As promised, the edited version of Flypast, with many thanks to Ron.
Flypast
As the Spitfire soared into the air Bill wanted to impress his grandson, but would the old man’s nerves hold out?
The wintry sun glinted on the cockpit as Bill nosed the plane towards the runway. His nerves were taut as he adjusted the throttle. The familiar markings of the Spitfire brought back many memories. His last flight had been just after the war. He was understandably nervous.
With the engine idling he positioned the aircraft just short of the runway, checking the ailerons and elevator and flicking the rudder left-right in the same run-up procedure he’d done so many times in the past. Willing himself to relax he eased the throttle forward and pointed the plane straight down the airstrip. As it picked up speed and shimmered down the runway his face was rigid with tension.
He lifted the tail, easing the rudder as the nose started hunting left. His heart pounded as the Spitfire accelerated. Soon it would be at take-off speed – and he’d be committed.
Remembering the importance of keeping calm, he worked the rudder to keep the plane on a straight line as it rapidly picked up pace.
Takeoff speed. He eased back on the stick, his left-hand unconsciously verifying the throttle was full. The wheels skipped, once, twice, and then the camouflaged aircraft soared majestically skyward. Only when it was well clear of the grove of trees bordering the runway did he retract the undercarriage. A thrill of achievement flushed through him as he breathed a sigh of relief.
After gaining sufficient height, he eased the left wing down for a turn onto the crosswind leg, followed a moment later by another 90 degree turn to the downwind leg of the circuit. Filled with pride he thought of his young grandson who would be watching intently for the plane’s every move. So far, so good.
Relaxing a little he felt his confidence returning as he circled the airfield once more, this time passing low in front of the crowd so his grandson would have a better view as the aircraft roared past.
George had warned him to keep to simple manoeuvres on this first flight, but after a few more circuits he felt confident enough to try something a little more difficult. Can’t have these other chaps showing me up in front of my grandson, he thought.
Breathing deeply to steady his nerves he gripped the stick tightly and pushed it left to start a roll. The plane responded as he knew it would. Only by a single wrong decision, oversight, or misjudgement could he wreck this beautiful piece of craftsmanship. Camouflaged wings flashed as the Spitfire rolled. He grinned, imagining the look of excitement on his grandson’s face.
But that slight loss of concentration proved to be a fatal mistake. The speed of the roll surprised him and he over-corrected. With rising panic he realized the plane was going into a diving spiral.
Wrestling desperately with the controls his mind was a whirl of thoughts; uppermost was the frantic realisation that he might crash in front of his grandson. Nothing appeared to be responding as the aircraft continued to plummet towards the earth. The tension was tying his stomach in knots. George had been right, he was paying the price for over confidence. He should have suppressed his excitement and remained cool, relaxed and methodical. Then his instincts took over. He adjusted the controls and finally managed to bring the wings level. But he now realised to his horror that it was diving at the spectators.
Terrified he was going to freeze at the controls, he had only seconds to make a decision. If he could gain altitude it would give him time to get the plane under control, but he had to avoid the spectators. Resisting the urge to close his eyes he pulled into a steep bank to turn away from the crowd. To his relief it worked and the Spitfire responded and headed in a new direction. But the distance between the plane and the ground was narrowing at an alarming rate - and it was going in nose first. He pulled back hard on the controls, and with seconds to spare the plane started to level out. But he ran out of altitude. With the undercarriage still tucked up tight inside the wings the plane touched down on its belly, bounced, slammed down again, skidded, then hit a rock and flipped onto its back.
The two men raced over to the fallen aircraft, followed by a small boy, his face screwed up in anguish. Even before they reached it they could see the port wing was completely demolished.
Surveying the wreckage, Bill turned despondently to his companion. “I guess you were right, George. Flying these model aeroplanes can be just as tricky as the real thing.”
ends
. 
