First Warbird: An Old Friend Lost, and New Friends Made DAY 1 There she is! After flying my beloved Cessna 172 from Hackettstown to Georgia and finally finding the small private Downing airport, I can see the Zlin poking its nose out of the hanger to see her new owner. My first impression: Big! With most of my experience observing aerobatic airplanes in the form of Pitts Specials, somehow I had pictured a smaller airplane but she is BIG. To go with her, a big man with a fine beard waves me to park the Cessna in the grass by the hanger. I am to meet both John Downing and John Barnett here. As the stranger walks up to the Cessna I see his hat has "ZLIN" and "JOHN BARNETT" embroidered on it. At least I'm in the right spot. The trip down has been bittersweet. A beautiful day all the way down the Mountains, the Cessna running perfectly. Autopilot on, sipping coffee and listening to the golden oldies on the ADF. Almost like flying the airliner, always knowing from the LORAN where I am and exactly how long to the next stop. I haven't flown the Cessna much lately and now in her for the last time I appreciate what a splendid cross country airplane she is. All the way down the mountains I'm remembering all the places we have been together. I was a private pilot when I got her and she has seen me through my instrument rating, and carried me to Tennessee and South Carolina for my Commercial, Multiengine, and Instructor ratings. We have been to Florida and across the Mississippi river. Closer to home I sweated in her again to pass my Instrument Instructor check ride, teaching a bored pilot examiner how to enter holding patterns. I loved her and hated her as she showed me the beauty the United States and stranded me with a bad magneto in Roanoke Virginia. I even got "24 hour road service" for her after planning to refuel at an airport where I found out too late that the gas concession had gone out of business. You should have seen that Exxon tow truck operator when I told him that the gas was for an airplane (and yes, it has a legal auto-gas STC). Now I am an airline pilot, and on our last trip she is running like a sewing machine. I hope her new owner cares for her as much as I did. My last landing in her-a little high and a little fast. Landed long but only I notice. Blame it on a strange grass airport and fatigue. She will become at ease here, but not just yet. She is a stranger now and needs time to feel at home. "WELCOME!" It is John Barnett greeting me. He tells me that John Downing is over at the paved airport getting a jug or two of gas for the Zlin. Would I like a Coke? Sure I would. I've been on the road since 5:00 this morning and pushing hard all the way. I've only eaten a bowl of cereal today, and not had a drink for hours. It is about 95 degrees and humid. I'm dehydrated and tired. Would I like a Coke? Not until I see the Zlin up close. I'm a pilot and have my priorities. My drink can wait. Up on the wing in the blink of an eye, and I'm sitting in her at last. What a smell! If you are a pilot you will understand, if not you will never. The fine mix of aviation gasoline, fabric, old electrical insulation, leather, grease and sweat. Ladies, if you want to find a pilot use a little 100 octane behind the ears, nothing else smells quite like it. It smells like home. I nestle my hands on the throttle and stick and I am at home. She feels JUST RIGHT! This is an REAL AIRPLANE, not a flight system. Build in the early 1950's, she is the first of a long line of aerobatic airplanes built by the famous Zlin company in Czechoslovakia. This one is an ex-military Zlin 126, the only one flying in North America. Smuggled out of Czechoslovakia after the Russians ordered it destroyed so as to prevent defection, it was disassembled in Austria after being secretly flown across the border in 1969 and had been shipped to California. Sold by a friend of the defector, the money gained waited in a bank account for its old owner to join it. Some years later its old owner walked across the border in the middle of the night with nothing but his clothes, shoes, and his pet cat in a bag, obtained asylum, and later came to the USA where the money was waiting. Now both he and the Zlin live in freedom. After a few hours of looking, poking, gassing, testing, learning, and sweating the time has come. I'm strapped into the unfamiliar cockpit and left alone with the stranger. Will she behave? I hope so. John Downing has taken her around the field once and then with a few more words of advice cast me loose to the winds. Alone. It is hot, the field is short, and we agree that I am better by myself to save the weight. Now, looking around nothing seems familiar. The gauges are all metric, the tachometer looks like a clock with two hands. I have to search to find the needles I am looking for fuel-pressure, oil temperature. A last word of advice is to land on the highway if I lose an engine just after takeoff-and that there is a small pasture even closer to the field if I really need it. I hope I do not. For myself, I care something, for the plane a little also. For my new wife, waiting in New Jersey, I care everything. For her I will be extra careful. Throttle up, oil pressure check, airspeed alive, stick forward to bring up the tail. Steer with the feet now, the WRONG foot. The engine turns backwards and everything is different. Green grass blurs, slowly at first, then a quick glimpse of the audience watching from the side. Bounce once, too early-not enough speed. 50 Kilometers is not 50 Knots. Wait for a second, then a smooth pull-up over the trees. Just like my first solo the thought comes-I've gotten it off the ground, now I have to get back! Wiggle the tail, rock the stick, and I am born again-this time with wings. My element, secure and safe. No danger here, only down near the ground, that in between place between flight and earth. Here above the trees I am safe. The first turn coming up-move the stick, touch the rudder. She responds like a thoroughbred. I think "right" and she goes. Looking below I see the field a million miles away, and the cars on the highway. You cannot follow me now, I am alone and free. Catch me if you can! My first approach is all wrong. I am fast and high. I almost complete the landing, then hear my own words to the students that I teach "If you are not down on the first third of the runway, go around". I do. Second attempt. Line up with the field, breath on the rudder, caress the throttle. Pull gently to hold 110 KM/HR over the fence. Nose up, pull a bit more, then we are down. Almost perfect, but not quite. Never perfect. Ask a good pilot about his last landing and he will tell you all of his mistakes. He remembers and knows them each. Only unskilled pilots make perfect landings. They do not know enough to know their errors. Trees coming past the window slower now, a bump, a bounce. Then the spell is broken. I taxi very slowly to the hanger, an albatross. Graceful on wings, clumsy on feet. I do not want to embarrass myself in front of her old owners. Back on the throttle, fuel off, magnetos off, canopy slides back. Hot humid air, and the faces of the others. "What do you think?" they ask. I smile. Words could never mean what that smile showed. Once again I have found my place. I know that I will love her and hate her, that she will show me the beauty of flight and strand me far from home. All airplanes do. But now I am infatuated, and can see no blemishes. I will take her home. I see my old Cessna in the hanger, alone now in her new place. Does she miss me? I feel like a guy at a dance who leaves his date to dance with the prettiest girl there, and who leaves his date behind. Nobody is crowding around the Cessna. She looks alone and lost. I get out of the Zlin, and Donnye Barnett tells me how excited she is to have the Cessna. I feel better. John and Donnye will love and hate the Cessna, and she will do to them what she did to me. I hope they treat her well. DAY 2 Awake at dawn. Ground fog in the valleys, and a major frontal system 50 miles south and west. We breakfast and go out to the field. Still dark, and everything is wet. I am soaked from the knees down as we look the Zlin over before it is pulled from the hanger. Full of fuel, full of oil. Dead battery. The generator is non-functional and the starter has not worked in years. Third pull and she starts and I slowly taxi out on the grass. Oil temp coming up, magnetos checked. Throttle up and I am off in the calm morning air. Out over the field boundary, nose down to gain some speed, and a hard pull back to the field for a fly-past. Down through the clearcut in the woods I do my vary best to look just a little like a Spitfire as I waggle the wings at the small crowd watching my departure. Finishing up this important business, I begin my slow climb up to ? altitude. The altimeter is metric and I just climb until it feels right. My route of flight takes me up the east side of the Smoky Mountains, over the flat plains leading down to the ocean two hundred miles east. On the left I can see the mountains poking up through the fog. Fog indeed: The haze that I took off in is becoming dense ground fog as the sun rises, and looking back over my shoulder I see that the frontal system behind me makes a return to Downing Field doubtful. Press on, after all I have my new LORAN receiver and know where I am within a half mile. The destination is reported VFR and I'll be over the fog in a few minutes. Looking at the LORAN and !!! NOTHING. The display is blank, the thing must have been turned on in my flight bag overnight and the batteries are dead. I have spares, but they are in the rear cockpit and may as well be on the moon. WOW! Visions of being famous in Flying Magazine, "The experienced pilot inexplicably continued VFR flight into IFR conditions, etc. etc...", dance in my head. Above the fog, a strange airplane, and far from home over unfamiliar terrain. What to do. Aviate, Navigate, Communicate. I can do all three. The airplane is flying great, and I know exactly where I am and what the upcoming terrain is like. I can see the mountains on the left. I know that if I do not have ground contact in an hour then I can follow a mountain pass that I am familiar with and go to the west side of the mountains and land at any of a number of airports in the high terrain above the fog. I will wait exactly one hour and then decide, this decision is based on fuel and range. One hour exactly and I will turn. For now I study the magnetic compass (gyrocompass in a Zlin? Never.), needle, and airspeed. Basic airmanship and I do my best. I figure I have the aviate and navigate portions figured out, now lets communicate. Rather, lets listen to weather and try to get some idea of the extent of the fog. Handheld radio (did you expect a panel mount?) is retrieved, and turned on and BRAAAAAPPPP. The Zlin has unshielded ignition wires and the handheld is useless. So much for that plan. One less item to worry about anyway. Aviate and Navigate it shall be. Fifty minutes to go, just fog outside. Thirty minutes (and several pounds lighter due to my sweat) and still just fog. Ten minutes and the view is the same. Five minutes and I will turn to the pass which I now see thirty miles off the left wingtip. It leads to Asheville North Carolina and high ground. Two minutes and GROUND CONTACT!! The fog is breaking up. In five miles it is gone and in ten more minutes I am looking at Rutherford airport where I land and get fuel. "What is that" I am asked. I tell them it is a Zlin, and I spell it. "How was your flight?". I tell them it was fine, just fine. A hand prop and I am off. The trip is easy now, landing in Lynchburg VA and then in Winchester VA. In Winchester I am greeted by a excited pilot even before I shut the engine down. "That is a ZLIN!" he says. I agree that it is and ask how is it that he knows what it is. "I have one of my own, down in my hanger". It is Steve Beaver, soon to be an excellent friend. I look at his beautiful Zlin 226 in his hanger and exchange phone numbers with him. I wish I could stay and visit, but cannot. There are still many miles to go. Steve hand props for me and I am off again, this time for home. Two hours later I can see Hackettstown in the distance and I know that I have done it. I do a careful landing and taxi in. "What is that" I am asked. "A Zlin", I answer. "How do you spell that?". Z-L-I-N. Get used to it; from now on I spell it without being asked. Home at last, safe and sound. One old friend lost, my old Cessna. A bunch of new friends made, The Barretts, John Downing, Steve Beaver, and of course the Zlin. Airplanes come and airplanes go, but the human friends stay for a lifetime. Aviation isn't about airplanes; it is just a tool to find people of the same mindset. I am glad that I understand this, and appreciate it before it is too late. Thank you, all of the people who I have had the pleasure to meet on this and other trips; you are what make it all so very special. Dave Sutton, August 1983