|
Getting your Trinity Audio player ready...
|
I shouldn’t moan about the R40 a month old Piet paid me, because part of the deal was that I also got a house—well, a sort of house—on the airfield. I think it had once been a paint store or something, about 50 yards down from Placo’s hangar.
Anyhow, that’s where I lived with my wife and three-year-old son. It is relevant to this story, so here we go.
Tea-making was one of the duties at which I was particularly sharp. I could produce a cup of hot sustenance, to Zingi’s formula, in less than a minute. I was busy with this duty when the window between his office and the hangar clattered open.
“Davis,” Zingi yelled. “Tell those bastards not to aim their aircraft at my hangar.”
The mind raced. Our hangar must be the target of some sort of missile attack. I wasn’t sure how I’d deter the enemy from their evil intent, but I was more than willing to answer the call to arms.
I dashed outside to assess the danger and get a better view of the bastards, so as to formulate a plan that would put an end to their villainous aiming.
Looking where Zingi had pointed, I could see nothing more offensive than a couple of guys in the middle distance trying to start an Auster.
The Auster’s specialty is low and slow.
Thank God we’re safe, I thought, and went back to report to Zingi that there was no longer any evidence of danger outside.
Had Zingi not been Managing Director of Placo Sales, he could have taken up employment with any branch of the military in need of a Sergeant Major. His diction, volume, and word choice would have fulfilled the most stringent demands of the job.
After adjusting his bow tie, he treated me to a sample of this talent, touching—as he often had before—on my ancestry, education, and resemblance to some vile, slimy creature emerging from a pond. He went on to suggest that if I did not immediately get the Auster pointing in some other direction, he would insert a Comanche tow-bar into me.
This was something of an incentive, but I still approached the perspiring duo with a certain caution. I could see they must have been at it for some time and guessed that the blazing sun was taking its toll on their usual bonhomie. They viewed my approach without enthusiasm. My cheerful greeting and apologetic relaying of the boss’s message did nothing to revive the joie de vivre that I knew was at the heart of every pilot’s nature.
Using an expression with sexual connotations, they invited me to go away.
Now I was in trouble—their suggestion was unambiguous, and yet Zingi had been more than clear about his requirements.
I shuffled hesitantly in no-man’s-land, edging toward the hangar, hoping that Zingi had been called away on urgent business. He hadn’t. He emerged from the shadows and stood, legs apart, gently swinging the aforementioned tow-bar. Even at that distance, he seemed to have the disposition of a young Charlie Bravo. I could tell that if I wished to avoid the painful installation he proposed, I would do well to re-negotiate the matter with the Auster-swingers.
Tottering back to the front lines, I explained to the unhappy pair what Zingi was proposing to do with the implement in his hand.
“Aha!” they said in unison, as if supporting Zingi’s plan.
The long and the short of it was that they finally agreed to let me help them turn the aircraft 30 degrees to the left—which meant that it was not technically aimed at the hangar.
I returned to HQ with an air of rightful indignation. I had put considerable effort into a worthless project.
No sooner had I revived my tea-making activities when I heard the Auster start. After some introductory coughing and spluttering, it settled down to a healthy roar. For God’s sake throttle back, I muttered into the teapot. They didn’t. The noise got louder and closer. There was a horrendous clatter and crash, a tinkling of broken glass—and then silence.
I stuck my head out of the hangar and was greeted by the sight of a foreshortened Auster with its nose through my bedroom window.
Zingi followed me down to examine the damage. As he arrived, I looked around. Neither of us said a word, but a trace of a smile spread across his face as he lifted the towbar and gently waved it in my direction.
Now there was a guy who really knew about aeroplanes.
Jim's other passion is writing, which he studied for five years at Rhodes University, SA (BA), and Curtin University, Australia (MA). He has authored two international best-sellers: PPL, a standard text in Australia and SA, and Flight Tests, which has helped thousands pass their reviews worldwide. Jim has also written more than 1000 articles for flying magazines.
Jim loves Harleys, horses and cats.
All his flying books are available at www.jimdavis.co.za and at https://www.pilottrain.com.au
- Old Piet and Mr Piper - October 20, 2025
- Hired and Fired - September 26, 2025
- Zingi and the Auster - July 16, 2025
Thank you so much, Elias, for your kind words. I worked for Zingi for a couple of years and then we became firm friends, so I do indeed have a number of stories about him and Old Piet – both wonderful characters.
All the very best
Jim Davis