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Oncle Albert - Part 1

Here he stands, Edwardian vogue, sometimes with his spats, 
sometimes with his brogues below his dungarees. With rounded collar points and tie, and jacket donned below this flying suit, his waste is tied with simple rope, knowing this, or any flight, could be his last. With luck he might not die. 

Yes, this flight would dice with early death, no different from another.
Perhaps for glory much increased : "2 kilometres flown! Phone family! Kiki"
or, perhaps, 'Albert Louis is deceased’, a sad telegram for his brother.

February's wind was cold across the fields of Bron. 
His hands were warmed in pockets and his scarf and cap put on. 
The wax on his moustache had stiffened twisted tips, the air around his cheeks would bite and chafe his wind dried lips, saved only by his lingerie 
of wind-proof Lyonite.

From village Bron to ville Monceau, Forty five kilometres, as journeyed by the crow, and returning soon that very day, pray God the wind would slow. 
Fifteen cars in cavalcade 'donnent vite la chase' in tow - 
cars of every make and type to follow this most epic flight. 

Foremost, Monsieur Deydier, with his belles Cottin-Desgouttes, 
and a Turcat Mery motorcar, Monsieur Drevon at the wheel, 
both firmly charged to chase the flight, keeping man and plane in sight 
and staying close at heal.

At nine thirty five precisely, in spite of violent gusts,
Albert turns the  biplane's blade and places in his flying machine 
more hope than certain trust. 

Watching crowds wave winter hats as machine climbs to the sky, 
rocked and tipped from side to side the fields go rushing by. 
At first the church is barely cleared by cloth and bits of wire, 
with courage, and most bravely steered by daring aviateur. 

Ahead the snow lined hills appear nearby La Verpilliere, 
with hope to gain some greater height the Bourgoin towers to clear.
To founder on the upward slope ends journey there and then. 
It's now eleven past the hour, past the hour of ten.

Gaining height did not succeed and blown some way off course 
Kiki is carried by the breeze, forcing followed railroad lines 
beside the road to Grive.  Then wrenching hard the rudder flaps,
climbing three hundred metres more, avoiding all the snowy caps 
of winter's sentried trees, Albert points again towards Monceau, 
some saving height achieved.

As village Ruy comes into sight, full throttle is employed
to mount the Monceau hill in flight towards the landing strip, 
now marked with smoking beacons, and Albert makes his final dip. 
Descending with the greatest speed, and well before the hour, 
the cries of waiting crowds arise, "le voila!" et "le voila!"

Turning straight towards the spot, gents run from every quarter, 
the Sommer points towards the slope pulling quickly up quite short. 
The village swiftly gathers there and hurry to the plane, 
greeting first his friend, le maire, Monsieur Cottin is his name.

Photographers flash 'frenetiquement' all crowded round the plane, 
but no time to linger while the air is  crisp, he soon must fly again.
The whole assembly swift decants towards Montceau Hotel. 
Here Monsieur Cottin has prepared a feast, for Albert and the village folk as well.  

Seated with the guest of honour, is Monsieur le receveur des Finances
de la Tour-du-Pin, and of course Madame; and the Commissaire Monsieur, 
to the left of Madame Budin. 
Monsieur Hugonet the dental surgeon; Monsieur Pouyade the Mayor, 
from St. Victor de Cessieu, and his son; Monsieur Guerre. 
Monsieurs Favrot and L'Arrive, controller d'arrondissement. 
Everyone is there.

And of course Monsieur Emery, distinguished Bourgoin Mayor; 
and, so the papers stress, esteemed excited members 
of all the Lyon press.

A bouquet of flowers is offered and Albert conveys delight, 
no doubt well pleased at completing the first leg of this difficult flight.
Then Monsieur Pouyade's felicitations to our courageous aviateur, 
offered with warm congratulations, not forgetting Cottin Monsieur, 
Montceau's most honoured and dignified mayor, 
for arranging the day's most auspicious event, 
who in turn gave a discourse with thanks eloquent.
A sportsman himself he gave thanks to the ladies, the press, 
and of course to the gents, his friends, and the village, 
his friends everywhere  - 'til at last all the speech time was spent.

But clouds quickly thickened with fierce currents of air 
that risked the parked biplane with Albert aware he can't linger there.
Now loath to remain he speaks his concern.
He makes swift apology, but now must return.

This master of the storm cloud sky must try at once for Bron, 
to complete the voyage that he planned and return to where he'd come. 

Clouds still gather overhead, cool midday gusts arise.
Our pilot rushes down the slope as all are shielding hands to eyes. 
With Godspeed and with prayerful hope he clears the cliff's ravine 
eyes linger 'til well out of sight and Albert can't be seen.

With autocade in hot pursuit, his terrifying dips and swings
are glimpsed along the home-bound route.
They see brave Albert wrestle winds, each biplane's rise and fall.
They see him clear the trees and towers, each rise, each threatened stall.

And all along it's periled path the wind increases more.
Below with every village pass come running from each door
the village lass and village lad who shout their hooray cheers.
But Albert hears no sound below, wind whistling in his ears. 

With gusts increasing all the while at last the low horizon.
The aerodrome, now just a mile, and gathered crowds of Bron,
watch Albert's final swoop and swerve. 
Chapeaux hats are thrown up high and holding hard on stick and nerve
he hears at last their hoorah cry. 

Twelve metres from the prop to tail, in all three hundred kilograms,
plus pilot and remaining fuel,  now bump and skid to final stand
upon the frosty grass.

Yet, no stick or strut was broken. 
Forty five  kilometres, fast flown each daring leg, 
Of Albert's fame is widely spoken -
but by June Kiki was dead.

contd.

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