Corsair (F4U-FG-1) Corsair Nearly 14 feet from tip to tip the big prop scans the sky, Its hub is slanted slightly up---as if it’s born to fly. Parked out on the nose of this “bent-wing bird” (with 18 “jugs” behind)—- Dark blue wings cocked over-head—the cockpit view--quite blind. The step in the flap and those you kick-- in the sides of its shiny side— One knows when one has made this climb---this will be some ride! With the “bubble” back and a foot in the seat--a parachute on the hip, It’s time to lower oneself aboard and culminate the trip. The floorboard spans a gap below—the belly is far away— The cockpit’s big and there is lots of room for hands and feet to “play”. Throttle quadrant’s on the left--- replete with levers—three— (Controls the mixture and the air-- and prop’s pitch pedigree). Fire-bottle manned—(by one on the ground)—and switches all in “rank”— The cry of “contact” shouted out—and starter engages crank— Prop begins its sluggish spin and the “big Pratt” clears its “choke”-- With coughs and gasps it comes to life in clouds of whitish smoke. Rattling cadence finally comes-- as each of the eighteen fires--- The responsive roar from a throttle’s shove—confidence--inspires. The gauges climb as the systems find-- the pressures that are needed— To extend the wings and other things as the signal-men are heeded. A taxi dance of “essing” turns--required by these “steeds”— The long “hose-nose” blinds what’s in front—it’s side-ways looks one needs. When “take-off” time has finally come—(though the rudder trim is set)— A hefty foot on the rudder-(right) will still be needed yet. Tail comes up from the tail-wheel’s stance as the big prop snares the air--- A mighty thrust shoves all back—(including the pilot’s “chair”). The need to stop a bad torque-roll-- “keep air speed well in hand”— Don’t mash down on the “retract” switch, ‘til well above the land! The spinning wheels perform their tasks and their retract “waltz” begin— Axles turn through ninety degrees—(retracting toward their fin). With flaps in place the airplane’s grace is visible once more— The “twenty eight hundred’s” unique sound—a comforting, throaty roar. With guns nesting in the wings in a six abreast array, A low pass flown ‘oer the ground below--underlines one soubriquet— With cooling slots in the bent wing form-- within the prop blast’s scan— Enemies called them “Whistling Death”-- when a strafing run began. Landing one of these thorobreds requires a practiced drill, Keeping the landing spot in sight--- calls for turning skill. One wing can stall before its mate and introduce a roll. Shock rebound could cause a hop—(each can take a toll). “Bent-wing widow-maker”--- was one nick-name acquired— But when all things correctly done---performed like one inspired! When sometime—if you should see--- a survivor of this clan— Especially one that still is flown---drink it in—while still you can!! Bill Woodall