A Time Of Reflection, By Bobby J. Wheat

On a cool early spring morning, just as dawn begins to break, I sit on my front porch drinking a cup of coffee. I notice, out of the early stillness, I no longer hear the sounds of Aircraft engines preparing for another long day of flying.

As I sit back, my mind begins to wander, back 50 years ago, back when I was a young bold Duster Pilot. Back when I sat in the cockpit of a converted World War II Stearman Bi-plane, and as dawn began to break, opened the throttle of that old 450 HP Pratt & Whitney radial engine, beginning another long day of flying.

As I opened that throttle, the engine roared into life, emitting the unmistakable sound that could be heard a long way away in the quite still dawn. Lifting into the cool morning air, the sensation of being free of the confines of the earthly bound creatures below began to over whelm me. A few loops or rolls in the heavens proclaimed silently from within, my thanks to the greater being, of how thankful I was to be counted among those blessed to be a Pilot.

Then, landing on one of the many short, dusty landing strips located across the county, a long day began. Short strips, heavily loaded, getting airborne in the nick of time, going under power lines, dodging trees and obstructions, stifling heat, sometimes fog or heavy rains, just another day in the life of a Crop Duster.

Finally, after a long 16 hours of flying, interrupted occasionally by one or two skipped heartbeats of near misses, the last landing of the evening was made, just as the last vanishing rays of the light of day faded.

Hours and hours of boredom, interrupted by moments of stark terror, is often described as a normal flying day. But, this was our chosen lot, and we savored every moment of it.

Sadly, no longer do I hear the roar and droning sounds of those old engines, nor see the swarms of aircraft crisscrossing the skies working the fields of rice that once numbered in the many thousands of acres, looking at times as if a huge flood had descended upon the county, due to the many flooded fields.. Acres and acres of green growing Rice, then turning to yellow ripening grain, as far as the eye could see, swaying in the warm gulf breezes.

Now, most of the fields are barren. Just an occasional patch of rice is seen across the prairie.

Oh, the old days of open cockpit flying are all but gone, just a fading memory.

As I reflect on those bygone days, names and faces re-appear in my memory, old bold Pilots, I’ve flown with, or knew, all attracted by the lure of freedom in the skies, flying those old biplanes.

Were those times real ? Did they really exist ? Yes they did. Logging those 17,865 hours of flying seemed to have passed ever so slowly, but, actually flew by ever so quickly so long ago.

So, to all of you bold and brave (some old, some gone ) special breed of Pilots, this is your day

Chambers County Historical Commission News
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