I remember it as a very warm day.  (Photo courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

My early experience with formation flying was with two highly experienced pilot chums of mine - and almost always as lead, which is arguably the easier role.  In recent years, I'd acquired training on flying the wing position.

It's no secret that I've been obsessed with airplanes and aviation in general since before I could say so but viewing another airplane in flight is nothing short of surreal.  On the ground, they're simply a machine but once in the air, even a old girl of homely countenance becomes quite the belle - a carrier of dreams.  From the ground, two ships in formation appear held together by a string - rigid and unmoving relative one another.  In the air, the opposite is in fact true.  They glide along the invisible current of air, bobbing up and down and rolling right to left like two small sailboats racing across the sea.




Closing in on the lead. Judging from the farm at lower left of frame, this was taken just south of Cumberland. (Photo courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

A still frame of FAM, flown by Charlie Miller and in her original livery, forming up on a Piper Cub in southwestern Ontario, 1978.  This is a still from an old 8mm film found by Gordon Skerratt.  (Photo Courtesy: Gordon Skerratt)

And, of course, there's a thin line between fascination and terror.  My first experience seeing another airplane in such close proximity to mine, and by blood chilling accident, happened nearly 15 years ago at an airport not far from here.  As a result of a series of unhappy coincidences and oversights by the flight service specialist, the other pilot and myself, a Diamond Katana ended up flying its circuit inside mine - so that we both turned final in formation and completely unaware of the other.  When I did finally spy the interloper, he was to my right and slightly below, in a gentle right bank.  It was beautiful to behold - white with blue trim, propeller as a translucent disc, exhaust pipes belching, rivets forming neat little lines, a smudge of oil. 

It felt as though an eternity had passed before the tide of terror began to rise.  I turned left, away from the danger, and executed two full circles.  I called the tower to let them know and sounded calm enough.  Out of the second orbit, I rejoined the approach and landed without incident.  The plan had been to taxi off, shut down and allow my backseat passenger to ride up front for the return leg to Rockcliffe.  I barely made it to the bathroom before retching until my insides ached.  It took a quarter of an hour for my hands to stop shaking.


One of my favourite pictures of the Smith in flight - this is near Wendover on the Ottawa River.  (Photo Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

Hundreds of hours later and with now with well-coordinated purpose, flying this close to another airplane is both a wondrous and heavy business.  The concept itself is beautifully simple.  I've lined up the Cessna's nose wheel and right main and kept them in position by small adjustments in throttle and equally precise and constant movements of stick and rudder.  As long as these features remain motionless, I know that my position relative to the leader has not changed. 

Line abreast right with the Gatineau Hills in the background.  (Photo Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

Formation flying was born in the Great War when larger, slower and poorly armed reconnaissance planes were shepherded along by a more agile and better armed fighter.  In time, as tactics became more refined, fighter pilots came to learn that flying in coordinated groups offered them both better protection and greater offensive capability - in short, a formation cut down their losses and increased their victories.  Given these machines lacked radios, communication was carried out with pre-determined hand signals or movements of the airplane itself, such as a wag of the rudder or the rocking of wings.  Recognizing one another was not a difficult task either - the Allies tied streamers to the struts of aircraft flown by flight leaders while the Central Powers, led by Germany, allowed their pilots to paint their ships in loud, heraldic schemes.
In the Second World War, the British favoured the three-ship, v-shaped vic which looked great in parade fly-pasts but had little tactical advantages.  The Americans opted for the four-ship diamond formation, placing the least experienced pilot in the number 4 tail-end-Charlie position - which did little for their already limited life expectancy.  The German Condor Legion developed the finger-four - so called because, when viewed from above, it resembled the four fingertips of the right hand - during the Spanish Civil War and the Luftwaffe used it with continued success into the great conflict that followed.  By war's end, nearly all air forces were using the finger-four against them.

Following the war, formation flying was employed in aerobatics - perhaps the ultimate pinnacle of high-stakes precision flying.

Showing off her "clean" biplane lines.  (Photo Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

The Cessna and the Smith are employing the basic two-ship element of leader and wingman.  We are not ideally suited dancing partners as the bigger Cessna, while seemingly ungainly, is the faster aircraft.  Her pilot has throttled back to slow cruise so that the draggy biplane clinging to her wing can do so without straining her own engine.  As my eyes are fixed solidly upon my leader, who remains relatively steady, I'm not immediately aware that we are hurtling across the countryside at appreciable speed.  This is why any changes must be predictably and smoothly executed by the lead pilot.  If, at any time, they are lulled by the flying into thinking they are quite alone, the results could be catastrophic. 
At times, I am vaguely aware of where we are by the glimpse of a familiar island in the river or a quilt-like patchwork of fields I know to be near a certain town or another.  I am, however, largely ignorant of our position until the leader calls to spread out the formation.  I slide away to the right, perhaps doubling my distance from the lead, and am finally in a position to have a look around.  We're south-east of Orleans, west of Navan, and heading east.
We've been flying for nearly an hour and I've settled into enjoying the close quarters work.  I feel similar to how I did when I first started learning aerobatics.  The promise of this new challenge and skill building is as invigorating as this morning's cup of coffee.

Waving goodbye with Orleans in the background.  (Photo Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

The Cessna waggles her wings and breaks away to the south for home.  I raise my gloved had in farewell and make a slight course correction to the right for Rockcliffe.  We promise to meet later to debrief the flight, perhaps over lunch or a second cup of coffee.
I watch the Cessna fade away in the murk lying upon the horizon, silently wish them a happy return and turn my attention to my own.

Breaking off.  (Photo Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)