Deep inside myself, I knew that I was not cut for long range studying.I did not have the patience nor the inclination. That was as simple as that, but nevertheless, I wanted to please my folks. Therefore , short of being a « brain », I would be a lawyer, the best lawyer of the Paris Bar. I could see myself becoming mediatized, defending large scale criminals, driving a Porsche, and charging 1200 dollars for one hour of my precious time. But I loved airplanes so much…
I had been exposed to the silver machines lined up in Orly Airport , as early as 1957, when my dad was travelling to South America, hoping to build up some future for us in the Venezuelan eldorardo. The planes I remember were DC.4, DC.6, Breguet, and the incredibly beautiful Lockheed Constellations L 749 and L 1049. For some reason, the exposure to airplanes left deep marks , and as early as being ten, breathing the fumes of aviation gas would put me into a trance. I fell in love with airplane propellers and pistons long before I even received or returned my first kiss to a girl. I collected the Air France luggage stickers, flight maps, and even the menus that my dad would bring back with him. In these days, Air France was generous, and priviledged passengers flying the « Parisian Special » (1) would received an Hermès tie with the Air France Logo and a pair of slippers. One of my dad’s work associate and counsel flew a weird airplane, a Belgian affair by the name of « Stampe SV.4 », a biplane made of wood and canvas. He would fly it from the Pontoise airfield in the north of Paris, to the airfield close to our house in the east of the capital, a former Luftwaffe Fighter base dating back to the days of « social gliding » (2) and revamped by the germans as a home for night fighting squadron in charge of the air defence of Paris against the visits of Anglo-American air forces. I grew such a liking for this plane that when I discovered in my father’s library a book by the name of « l’Art du Pilotage (The art of piloting !!) I decided that I should learn to fly.
Forget about law school, forget about driving a Porsche, I joined a flying school located on that very former Luftwaffe base, about 3 Miles from my folks country house, and started studying weather, air regulation, physics applied to aviation, mechanics. My parents were well off, but obviously they did not volunteer to buy me a private pilot’s license, knowing that the rate for a flight hours on the cheapest type of airplane was about twenty dollars or rather the french equivalent, in 1971. I Started dreaming. I would be a pilot. I failed at the first exam, I had not given the theory enough intellectual support . My instructor, a business jet pilot working for a major airplane manufacturer kept telling me that a good pilot would survive any kind of landing….so I learnt to get ready for emergencies, to run away from the airplane in case of fire on start-up (3), to shorten my approach, to stall just on top of climb and to « recover » from a stall.. I was given tips as how to land in a cornfield or on a beach, learned how to navigate,and to prepare for the « big day ». I vividly remember. It was on a Saturday evening in june . My instructor had given me my regular flying lesson, and, as usual, I had not been a really good student. The man had probably been an instructor in a « previous life », teaching military cadets to fly aerobatics during world war one.
He was a grumpy middle aged man who wore a fantastic leather jacket which was probably worth ten or twelve flight hours. As we landed on the concrete runway of the airfield, he spoke for the first time since we had taken off.
« Bring the plane to the end of the runway, make a left turn on the taxeway. You will leave me there. Take off, make a couple of approaches, touch and go, bring the plane back in good shape, and fill it up before parking it inside. I am going, you are on your own »
I simply could not believe it. My time had finally come.
Taking off would be towards the west.
The sun was setting, I had left my sunglasses at home. I was caught in a weird feeling mad of bth elation and fear.
I could smell the fumes of the engine, I was unsure of myself, thinking that a couple more hours of training would have been welcome.
I lined up, held my hand on the throttle, pushe dit forward, kept the airplane straight using the rudders, gained the required speed for rotation, and soon I was in the air.
It was my first solo flight. (4) . By the time I reached fifteen hundred feet, I could already see myself flying jets. I was young enough, had a passion for planes, and of course, the world of aviation was waiting for me ….
(1) It was a specially fitted Lockeed Constellation L 1049 carrying 32 Passengers only between Paris and New-York
(2) By the end of the 30s, during a period of « socialist » government in France, physical and unusual activities were encourage by the authorities. A program was developed later on to help young kids to get into leasure aviation and gliding. As a result, the airfield where I was enrolled, hosted a Caudron C.800 glider and a Fieseler Storch as a towplane. The Fieseler Storch had been originally an observation plane used by german troops. In 1944, the german retreated but the Fiseler remained there.
(3) It did happen to me, itw as my fault. Starting up the engine was done by hand, and I Believe for some reason gas has spurted over the engine….I had just started it and could see that the ground man was getting agitated and tried to tell me something . With the engine noise, I could not hear anything so I opened the canopy just to hear « Il brûle » ( It’s burning…..)
(4) In these days, the French Private Pilot license was composed of a theoretical exam and 3 flying test validated by an instructor. Flying test were in fact a tour of 3 airfield with a mandatory stop at each and a stamp on the log book to confirm that indeed you had landed at such and such airfield.
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