Intermission 2

Five months before Ernst Muller made his first flight in CF-FAM, my father was getting ready to leave the African plains for destinations unknown.

Work had either dried up in the equatorial sun or grown too stale and boring for his lofty tastes.  In a pattern that would be re-exhibited several times over his life, my dad went on to something else.

His last flight in Africa was on April 19th, 1973 - a half hour, lunch time aerobatic jaunt in the RF-5. 

He spent two weeks in Germany, in the Hesse town of Bottenhorn in the foothills of the Westerwald mountain range.  He logged 46 minutes in ASK 13 gliders, did a dual flight in a Scheibe Falke motor glider and then ferried a Cessna 172 back from Breitscheid before continuing "home" to San Giacomo.

My dad's glider logbook and an appropriately stern Hessian gaze in the accompanying photograph. (Family Collection)

The 1st page of his glider logbook showing a dozen flights - 9 dual, 3 solo - for a total of 46 minutes. (Family Collection)

After three months, there were still no suitable job offers - at least nothing that piqued his interest.

Then, one day in August, came a knock at the door. 

Instead of the postman and a job offer, there were two carabinieri, Italian State Police, with orders to take Antonio F. Rotondo to the nearest military depot to be drafted into the Esercito Italiano.

And with that, my father became a 28-year-old private in the Italian Army.

Dad in his full dress uniform, 1974. (Family Collection)

Until very recently, all Italian citizens were required by law to serve the nation - many of them through terms in the armed forces.  My father had left Italy before being drafted and could return as long as he didn't stay longer than 3 months.  He had overstayed his welcome by a week.

At 28, he was at least 5 years older than the oldest of his draftee class and not well suited to the typical barracks tomfoolery.  The Italian Army hadn't won a battle since the height of the Roman Empire...and running around a field wantonly firing a sub-machine gun for enough money to buy a Coke and two slices of pizza wasn't his idea of a good time.
He immediately made an appeal to his commanding officer to be transferred to the Air Force given he was an educated man with pilot training - not a hoodlum or a kid straight out of high school.  His captain did the best he could - sending him to Naples in February to take a six-month course in becoming a wireless operator. 

Stamps and signatures from flying clubs in Bottenhorn Germany & Naples Italy. (Family Collection).

In Naples, he found the Aero Club di Napoli and, after a check ride with instructor Orazio Puccini, bookended his course in Morse code by indulging his hobby on three Italian built Partenavia P.66 Oscars.  As of 2010, all three (I-POSI, I-MERG & I-MISE) remain in service with the Aero Club at Capodichino Airport.



Aero Club Di Napoli's fleet.  I-MISE is first from the left in the middle row, I-POSI is second from the left in the back row and I-MERG is second from the right in the middle row. (Photo Courtesy: Aero Club di Napoli)



P.66 I-POSI pictured in December 2008.  This was the first P.66 my dad flew and the one he did most of his Naples flying in. (Photo Courtesy: Aero Club di Napoli)

In June of 1974, he returned to his unit as a Marconista (wireless operator) and participated in manoeuvres where he rode around in a Armoured Personnel Carrier festooned with antennae in order to signal the other APCs and tanks in the battallion.  He and his fellow wireless ops thought this was great fun until they realized, should their unit ever be sent into battle, their APC would be the first to be targeted. 

With his mates outside their barracks near Bari, 1974 or 1975.  My dad is 2nd from the left.  (Family Collection)

Despite the forced nature of their employment and the futility of their actions, these were happy times.  My dad recalled that they had little to worry about except to ensure that their boots were shined and pants pressed.  Gags like exploding shaving cream canisters and swapping out tapes of Morse code signals for the chart topper of the day were common.  They were well fed, well equipped and well respected.  In those days, a soldier in uniform could hitchhike home and often did.

Two Italian Army wireless operators in full dress uniform.  My dad is on the left. (Family Collection)

My father was discharged from the army in the winter of 1975 after 18 months of service.

In August, just a month shy of his 30th birthday, he returned to Canada where he had been offered a job.



A Biplane is Born

At a small airfield north of Toronto, the low hum of an 85 horsepower Continental engine grows to a buzz.
A small, blue and white biplane rolls down the paved runway, tail low, propeller thrashing the autumn air at high revolutions.
The tail rises, both sets of wings begin to fly under the rush of air.  There's a slight swing of the button nose and the rudder flicks right, right, left, right to compensate.
Galloping down the 2650 foot asphalt runway, wings begging for flight, flying wires flexed, the rigid gear grows fidgety and impatient with the pilot who chooses to hold his brave little ship back just a moment more. 
Boots dance on rudder pedals. 
There is no romance here, no style, no grace...only a point two thousand feet beyond where the runway vanishes at the intersection of emerald fields and sapphire skies.
A light, barely perceptible bit of aft pressure on the stick, the runway falls away and CF-FAM bounds into the air.

The day is October 20th, 1973.  The time 5:45pm.  Ernst Muller has just left the ground in CF-FAM for the very first time.  Maple Airport was his Kittyhawk. 

An aerial shot of the construction of Canada's Wonderland in 1980 - which my dad and godfather worked on.  Maple Airport is pictured at top right.  (Photo Courtesy Canada's Wonderland)

"It kept your feet busy," he recalls, almost 40 years later.  His voice is firm but far away on the other end of the line. 

"It was squirrely on the ground," a pause, a hint of fondness in recalling a distance memory."But in the air, it was just perfect...really light on the controls...you flew it with two fingers."

His first test flight lasted 20 minutes.  Muller landed at Maple just after 6:00pm. 

"It was a challenge to land on asphalt," he remembers.  "It sat very nose high so you couldn't see well over the nose."

That first flight was the culmination of a year of work for Muller - he finished the airplane in the garage of his Rexdale, Ontario home - but FAM's story begins years before.

Thanks to a stranger's generosity, I am now in possession of the aircraft's manufacturer's plate.  On the front, are all the particulars identifying FAM as an Ernst Muller build.

CF-FAM's manufacturer's plate.  (Family Collection).

On the reverse however, hidden for the entirety of the aircraft's service life, a mystery.  The plate had been heavily filed down, obscuring previous engravings.  Stamped onto the shiny surface is the following:

SMITH     DSA-1

REG. CF-FAM

SERIAL - 8730

1971

FRED A. MCGREGOR

The reverse of CF-FAM's manufacturer's plate. (Family Collection)

"Does the name Fred A. McGregor mean anything to you?"  I ask Muller.
"Who?"
"Fred A. McGregor."
"Oh, yes," the 76-year-old replies.  "He's the fellow I bought it from - but he wasn't the first to work on it."
This would explain the earlier date, the difference in serial numbers...the file marks.
"At least 3 others worked on the airplane before he did,"  Muller explains.  "You see, it was a very unique airplane...and no matter where I took it, someone would tell me stories of how they tried to get it flying."
Before Muller, McGregor had come the closest.  He went as far as applying to the Civil Aviation Branch of the Department of Transport for a customised registration.

Fred A. McGregor

FAM

"I liked the look of it," Muller remembers.  "A single seat biplane, it was very unique...but it was a challenge to get it flying."

Muller spent a year finishing McGregor's project.  He remembers satisfaction at finally getting it into the air...but little else. No pictures survive, no documents...nothing but memories.

Sketches of N90P - the Smith Miniplane prototype.

He tells me that he painted it blue and white, that he put a canopy on it after flying around in the rain, that he did some basic aerobatics in it and that it spun sweetly.  He remembers that, due to the angle of the fuel tank, the aircraft was prone to power loss during take-off if the tank was less than one-third full. 

His tone is matter of fact and distant but not unfriendly. 

You see, there are, in basic terms, two sorts of pilots.  The first group regards their machines as living, breathing aerial companions that understand and empathise, reward and punish, give and take life...but always poetically, heroically, rich in grace and with a certain measure of mechanical humanity.  The second group means to fly them - and that's it.

It becomes obvious to me that Muller is of the latter persuasion.  If I needed more proof, the evidence is plainly set out in the aircraft's journey log.

Muller flew FAM for 5 years less 3 months.  He filled 14 pages and logged 509.5 hours.  The furthest east he took it was St. Lazare.  The furthest west: Gore Bay on Manitoulin Island.  Every flight is meticulously logged: date, nature of flight, pilot's name, times up and down, air and flight time, aircraft total time, etc... 
In all that time, he didn't see the need to set anything down in the remarks section.  It is entirely devoid of any insight...except the words "test flite"...on September 17th, 1977.

Our phone conversation of June 28th, 2012 lasted about 12 minutes.  We spoke of other things I will reveal as this story develops.  The entire time, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was on a train to some faraway, unknown place...and that my ticket would only take me so far.

I am, as you can well imagine, overjoyed to speak to him.  I prattle on excitedly about my inspiration for this project, my research, those I've talked to, who owned the airplane, where it had been, where it is now...

He listens patiently...but when I ask him if he'd be interested in my sending him all this information, he politely declines.

"Some people get attached to airplanes," he says in a slight Swiss accent.  "I don't."

"I've had other ones, you go on to other things..."

I've heard similar words before.  There's some finality to this conversation.

He thanks me again and wishes me good luck.  I scarcely have time to thank him before a click and the drone of the dial tone.

I hear so much promise in that "F" note.

Confessions

March 19th, 2012 - about 5 miles north-east of Gatineau.
I'm sitting in the back of a newish Super Decathlon, slowing down through 90 knots.
Then, a deep breath.
Stick full back, a swift push of my left foot against the rudder pedal and the horizon vanishes under the nose.
A shudder, the left wing drops sharply - a little aileron now to help the roll but we're rotating quickly as it is.
The horizon now dissecting my limited view forward, now revolving madly, now over my head...
Stick forward now, full opposite rudder and some measure of normalcy returns with straight and level flight.
A snap roll in the Super Decathlon takes roughly two seconds.  It is the fastest roll the airplane will do.
My student, riding up front, is impressed.
"Awesome!" he shrieks.  He's a grown man - married with two kids.  I love his enthusiasm.  "Do another?"
I oblige.
"Again!"  Les gets younger with every manoeuvre.
I shrug.  We whip around a third time.
"Okay, I'm done," says Les from the front seat.  I turn over control of the aircraft and I hear him talking to the terminal controller as we start a sweeping right turn for home.
I'm gazing forlornly at the Gatineau Airport crawling by under our wings.
I wish I could tell my dad about the snap rolls.  He'd want to hear about it.

My father and I enjoyed a good relationship although it was one that grew difficult as we aged.
We certainly shared the passion of flying and a voracious appetite for literature - but little else. 
In fact, in the last few years, we only ever spoke of flying, reading, hockey and work.  More often than not, we clashed - and that thanks to radically different personalities.  One of his favourite things to say to me was "you sound/talk/act/think/behave like your mother."  It was and still is true.

Sitting in a Cessna 172 at Carp, I think.  This would be 1988 or 1989.  (Family Collection)

My sister inherited many more traits from my father than I did and he apparently always believed she would become the pilot and not I.  Ironically and in a cruel twist, those very same traits assured she would never take to the skies as he did. In fact, my sister had very little interest in aviation. I spent most of my childhood sitting in airplanes. Vanessa spent the bulk of hers standing next to them striking a pretty pose. 

My dad was a gentle and beautiful soul that suffered from bad timing and unfortunate luck.  A series of personal catastrophes changed him over time.  He withdrew into his work - it kept him anywhere but at home - and became more of an obsession than an occupation.

Dad and I at the St. Catharines Airport in the summer of 2003 with PA-28-151 C-GQXP.  This is right after the alternator regulator failed on take-off - my first in-flight "emergency." (Family Collection)

I had the happy fortune of spending many summers with my dad working on construction sites from North Bay to Niagara Falls.  We would work Monday to Saturday and, after I received my pilot's license, find an airport to fly out of on Sundays.  Aviation was, without a doubt, our strongest bond...and the one we spoke about the most.
 
FAM, however, was a ghost - talked about rarely yet fondly and existing in the pristine and endless skies of my father's memory.  After he sold the plane, he had no interest in knowing where it was or what it was doing or who had the fortune of flying it.  He cared only for where it had been, what it had been like to fly it and how it made him feel.

As he deteriorated, the old flying stories remained sharp albeit repetitive.  At the time, hearing him prattle on about Murray Sinton and Alan Coulson, Biff Hamilton and Ken Richardson, the RF-5 and how the Chipmunk spun could be mildly irritating - only in that I'd heard the stories a million times before.

Now, I'd give anything to hear one again.

And perhaps that is why I'm so bent on seeing this project through...so haunted by the spectre of a red biplane and its one-time pilot.

Obviously, I can no longer consult my chief source on the matter.  Finding and speaking to those who knew the aircraft intimately is a quest in history and archaeology.  Snapshots and snippets of the story rise from the pages of logbook entries set down decades ago or from hastily scribbled notes on scraps of yellowing paper.  Internet searches reveal little more than phone numbers that, if still connected, sometime lead to new information, new voices and old memories relived.  One avenue uncovered inevitably leads to several more which branch out like the strands of a spider's web...and one can find themselves easily entangled in it.  Chronology, as you can well imagine, becomes entirely useless and hopelessly ineffective.  And so, the story takes on an organic feel...one that changes and evolves with each new scrap of information that comes to light.

There's a squeak, a shimmy and then I feel the weight transfer from my backside to my thighs.  I'm prodded back to reality by the trundling of rubber on runway.

Les has the aircraft rolling on the main wheels down Runway 09 at Rockcliffe.  The wind is not severe enough to make the wheel landing necessary but Les likes to practice...and I'm happiest when I can see where we're going.  As we taxi off the runway at the end, we make two left turns and proceed down the taxiway towards the fuel pumps.  We roll slowly, tail down, past an empty tie down; the familiar plot of land where the Mini-plane resided 25 years ago. 

I gaze at the grass swaying ever so delicately in the early evening breeze. 

I swear I hear the biplane's engine humming in the wind's breath.