Louis XV’s mistress, Madame Du Barry, sat at his right at the kings every public meal. It was no secret what she was, and in fact she was very proud of her position. Having started life as the illegitimate daughter of a Friar and a seamstress, she had reason to be proud of her ascension into the midst of French royalty.  From the writings of almost any man in the court the source of her meteoric rise was obvious. As one courtesan wrote,

She is tall, well-made, ravishingly fair, with an open forehead, fine eyes, pretty lashes, an oval face with little moles upon her cheeks, which only serve to enhance her beauty, an aquiline nose, a laughing mouth, a clear skin, and a bosom with which most would be wise to shun comparison.

Madame Du Barry had the King around her finger, though he doubtless didn’t mind. Although her monthly stipend of 30,000 Livres was more than generous, it paled in comparison to her real source of funds. The bank of the court was ordered to consider any draft by her a draft by Louis XV himself. In the four years she enjoyed this privilege, Du Barry emptied just thousands short of 6.5 million Livres from the French Treasury- that is, the French people’s treasury.

Madame Du Barry’s wardrobe was the envy of every woman in Versailles. Whether she felt that she had to compensate for her less-than-royal heritage, or simply reveled in unbridled extravagance Du Barry spent vast sums to be the best-dressed of Versailles. One dress, which she wore for a single day at court, was ordered from Mademoiselle Pagelle. Pagelle, a revered Modiste, under whom the later famous “Minister of Fashion”, Rose Bertin, would briefly apprentice, was considered one of the best. The dress was described as, “A white satin dress china silver, embroidered with green and pink straw,” It cost a staggering 10,500 Livres in comparison the average courtesan’s dress which cost between two and four thousand Livres.

The cost of the dress however paled in comparison to some of her parure, a collection of matching jewelry pieces, one of which costs 450,000 Livres. Du Berry was also known to frequent the French watchmaker Pierre-Basile Lepaute’s sale ledgers.

The starving peasants on the street lived in a different world, their building anger and resentment, though justified, would all too soon come to a horrifying head. Yet, It was into this frenzy of spending that Tattet sent his adopted son.

I had spent an intense week living at a gliderport, waking at dawn, pulling Tom Knauff’s two gliders out of their tightly packed hanger, then with the help of the other student, preflighting them. Finally we would tow them on to the runway, line them up, and wait for the tow plane. From that point on both gliders would almost constantly be taking off or landing till evening. When I wasn’t in the cockpit, I was helping whoever was. Clipping in the towline, taking up slack, running the wing, or, if time permitted, studying the books on theory and procedures. This was the culmination of those efforts, my first solo flight.

I got settled in the low seat of the Grob 103, checked all my controls nervously. I was regretting wearing a shirt I liked; it’s tradition for pilots to cut it off when you land from your first solo. Looking out of the canopy I gave the thumbs up, waggled my rudder, and the tow began.

I always had a weakness about remembering to call out 200 feet. We were taught to literally shout out “200” when the altimeter reached it.  In the middle of being towed by another airplane, watching the yellow rope pulled taut, stretching off hundreds of feet from your nose was almost hypnotizing. But 200 feet was the magic number. Above 200 feet, if an emergency required the tow to be aborted it was as simple as doing a steep 180-degree turn and landing on the runway you just took off from. Below 200 feet, however, you would hit the ground before you completed the bank. In that situation you had to find a good place in front of you. You had to do it quickly too, because optimally for every 34 feet you traveled forward, you dropped 1. That might sound like a good ratio, but assuming you were just 10 feet short of that magic number, you would have just over 1 mile before you hit the ground. That is if you are perfectly coordinated the whole time, fly at the optimal speed, and don’t bank. Any of those, plus many uncontrollable factors such as barometric pressure, wind speed and direction, and even the pilot’s weight all decrease your glide ratio. But this time I was going to remember! I would remember to call it out, even if I was alone at the controls.

I congratulated myself, I was keeping the tow in line, glancing at the altimeter, determined. I was almost there. Glancing down I saw 170. I glanced up, ready to correct gently to maintain my alignment. “Whoa, that’s weird, why is the rope curved” I had never seen that before, I looked at it dumbly. I wasn’t scared, I didn’t comprehend it. “How am I traveling faster than the airplane?” I thought, because that is the only explanation for slack. I was starting to worry. Then the plane waggled its wings. The worry turned to fear. That was the sign to abort a tow. I knew it, but I thought it couldn’t be. I felt ice run down my spine. Then a rush of relief as the rope suddenly pulled taut, the plane pulled up, I felt the jerk of acceleration. The tow was ok! I didn’t have to release. I glanced down at the altimeter again, I saw it rising, but never read it, because I felt the acceleration slow again. As I watched the plane drop below me, it waggled its wings again. I cursed. I knew I had to do it, but it was hard, I didn’t hesitate this time though. Pulling the red ball, I heard the familiar ta-chunk of the rope being released from the nose. I had no idea how high I was.

I was somewhere right around 200 feet, but had I lost altitude or gained it since I saw 170? I couldn’t pause to read the altimeter now though. I started a bank, reminding myself it had to be steep. Shallow banks deplete airspeed, which in turn increases sink rate. Looking through the canopy I saw the hill rising quickly beside me. The gliderport is in a long narrow valley, and I had never made it above the tall Allegheny foothills that flank it on two sides. I cursed again, abandoning that plan. I leveled the glider. Scanning the earth before me I glanced at the wide highway, dismissing it almost as quickly as I considered it. Not only their traffic, it was bordered by power lines. Then I remembered a conversation among the instructors.

Students almost never come in to land too slowly, or too low. As you get closer to the ground depth perception makes it hard to come in low enough actually. But if they did, one of the instructor’s commented, on this field there were hardly any consequences to landing short. The cornfield just before the runway was soft. I remember he said the worst part of it was getting the glider out afterward. There usually wasn’t even much damage.

In front of me stretched an expanse of cornfield. I popped the dive brake out of the locked position. Immediately I felt my descent quicken. The only thing that lay between a survivable landing and me was an immense dead tree. At this point its branches were higher from the ground than me. In what felt like a Top Gun maneuver I banked hard to the right, swinging me towards the road, away from the soft field, then an even harder bank to realign myself. I had to bring the wings level again quickly; I was in the final stages of landing. Pulling the dive brake slightly I settled the glider nearer and nearer the tops of the corn. I heard it tapping the fuselage. Almost instantly it grabbed me. I was jerked forward as I decelerated to a stop in a matter of feet.

I immediately unbuckled, popped open the canopy, and jumped out. I inspected the glider for visible damage. There was none. I had left a short trail of flattened corn. I turned from the glider and ran. I had to get back and tell them what happened. If you’ve never run through corn taller than you, it’s almost impossible to describe. Your visibility is several feet in any direction, cornfields are tilled dirt- poor footing, and corn is sharp. I was dressed in shorts, a tee shirt, and flip-flops. It had been a sweltering pre-thunderstorm summer day. After several hundred yards through the corn, I arrived at the railroad tracks I had seen before I landed.

The tracks ran right past the airport, a couple miles distant. As I jogged down the tracks a fine rain began to fall. After some distance I saw the tow plane sitting in a marshy field not far from the tracks. Hoping I didn’t discover the old tow-pilot (he had flown in WWII) injured or worse inside, I headed towards it.  I could see it was damaged as I approached. The planes landing gear had punched through the wing. When I arrived however, it was empty. I circled the plane confused. I realized I had no idea how much time had passed. Was the pilot already rescued? My question was answered quickly as I saw a fireman approaching. He asked me if I was the pilot, then he lead me back toward the tracks, and the road beyond it. An ambulance was waiting, as well as the tow-pilot. He was uninjured. He told me the engine had simply quit. Soon, I was surrounded by people asking if I was ok. My father arrived and insisted we go home. I drove.

I have to say this was one of the most exciting, and also frightening experiences in my life. Yet, I distinctly remember I was not thinking about my own survival, that hardly crossed my mind, what I was thinking was along the lines of, “I cannot hurt this glider. Tom will be so disappointed if I damage his glider. He trusted me with it.” I have often wondered about that response to the situation. I feel as if it provides deeply introspective look at my personality. Then again it could have simply been the human brain’s reaction to the most intense surge of adrenaline it had ever experienced.

The local paper wrote about it. Article below:

Student Pilot Makes Safe Landing.

.

]]> http://berkeleybyers.com/?feed=rss2&p=12 6 http://berkeleybyers.com/?p=3 http://berkeleybyers.com/?p=3#comments Thu, 16 Jul 2009 04:09:34 +0000 admin http://berkeleybyers.com/?p=3 Today started out normally, a shower, a long public transit commute, a coffee, work, then suddenly everything changed. I was given a website. Now I know what you must all be saying, “A website, by god, how newfangled and modern. Positively living on the cusp Good Sir!” or maybe not. Maybe I have been a little slow to get my very own website, but for good reason. I’ll detail those reasons later when I have made an exhaustive list of every semi-plausible excuse.

But until that day comes, I need to find a unique purpose for this site, something that will attract these mythical page views. I think there is some kind of prize for those. As a result I will ponder this quandary (is that wording poetic, or simply overwrought [is the word “overwrought” overwrought or is that just me?] [also is this grammatically correct?]) until I have come to a suitable decision. As a means I shall write posts sampling potential ideas.