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Aviation History
1961
1961 - 1484.PDF
588 FLIGHT, 12 October 1961 Perugia, seen from over Santa Egidia Airfield. This photograph, and the one on the opposite page, was taken by Dr Brennig James, another competitor in the championships ITALIAN ADVENTURE .. . the giant wall of the Gran Sasso d'ltalia, Monte Corvo, Corno,Paganica, 9,000 and 10,000ft giants, on my right, and almost as high, the chain including Monte d'Ocre and Monte Sirente. Myown height was 10,000ft, plenty of lift, no worries in the world. As I flew south the valley wall of the Montagna del Masure on myleft coalesced into the most gigantic soaring slope I have ever seen. From the valley the mountainside sprang up in a 45 slope forsome 6,000ft, running on ahead of me for miles, and since this slope faced not only the wind but also the sun, I flew eagerly towards it,certain of finding miles of strong and friendly lift. One of the rather surprising features of soaring on steep mountainslopes is that the upcurrent, though often strong, is only to be found very close indeed to the face of the mountain, so that until one getsused to it it is quite alarming to be flying along with one wing practically scraping a rock wall some thousands of feet high. Buton this occasion I suffered one of the rudest shocks of my gliding career. Never have 1 been so certain of finding lift, and I hadexpected a climb of up to 1,000ft/min. Instead, as the trees and rocks ahead swung into close focus, the air beneath me seemedto open up, and I found myself plummeting down at the fantastic rate of l,200ft/min. The mountains ahead and above seemed toleap up into the sky, the trees and cliff in front swept up like a rising theatre curtain, and 1 put the Skylark into a vertical bank,turned back to the valley, and rushed away from the invisible Niagara as fast a s I could. Cataract of Air Clearly I had been caught out by tne Adriatic sea-breeze, whichmust have been penetrating inland and cataracting over and down the mountain range into my valley. By the time I had escaped fromits clutches, I was down to a mere 3,000ft over the valley north of Sulmona, with mountains ahead and right and left towering farabove me. Unless I could find lift somehow, somewhere, I must land with only around 100 miles in the bag, which would almostcertainly put me out of the running. If the air was cataracting down the eastern valley walls, it was atleast likely that the compensating upcurrents were to be found to the west, so I flew in that direction and soon found myself flying up asteep and narrowing side valley with a small stream running up it, round a right angle and the south up to the little Lago di Scano.1 was down to 2,500ft, to the north was the 3,000ft Monte Prezza; the valley got narrower and I got lower; we came to the right anglebend, and I got a whiff of rising air. I circled tightly and looked back. If all went well I could just get back and out to the mainvalley. If 1 hung to my lift and it turned bad on me, it might be doubtful. A single-line railway had twisted up the little valley tojust below, then it saw what it was facing, did a 180 turn, gave a gasp of horror at what it saw behind, turned a further 90 anddived straight into the mountainside, from which, as far as I could see, it never emerged. I wished I could follow suit. Butslowly the tumbled air sorted itself out, slowly I climbed, and at last the air solidified into a coherent thermal. The valley belowdiminished, hope became certainty, and I was up and away again on my course, little daunted by the sight of another white sailplane,the Skylark of Brennig James, sailing overhead fast and free. After this there were no more troubles for a long time, and as Iflew on south-east past Campobasso the mountains became lower and less imperious. As the sun set, a strong sea breeze from theNNW came to help me on my way, but at the same time increasingly to cut down the thermals. At last, around 6 p.m. I was flying over acountry of wide valleys and low hills with large stubble fields, and every now and then a grimmer higher ridge with the inevitable town perched on top of each. This was bound to lead to one final balanc-ing decision, and in due course I got so low that it was just was or was not possible to surmount one final rough and unlandable ridgeahead, to reach the next wide valley beyond. On top was the town of Ariano. I took it on, and cleared its roofs with perhaps 200ft inhand. Ahead in the next valley lay my inevitable landing. I swept on down the slopes, over the valley, over a road, along the banksof a small river; a ploughed field offered a good landing place. I turned and approached it. Two feet above it I realized with horrorthat a ploughed field in Italy bore no relation to its featherbed counterpart in England, for this one was comprised of enormouschunks of earth, the size of paving-stones, baked as hard as rock. 1 prolonged my glide as well as I could to its far edge, but it got ifanything worse, and we subsided onto it with a series of shattering jolts. I scrambled out and took a too-brief look at her (she seemedall right) and turned to meet the Italians pouring at me through the maize-field between me and the road. Ten minutes later, and 1 was on the pillion of a small motor cyclebuzzing along the straight road running for some miles parallel to the river, with fields of maize and roots and stubble on eitherside. A half mile or so down I had seen a farmhouse, and had assumed that there we would find a telephone, but we whizzedpast this and went on and on. I tried to find out from my driver how far we were going, but could not understand his reply. It washalf past six and suddenly 1 realized that it might well be dark before I could hope to get back to the Skylark—and, in the dark, could I "After each day's flying, the repair hangar would be full of the fish-like hulls of gliders . . ." find it ? From the road, it was on the far side of a field of tall maize, and by day a glimpse could be caught of one wing-tip. But by night ? However, there was nothing to be done, the telephone was the priority objective, so that Kitty and the trailer might find me before the night was out. After some six or seven miles our road joined another, turnedleft and crossed the river, and wound up to a large village called, I found, Grotta Minardo. In spite of urgent appeals, I was whizzedpast the telephone exchange in the main street, and ushered into the presence of the chief of the carabinieri. After examining mypapers, he put through a phone call, talked rapidly for a few minutes, and before I could stop him, hung up. I asked anxiously "Perugia?"and then was made to understand that this wasn't the form at all. The nearest village to my landing point was Castel Baronia, andit was the carabinieri in that area who must receive my report, sign my landing certificate, and presumably take me under theirwing. It might take anything up to two hours to get through to Perugia, and before this I must be clocked in in the correct quarters.Nothing I could do prevented me being dumped once more on the pillion of my friend, and buzzed back to the road fork by the riverbridge, where we sat, fuming, for half an hour. Then a jeep drew up with no fewer than five carabinieri on board. After more explana-tions, my papers were signed, the jeep disappeared down the road in the direction of the Skylark—I thought, incorrectly, to guardit until we turned up—and I was whizzed back to Grotta Minardo. In the office of the carabinieri there, and I found Biagi. Biagi is a redoubtable French pilot, who was also flying in theItalian Championships. He is large and very dark and Southern, has a loud grating voice which is almost always in use, talks very
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