I sit here clutching a can of cold beer; .the sun is falling into dusk, all seems to be right with the world...... but it isn't.

For our unlikely hero the day started well, wall to wall sun A gentle breeze a perfect day. The prospect of four days of unlimited model flying brought a gentle smile to his face, the list of tasks from the stern person had been reduced to zero, well nearly, single figures anyway, all jobs had been jobbed, the lawn was in billiard table mode, a contented sigh escaped the lips, then loading the car with all the equipment needed to guarantee success our hero sallied forth.

"What can go wrong" I hear you cry, "Has he forgotten the transmitter?" no brother, the t/x was tucked in its usual place in the flight- box.

"Ah, forgotten to charge the gear," wrong again,

"The wing is still suspended from its piece of string in the modelling room ceiling", no, the wing sits on the back seat of the car.

"I know" you scream in triumph, "no fuel," Nope, a gallon had been freshly mixed the night before.

Nothing had been forgotten. Arriving at the field, checking for animal spectators, (on previous occasions cows are not unknown, and once a large black bull... but that's another story) the multitude of support equipment is unloaded

Metal folding chair - check,
Three litre bottle of lemonade -check,
Mobile phone, just in case instructions were received, for example, `to be sure and bring some dogfood on the way home, otherwise you know where your dinner will be` - check.

The wind speed and direction had been calculated by throwing the handful of grass into the air, the method used by modellers since Boddington was a little lad, confirming that a steady 10 knot breeze was blowing,

"A-ha at ninety degrees to the runway" I hear you say, no wrong again, right down the strip.

Observing all the safety rules, just in case any S.M.A.E. officials were in the vicinity
with high-powered binoculars the aircraft was fuelled and prepared, not the
tatty trainer, which was used to hone the skills nearly forgotten in the previous
year due to the unmentionable F AND M. But the shiny Pitts Special immaculate
in its red livery because today was going to be special.

"I know, I know, the engine won't start" I hear you shout.

The aged but totally reliable O.S. 61 burst's into song, not at the first flick, that only ever happens to reviewers in the magazines, as does that other well known myth, it flew straight off the
board without adjusting the trims.

But I digress....

Holding the nose towards the sky in the ritual manner, feeling the pull as the aircraft strains to reach its natural element, one last twiddle of the sticks to be sure that all is well
with the flappy bits and securing the vital trouser clips, (ask your Dad, he will know) the blue yonder reached out and accepted the gift.

"This is going to be one of those crash stories, the Idiot should have kept to the trainer" you remark knowingly.

But no, after a few anxious moments fate continues to smile benevolently on our hero as the Pitts (throttled back to a scale speed, because it looks better, is given as the reason rather than because the eyes ain't as good as they was) moves majestically around the sky.

Torn between landing with fuel still on board, because dead stick with a biplane instantly turns it into a housebrick, and getting the maximum time out of this flight, because it might be the only one!, the model is reluctantly returned to the earth........ and it is the best landing ever, no seriously, it really is.

At this point dear friends is where the bad news arrives, you just knew there would be some, didn't you ?

Trundling across the fifty yards between self and model, another myth by reviewers is that every landing is at one's feet, the Pitts is retrieved, switched off and the smile of success beams large. Turning towards the pit area the left foot drops into a rabbit hole balance is lost, the model falls to the floor, followed nano-seconds later by our modeller whose fall is cushioned somewhat by a shiny red object, a blinding pain in the left ankle instantly brings tears to the eyes followed by more tears on examining the re-kitted model. Faced then with the problem of covering the fifty yards back to the pit area with the remains of the plane the disconsolate pilot rueing the fact of being the only flyer on the field alternately hops and crawls to the flight box.

After resting a while and thinking it isn't quite so painful now, he stands, and realizes that it is even more painful, and the distance to the car park, which when he arrived was only a hop skip and a jump away had now become a major survival exercise.

Several large crows circling effortlessly overhead must have been laughing at the pitiful sight of our hero crawling towards the gate pushing a flight box weighing several hundred pounds, (why is it that the remark " I must clear some of this junk out of the box!" is never acted upon?) and dragging the remains of a once proud airframe tied to the good leg.

On reaching the gate, the problem of getting to it shrank into insignificance when compared to the task of climbing over it. after several attempts and much use of the expression "goodness me", " Oh dear" and similar sayings the job was completed.

So here I sit people, balancing a can of lager on my plaster, a wistful look in the eyes, remembering the time returning from Scotland in the early hours of a morning long ago, when swerving to avoid a cute baby rabbit sat in the middle of the road I hurled a fully loaded thirty two ton articulated lorry into the scenery rather than harm an innocent animal, and pondering that it might well have been one of his descendants which was the cause of my literal downfall, thinking of what might have been, if only, etc. etc. Because to paraphrase the Wink Martindale song - 'A deck of cards' about a gallant fighting man caught playing cards in church. (ask your Dad again) ........

I was, that soldier.

Ben.

Article by Ben Littlewood for Bumpy Green Model Aerodrome.
4th August 2002