Wings of the Morning

Rare is the ship captain, locomotive engineer or plane pilot who can or will articulate, with skill at words commensurate with his skill at the controls, his, sensations while in action. More articulate than many a fulltime writer, however, is Major Alford Joseph ("Al") Williams of the Marine Corps Reserve who, besides flying planes at top speeds, writes about aeronautics for magazines, is currently doing a series for Scripps-Howard.

Last New Year's morning, Al Williams had the idea of flying aloft before earthly dawn to see a preview of 1936's first sunrise. Last week he repeated this maneuver. Upon alighting, he sat down in the hangar and typed out what he had seen and felt. The result was a glowing little chapter of air literature. Excerpts:

"The plane works away stiff-legged and importantly over the rough ground. Like an ill-tempered old somebody awakened too early, she shrugs her shoulders from side to side as each wheel sinks into a rut. . . .

"Overdressed with colored lights, to attract attention, a wind tee points to the West. There comes the wind! As we rush to meet it, the long yellow exhaust flame shortened and turned blue. . . .

"Back over the tail lie New York and its satellites like a giant Christmas tree blown to the ground, with the lights still burning. Heavy yellow lines mark the trunk and main branches tapering off to isolated pinpoints that try to hold the tip designs, as if the decorators ran short of bulbs. . . .

"We settle down to the business of climbing. The Cyclone is getting rough. A bit of heat in the carburetor and a little tinkering with the air mixture. It's smooth again. At 18,000 feet the cold is growing disagreeable. . . .

"A little over 22,000 feet . . . and just when I am beginning to wonder how much less oxygen I can get along without, there is the sun! From the strangely low angle it seems to pop up at us. The chromium plated struts gleam and twinkle, and the vivid orange wings take on new light.

"Good morning, 1937! I have seen many sunrises from above, but this is a fresh one. All kinds of color schemes are here, for the first of the newest day. The upper rim of this blazing sun is gold and yellow, right from the start. The air is crystal clear. Am I imagining? Maybe. Maybe not. Altitude does funny things to people. Some laugh foolishly. Some get cracky, with as little reason. What does it do to me? I don't know. My mind is inside itself and can't see its image without some kind of a mirror. . . .

"By now the whole sky is busy with day. Down below, battalions of grey light are marching over blackness and lights alike. My wing tips extend over the Atlantic and the Sound. Blanked out by my fuselage is the Island. I must go home. I am getting tired with deep breathing. Turn about to the West. Throttle down. More heat to the carburetor.

"Down goes the nose of the plane. Now, what's the airspeed indicator hand? 200-- 250--300, flush! Pressure in the ears. A yell, and they are cleared. The altimeter hand is late, for we are 1,000 feet ahead of it. At 10,000 feet I can make out land and water. Lloyd's Neck looks like the head of a dinosaur and the next peninsula is like a giant cypress tree. . . .

"Now the plane is standing straight on its nose--350, 360 miles an hour ... we are whistling toward Roosevelt Field.

Running away after taking a peak into a strange land at a new day! "Fuzzy twin lights of automobiles are still poking along, far down below . . .

belated celebrants returning home, too.

Wonder if their faces match the color of those tired-looking yellow lights? ... A long climbing turn, the propeller set back to low pitch. Down goes the landing gear. The plane lands on the runway as lightly as the wings of the morning."

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.